The Venevitinov estate in the Voronezh region: address, working hours, reviews. Excursions and museums of the Voronezh region From what Dmitry Venevitinov died
russian romantic poet, translator, prose writer and philosopher
Biography
Dmitry Venevitinov was born on September 14 (26), 1805 in Moscow, in an old and wealthy noble family, his distant relative (fourth cousin) was A.S. Pushkin. Received a classical education at home, led by his mother (Princess Anna Nikolaevna Obolenskaya), studied French, German, Latin and Greek. He became interested in German philosophy and romantic poetry. He attended individual lectures at Moscow University, in particular the courses of A.F. Merzlyakov, I.I. Davydov, M.G. Pavlov and Loder. Participated in the meetings of the student literary circle of N.M. Rozhalin.
In 1825, Venevitinov entered the service in the Moscow archive of the collegium of foreign affairs ("archival youths" - this is how Pushkin ironically called the employees of this archive in his novel "Eugene Onegin").
Together with Prince VF Odoevsky, he organized a secret philosophical "Society of Wisdom", which also included IV Kireevsky, AI Koshelev, VP Titov, NA Melgunov and others. AS Khomyakov, MP Pogodin and SP Shevyrev attended the meetings of the circle, not being formally its members. The circle was engaged in the study of German idealist philosophy - the works of F. Schelling, I. Kant, F. Schlegel and others.
Venevitinov took an active part in the publication of the Moscow Bulletin magazine.
In November 1826 Venevitinov moved from Moscow to St. Petersburg, joining the Asian Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. At the entrance to St. Petersburg, the poet was arrested on suspicion of involvement in the conspiracy of the Decembrists. He spent three days under arrest, which aggravated his lung disease. After that, in March, returning lightly dressed from a ball, Venevitinov caught a bad cold.
The poet died on March 15 (27), 1827 in St. Petersburg, before he was 22 years old. Buried in the cemetery of the Simonov Monastery in Moscow. He bequeathed to put a ring on his finger at the hour of his death - a gift from Zinaida Volkonskaya. When he fell into oblivion, the ring was put on his finger. But suddenly Venevetinov woke up and asked: "Do they marry me?" And he died. A. Pushkin and A. Mitskevich attended the funeral. Reburied in the 1930s. at the Novodevichy cemetery.
Creation
In his literary activity Venevitinov showed versatile talents and interests. He was not only a poet, but also a prose writer, wrote literary, programmatic and critical articles (his polemic with N.A. (EA Maimin. "Dmitry Venevitinov and his literary heritage". 1980).
The Venevitinovs wrote only about 50 poems. Many of them, especially the later ones, are filled with deep philosophical meaning, which is a distinctive feature of the poet's lyrics.
The central theme of Venevitinov's last poems is the fate of the poet. In them, the cult of the romantic poet-chosen one is noticeable, highly exalted above the crowd and everyday life:
A number of Venevitinov's poems of 1826-1827, written a few months before the poet's death ("Testament", "To my ring", "Poet and friend") can rightfully be called prophetic. In them, the author seemed to foresee his early death:
Venevitinov was also known as a gifted artist, musician, and music critic. When the posthumous edition was being prepared, Vladimir Odoevsky suggested including not only poems, but also drawings and musical works: “I would like to publish them together with the works of my friend, who miraculously combined all three arts”.
“If Venevitinov had lived for at least ten years more, he would have pushed our literature forward for tens of years ...”.
N. G. Chernyshevsky
Dmitry Vladimirovich Venevitinov (14 (26) September 1805 - 15 (27) March 1827) - Russian poet, translator, prose writer.
Dmitry Vladimirovich Venevitinov was born in Moscow. His father, a retired warrant officer of the Semyonovsky regiment, Vladimir Petrovich Venevitinov (1777-1814), came from a wealthy Voronezh noble family. Mother, Anna Nikolaevna, came from the princely family of the Obolensky-Belykh. Through her, Dmitry Venevitinov was distantly related (a fourth cousin) to A.S. Pushkin.
Venevitinov received a classical education at home, in 1822-1824. as a volunteer he attended lectures at Moscow University. He was fond of not only history, philosophy and the theory of literature, but also mathematics and natural sciences. Having passed the exams for the university course, in 1824 he entered the service in the Moscow archive of the Collegium of Foreign Affairs, but his main occupation was literature. By this time, he was already the author of several poems, mostly freely arranged by ancient and modern European authors. Venevitinov was one of the organizers of the Moscow Society of Wisdom, which aimed to study idealist philosophy and romantic aesthetics.
In November 1826 Venevitinov moved from Moscow to St. Petersburg, joining the Asian Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. At the entrance to St. Petersburg, the poet was arrested on suspicion of involvement in the conspiracy of the Decembrists. He spent three days under arrest in one of the guardhouses of St. Petersburg. Staying away from family and friends oppressed the poet. In addition, Venevitinov caught a bad cold, which led to an early death on March 15 (27), 1827, apparently from severe pneumonia. The body was sent to Moscow. They buried Venevitinov on April 2, 1827 at the cemetery of the Simonov Monastery in Moscow. At the funeral were Pushkin, Mitskevich and other friends of the poet.
In his literary activity Venevitinov showed versatile talents and interests. His romantic poetry is full of philosophical motives. Many poems are dedicated to the high purpose of poetry and poet, the cult of friendship: "Poet" (1826), "Poet and Friend" (1827). He dedicated poems to friends, close people, beloved Zinaida Volkonskaya: "To my goddess" (1826), "Elegy" (1827), "Testament" (1826).
Venevitinov bequeathed at the hour of his death to put a ring on his finger - a gift from Zinaida Volkonskaya. When he fell into oblivion, AS Khomyakov put the ring on his finger. In the 1930s, during the demolition of the Simonov Monastery, the body of D.V. Venevitinov was exhumed and reburied at the Novodevichy Cemetery. During the exhumation, the ring was removed from the poet's finger and is now kept in the Literary Museum.
Venevitinov was not only a poet, but also a translator, prose writer, wrote literary critical articles, translated the works of E. T. A. Hoffmann, I. V. Goethe and others. He was also known as a gifted artist, musician, and music critic.
The name of Dmitry Venevitinov is closely related to our region. The Venevitinovs had possessions in the Voronezh province. As a child, Dmitry and his parents visited the "family nest" - in Novozhivotinny. After the death of his father, the Venevitinov family stopped coming to the estate. But in August - September 1824, together with his younger brother Alexei, Dmitry Venevitinov visited Voronezh and his Voronezh estate. He lived in Novozhivotinnoye for about a month, often recalled his childhood, wrote letters to his mother and sister Sophia, and composed poetry. Now there is a monument of federal significance - the Museum-Estate of D.V. Venevitinov.
In 1994, a new street, Venevitinskaya, was formed in the outskirts of the Kominternovsky district of Voronezh. In 2005, in honor of the 200th anniversary of Dmitry Venevitinov, a monument to the poet was unveiled on the territory of the D.V. Venevitinov Museum-Estate.
Works by D.V. Venevitinov
Venevitinov D. V. Complete works / D. V. Venevitinov; ed. A.P. Pyatkovsky. - St. Petersburg: Printing house of O. I. Bakst, 1862 .-- 264 p.
The complete collection of the poet's works, published in 1862 in the St. Petersburg printing house of Bakst under the editorship of A.P. Pyatkovsky, also contains a portrait of the author, a facsimile, and articles about his life and works.
D. V. VenevitinovPoems / DV Venevitinov. - Moscow: Soviet Russia, 1982 .-- 174 p. - (Poetic Russia).
D. V. VenevitinovPoems. Poems. Dramas / D.V. Venevitinov. - Moscow: Fiction, 1976 .-- 128 p.
The poet's books include his selected works.
Venevitinov D.V. Poems // Anthology of Russian poetry. - URL: http://www.stihi-rus.ru/1/Venevitinov/.
Poets of the Pushkin era: selected poems. - Moscow; Leningrad: Detgiz, 1949 .-- 286 p. - (School library).
The collection includes selected poems of sixteen of the most prominent poets of the Pushkin era, including Dmitry Venevitinov.
Russian poetry of the first halfXIX century. - Moscow: Slovo, 2001 .-- 765 p. - (Pushkin Library).
The book presents the work of fifty-six poets of various directions, including Dmitry Venevitinov (pp. 379–389).
Literature on the life and work of D.V. Venevitinov
Akinshin A. N. Voronezh nobility in persons and destinies: historical and genealogical essays with the appendix of the List of noble families of the Voronezh province / A. N. Akinshin, O. G. Lasunsky. - Ed. 2nd, rev. and add. - Voronezh: Center for Spiritual Revival of the Black Earth Region, 2009. - 432 p.
The book of Voronezh scientists presents biographies of the noble families of the Voronezh province, who lived on the territory of the region until 1917. Venevitinovs and Stankevichs, Raevskys and Tulinovs, Potapovs and Somovs ... Poets and educators, manufacturers and military men. Among the illustrations, you can find drawings by the brother of the poet Dmitry Venevitinov, Alexei Vladimirovich, who captured views of the village of Novozhivotinnoe in the middle of the 19th century.
Budakov V. V. Poet-philosopher Dmitry Venevitinov / V. V. Budakov // Voronezh: Russian provincial journal. - Voronezh, 2003. - Special. no. : Day of Slavic Writing and Culture. - S. 118.
Budakov V. V. “It's too early to die, but to live ...” (Dmitry Venevitinov) / V. V. Budakov // Ascetics of the Russian word / V. V. Budakov. - Voronezh, 2007. - pp. 110–116.
The book "Ascetics of the Russian Word" - lyrical sketches about writers and poets, related to the life and work of the black earth, the Central Russian strip. One of the essays is dedicated to Dmitry Venevitinov.
Dmitry V. Venevitinov // Literary map of the Voronezh region. - URL: http://lk.vrnlib.ru/?p\u003dpersons&id\u003d66.
Dmitry Venevitinov. The Venevitinovs' estates. The creative legacy of the poet / [entry. Art. EG Novichikhina]. - Voronezh: Center for Spiritual Revival of the Black Earth Region, 2010. - 215 p.
The poet's name is closely connected with the Voronezh region: four landowners' estates of the Venevitinov family were located in Ramon - on the picturesque Don banks. The world of the noble estate was preserved only in the village of Novozhivotinnoe. This book offers not only an acquaintance with biographical materials and the work of a remarkable poet, critic, philosopher. For the first time, the reader will be able to look into all four estates, learn their history and modern existence, walk through the halls of D. Venevitinov's house-museum.
Zhikharev V. In captivity of the "queen of muses and beauty": (Dmitry Venevitinov and Minyato Ricci) / V. Zhikharev // Rise. - Voronezh, 2012. - No. 12. - P. 218–223.
The essay by Vitaly Zhikharev brings new details to the love story of the twenty-year-old Russian poet Dmitry Venevitinov for Zinaida Volkonskaya, who, in turn, was carried away by the Italian chamber singer Count Miniato Ricci.
Lasunsky O. G. Venevitinov Dmitry Vladimirovich / O. G. Lasunsky // Voronezh encyclopedia: [in 2 volumes] / [Ch. ed. M. D. Karpachev]. - Voronezh, 2008 .-- T. 1. - P. 126.
Mordovchenko N. I. Venevitinov and the wisdom poets / N. I. Mordovchenko // History of Russian literature: in 10 volumes - Moscow; Leningrad, 1953 .-- T. 6: Literature of the 1820s - 1830s. - S. 448–459. - URL: http://feb-web.ru/feb/irl/il0/il6/il6-4482.htm.
An article on the website of the Fundamental Electronic Library (FEB) "Russian Literature and Folklore" tells about the literary and philosophical circle "Society of Wisdom" (1823–1825). Venevitinov took an active part in the organization and work of the circle. The members of the circle were engaged in the study of German idealist philosophy.
Museum-estate of D.V. Venevitinov. - http://muzeinikitin.vzh.ru/muzej-usadba-d-venevitinova.
Museum-estate of D.V. Venevitinov // Literary map of the Voronezh region. - URL: http://lk.vrnlib.ru/?p\u003dpost&id\u003d4.
The Museum-Estate of D.V. Venevitinov, opened in 1994, is a monument of federal significance, one of the few noble estates of the 18th century that have survived in Russia. The museum is located in the village of Novozhivotinnoe, Ramonsky district, Voronezh region. Its exposition includes the decoration of the halls of a noble noble estate of the 19th century and everything connected with the Venevitin family. The museum includes a two-story mansion (1760-1770), an outbuilding (1887), a park area with a pond. In 2005, a monument to the poet was unveiled on the territory of the estate.
Novichikhin E. Novozhivotinnoe / E. Novichikhin. - Voronezh: Central Black Earth Book Publishing House, 1994. - 114 p. - (Voronezh Land. Encyclopedia of cities and villages).
The book tells about the village of the Voronezh region, originating in the second half of the 17th century. The fate of the poet Dmitry Venevitinov is closely connected with the history of this village.
Poet and philosopher Dmitry Venevitinov // Origins. Ethnocultural features of the Voronezh region. - Voronezh, 2014. - S. 147-148.
An article from a collection that tells about the ethnocultural features of our region, about the life and traditions of our ancestors, about the people associated with the Voronezh land.
B. Udodov Dmitry Vladimirovich Venevitinov / B. Udodov // Voronezh residents: famous biographies in the history of the region. - Voronezh, 2007. - pp. 116–120.
Chernyshev M. A. "In the soul of an unsolved thought melting ..." / M. A. Chernyshev. - Saratov: Zavolzhye, 1992 .-- 280 p.
The book tells about the life and work of the famous poet of the XIX century Dmitry Venevitinov.
Twig
[From Gresse]
In the priceless hour of solitude
When the deserted path
With a lively rapture of rapture
You roam with a sweet dream
In the shadow of a silent oak forest, -
Have you seen the playful wind
Will you pick a young twig?
Leaving the native bush,
She twists and falls
On the mirror of stream waters
And, a new inhabitant of pure moisture,
She is forced to swim with the stream.
That over a stream of silvery
She runs calmly
Then suddenly disappears before our eyes
And lies at the bottom of the stream;
Floats - meets everything new,
All unfamiliar lands:
Dotted with delicate flowers
Here is a smiling breg,
And there are deserts, eternal snow
Or mountains with formidable rocks.
So far away a twig floats
And he makes his wrong path,
Until she drowns
In the depths of boundless waters.
Here is our life! - so towards the right goal
In an impenetrable wave
Stream us all from the cradle
Draws to the door of the coffin.
Brownie
"Why are you, Parasha, so pale?"
- “Dear! cursed brownie
He called me at the window today.
All in black, like a shaggy bear,
With a mustache, but how big!
You will never see such a thing. "
- “Cross yourself, my angel!
Can you see the brownie? "
"You haven't slept, Parasha, night?"
- “Dear! fearfully; does not leave
Cursed demon away from the door;
Knocks on the latch, breathes, wanders,
In the hallway he whispers to me: open it! "
- "Well, what are you?" - "I didn't say a word."
- "Eh, that's enough, my angel, don't lie:
Can you hear the brownie? "
“Parasha, you are not cheerful;
Did you suffer all night again? "
- "No, nothing: I slept the night."
- “How the night slept! you missed
Walked, unlocked the door;
Are you scared again, aren't you? "
- “No, no, darling, believe me!
I have not seen the brownie. "
December 1826
Eupraxia
Song one
Shumi, Sturgeon! Your breg is decorated
Deeds of glorious antiquity;
You dig the stones of the mossy towers
And the ancient solid walls,
Overgrown with old grass.
But who is above the bright river
Scattered piles of bricks
Remains of ancient fortifications,
Ruins of days gone by?
Or for generations to come
As a monument stand onet
Military, high-profile adventures?
So, - the abuse was burning in this country;
But there are no abuses anymore: the grave
She compared the mighty with the weak.
Deep sleep on the battlefield.
The triumph of victory has passed,
The vanquished groan fell silent;
Only one dark legend
Broadcasts about the affairs of centuries
And blows around the silent coffins.
Far away, where the shadow is thick,
In the darkness of a mysterious oak forest
The sturgeon hides its stream,
Do you see this majestic hill,
Which is at the edge of the valleys
Like a lonely giant
Ascended by the head high?
This hill has been famous for a long time.
An ancient legend says
What's in the darkness of the deep
He was dedicated to Perun,
That every time a cereal was born
And the neighbor dol smiled,
Clothed in new clothes,
And branches trembled in the forest.
Our ancestors flocked here,
They were crowded from all sides.
There is even a rumor that the Slavs are here
Upon returning from fierce scolding
On the altars of their gods
By the blow of superstitious steel
Unhappy prisoners shed blood
Or they betrayed the flame
And in the cold-blooded silence
They watched their torment.
And if you believe the old days,
Barely from the fires like a wave of black
Smoke rose to the azure mountain, -
Suddenly thunder in the silent skies
When the glare of lightning was heard,
The sturgeon roared in its bregs,
And the forest swayed with a crash.
See how the new light is
Shaking his flaming tail
Ryazansky fields lit up
An ominous purple ray.
Vault of heaven from meteor
Burns with a crimson glow.
The crowd among the princely court
It grows, crowded and makes noise;
Younger elders surround
And eagerly they catch their words;
Different rumors are carried
Some of them portend
Bloody war or smooth;
Others even say
That soon, to the horror of the universe,
The holy trumpet will sound
And with a fiery sword in hand
The angel of destruction will rush.
Superstitious fear on their faces
And with the cold thrill of confusion
Vlas rose on his foreheads.
Second song
In the middle of the mansion, in the dark,
Under the gloomy and huge vault,
Where dimly between the pillars flashed
The lamp is pale, lonely
And shone with a faint light
And the faces of the walls, and the vault is high
With images of saints, -
Prince Fyodor, surrounded by a crowd
Boyars and young brothers.
But there is no fun between them:
In the fight against mute anxiety,
Languishing in deep thought
The young prince bowed to his hand.
And on his beautiful forehead
Thoughts wandered like spring
Clouds wander in the clear sky.
An hour lasted an hour, then another;
Princes, boyars were all silent -
Only the sonorous bowls knocked
And boiling honey hissed in them.
But honey, joy of Slavic hearts,
The soul of feasts and the enemy of worries,
For the prince I lost all the sweetness,
And Fedor drinks without consolation.
You flew away, happy delight,
And you lovely dreams
Spring life of beauty.
Oh, you faded like the middle of the fields
Flowers that flashed for a moment!
Why, why sad sadness
Did he give his young heart?
How long has he been with his dear wife
Did you know only joy in life?
Sometimes brothers are daring
They gathered in a noisy crowd:
Between them, young Eupraxia
Was a joyful soul
And an hour of evening leisure
In a conversation of a friendly circle,
Like a clean, quick moment, it flew.
But meanwhile over the river
Batu prepares an army for battle,
Already under the city walls
The brave squads of the Slavs
They stood in orderly rows.
The sacred cross is a sign of Christians -
It was placed in front of the shelves.
Already an altarpiece
Sung a consoling prayer
And the host blessed the battle.
Twelve experienced leaders
Long covered with gray hair
But strong in their old age,
Stand with ready-made swords.
Behind them a young row of princes,
Support of faith and freedom.
Young Roman matured here,
The flattering hope of the Slavs,
Worthy of the rank of governor.
In the brilliant color of youth
He joined the princely council
And often with my wisdom
Ryazan elders surprised.
Long tested by armor
He's already been in many battles
And the Polovtsi with the faithful retinue
I amazed many times on the field.
But, the leader is exemplary for warriors,
He despised princes.
His fun is the scolding storm,
And a solid shield is his lodging for the night.
Yuri is visible near Roman,
Mstislav, Boris and you, Oleg!
Why is this handsome young man,
A child after heart and age,
Left home, where he is, happy,
Walked carelessly through the colors
A stormless and playful spring?
But he is with damask in a young hand
Flies home to defend
And for the first time on the battlefield
Show love for freedom.
But the formidable Tatars regiments
Full of frantic courage
Already along the fast river
Like noisy waves rushing.
With the threat of the wild on our lips
They are ready for a bloody battle.
Silver-framed swords
Glitter in their strong hands.
Their horses are richly removed -
Not copper or steel armor
They keep them from copies of their breasts,
But thin precious fabrics -
The booty of Asian abuse -
Predators shine on the birds.
Batu, their leader, with damask in his hand
Before them on a young horse.
Feathered Arrow Quiver
Hanged on his back
And a shawl with rich knots
Plays over its head.
Nurtured among the robbery
But lush luxury by hand,
He is a friend of war and a friend of peace
In days of idleness, in the noise of feasts.
He loves the bliss of pleasure
And in the hour of merry rapture
Willingly celebrates love.
But he is terrible in the heat of the battle,
When with a smile on your lips
With a dagger in his teeth,
Like a whirlwind he strives for enemies
And in the foam the horse is smoking under him.
Everywhere there are only screams of the amazed
And the clinking of shields, and the glint of swords ...
No youth of sinless days
No old age gray hair venerable
The cruel bulat does not spare.
And suddenly there was a clatter of hooves.
Slavic cavalry units
They strive at full speed into battle,
But the first rides the prince of Ryazan
Roman, followed by Oleg Young
And Evpatiy, the old boyar
With a long gray beard.
Beats thunder after blows.
Young man Oleg is the most ardent.
Now on the left side, now on the right
Its bloody damask shines.
Such an unexpected foray
Dazed the Moguls.
The raids of the Suzdal people are terrible.
They fly, the Tatars are crushed
And, embraced by cold horror,
They run scattered across the fields.
In vain is the brave son of Batu,
Nagai, resists enemies
And the rows of riders are thick
One seeks to keep.
Carried away by the crowd,
He himself involuntarily rushes after ...
So a boat in the midst of an angry storm
Fights a thunderstorm instantly
Instantly despises the winds,
But suddenly, rushing away with speed,
It gives way to angry waves ...
Sacrifice
Oh life, insidious siren,
How much you attract!
You weave from shiny flowers
Shackles of disastrous captivity.
You are serving the cup of happiness
And sing songs of joy;
But in the cup of happiness there is only treason,
And in songs of joy there is only a lie.
Do not torment with vain temptation
Of my tortured breast
And don't catch my eyes
Some kind of light ghost.
I am not comforted by a false dream.
My stingy hands for you
Will not bring obedient tribute
No, I'm not doomed to you.
Your captivating betrayal
You can put in your heart
Minute fire, instant strife,
Pour the Lanita with pallor
And overshadow youth with sadness,
Take away peace, carelessness, joy,
But you will not take away, believe me,
Love, hope, inspiration!
Not! my good genius will save them,
And they are not mine now.
I dedicate them from now on
Forever poetry saint
And with a terrible oath and with a supplication
I put it on the altar to the goddess.
1826 or 1827
A life
At first life captivates us:
Everything is warm in her, all her heart warms
And like a tempting story
Our freaky mind cherishes.
Something frightens from afar, -
But in this fear is delight:
He cheers the imagination
How about a magical adventure
The Old Man's Night Story.
But the playful deception will end!
We get used to miracles.
Then - we look at everything lazily,
Then - and life became hateful to us:
Its mystery and denouement
Already long, old, boring,
Like a retold tale
Tired before sleep.
Will
Here is the hour of the last suffering!
Attend: Dead Man's Will
Pay attention: so that this ring
They did not take off the cold hand:
May my sorrows die with him
And they will be buried with him.
Friends - hello and consolation:
Delight the best moments
They were dedicated to them by me.
Listen also to you, my goddess:
Now your soul is a shrine
Me and more accessible, and clearer;
The voice of passions has died out in me,
The magic of love is forgotten
The rainbow haze has disappeared
And what you called heaven
It is now open in front of me.
Come closer! here is the grave door!
Everything is allowed to me now:
I am not afraid of the judgments of the light.
Now I can hug you
Now I can kiss you
As with the first joy of hello
In paradise the face of the angels of the saints
I would kiss with clean lips,
Whenever we delight them
They were greeted behind the grave.
But forget this speech:
It contains a secret murmur of frenzy;
Why cold doubts
Will I pour it into a fiery chest?
To you one, one prayer!
Do not forget! .. away from assurances -
Swear! .. Do you believe, dear friend,
What's beyond the grave sim limit
My soul will say goodbye to the body
And he will live like a free spirit,
Without an image, without darkness and light,
Dressed with one incorruption.
This spirit is like an eternally vigilant gaze,
Your companion will be relentless
And if the memory is criminal
You will change, trouble since then!
I will secretly put on a reproach;
I'll stick to the treacherous soul,
In it I will find food for revenge,
And the heart will be sad, languid,
And I, like a worm, will not fall away.
1826 or 1827
Signs before Caesar's death
About Phoebus! Do we dare to call you deceitful?
Isn't your quick gaze able to penetrate
To the depths of hearts where vengeance arises
And violent anger, but secret excitement.
After Caesar's death you shared grief with Rome,
He covered your brow with a bloody cloud;
You have turned away angry eyes from us,
And the world, the underworld, was afraid of the eternal night.
But everything threatened us - and the roar of the sea walls,
And the languid click of the lies, and the barking of the terrible dogs.
Kolkrata we ripened like Etna flint horn
Molten rocks rotated a fiery river
And the flame belched in clubs on the field.
The German was anxious to the heavens;
With a crash the clouds fought the clouds
And the Alps moved under the eternal snow.
The sacred forest groaned; in the mist of thick nights
A pale host of flickering shadows wandered.
The copper then poured (a wonderful sign of sadness!),
We noticed tears on the marbles of the gods.
The earth opened up, the Tiber rushed back,
And the beasts, to their horror, could speak words;
Eridanus spilled in boiling waves
He carried away the dense forest and the shepherds with their flocks.
In the insides of the victims, the sacred gaze of the priests
I read only the disasters and the terrible wrath of the gods;
Streams turned into bloody streams;
The wolves, the sound of the stagnation, wandered in the darkness;
We were ripe on a clear day and lightning and thunder,
And a terrible star with a flaming tail.
And so the second time the eagles fought with the eagles.
In the fields of Filippov under the same banners
Relatives fought among themselves regiments again,
And in the battle the brother fell from the brother's hand;
Twice rock ordered the Roman squads
Thracian valleys fed with blood.
Perhaps once in these vast fields,
Where our warriors lie soulless dust
Calm villager with heavy harrow
Hit the helmet with an empty and trembling hand
Will raise a rusty shield, blunt damask, -
And the bones under his feet will clatter.
Italy
Italy, the homeland of inspiration!
My hour will come when I succeed
To love you with delight of pleasure,
How I love your image in a bright dream.
Without grief, I say goodbye to dreams
And in reality, in the circle of your miracles,
Under a yacht of sparkling skies
With a young soul I will play out at will.
There joyfully I will sing to the dawn
And congratulate the king of the stars on the sunrise,
There I will proudly soar in soul
Under a fiery, boundless vault.
How fun is the golden morning in it
And sweet is the silver night!
O world of vanities! then away from thoughts!
In the arms of neg and in creative peace
I will live in the past among the singers,
I will summon their hosts from the coffins!
Then, oh Tass! I will break your peaceful sleep,
And your delight, your midday fever
Will shed life and a gift of sweet songs
To a cold mind and a northern soul.
To friends
May the seeker of proud glory
Sacrifices peace to her!
Let him fly into bloody battle
Behind the crowd of heroes!
But with arrogant crowns
The singer of the forests is not deceived:
I'm happy without crowns
With lyre, with faithful friends.
Let wealth torment
Thirsty for their slaves!
Let it shower them with gold
Let them be from foreign countries
With loaded ships
Ardent waves crush:
I'm rich without gold
With lyre, with faithful friends.
Let the roar of merry swarm
The crowds are drawn!
May their altar shine
Each victim will suffer!
I do not strive for their crowds -
I am without their noisy passions
Merry with his fate
With lyre, with faithful friends.
To friends for the New Year
Friends! the new year has come!
Forget the old sorrows
And sorrow days, and days of worries,
And everything that killed joy;
But don't forget the clear days
Having fun, fun light-winged,
Golden hours, for a dear heart,
And old, sincere friends.
Live new in the new year,
Leave the old dreams
And everything that does not give happiness,
And only one will give birth to desires!
Still this new year
Love jokes, games, joy
And old, sincere friends.
Friends! Welcome the new year
In the circle of relatives, in the midst of freedom:
Let it flow for you, friends,
Like childhood happy years.
But in the midst of the Petropolian undertakings
Don't forget the sounds of the lyre,
Sweet and peaceful pursuits,
And old, sincere friends.
To the image of Urania
Five stars topped the brow of the inspirational:
Poetry wondrous star,
A gracious star of sweet hope,
Star of loveless love
Radiant star of sincere friendship,
What will be the fifth star?
May she be, beneficent gods,
Mental happiness is a star.
1826 or 1827
To the music lover
I pray you don't torture me:
Your noise, your applause
The tongue of mock fire
Pointless exclamations
Disgusting, hateful to me.
Believe me, habits are a cold slave,
Not so, not so delight free
Burns in the depths of the heart.
If you knew that these sounds
Whenever their secret language
You penetrated with a fiery feeling, -
Believe me, your mouth and your hands
Would be chained, as in holy hour,
Reverent silence.
Then your soul, becoming numb,
I would have understood the joy
Then she would be more alive, more freely
I hugged my soul mate.
Then the rebellious excitement
And heavy storms of passions -
Everything would have died down, silenced in her
Before the shrine of delight.
Then you would not want to shine
The guise of compulsion,
But you would be in the corner, alone,
Thai loving breast,
You people would be brothers
You would secretly shed tears
And warm arms to them,
As a friend of the universe, he stretched.
1826 or 1827
To my goddess
Not proud thoughts raise
Passion-filled chest
Neva waves do not interfere
To rest a tired soul, -
When I'm along the wide river
I wander gloomy, lonely
And the gaze wanders along the banks,
Language slurred babbles
And quietly splashing waves
Intermittent words
Then far from thoughts
And the proud hope of glory
And a quiet river
And the stately coast of the Neva;
Then do not timid longing
Has a powerless heart
And a secret murmur inspires me ...
You understand this murmur,
O deity of my soul!
Cold life of passion
Do you know I should breathe and live?
Do you know if I adore
A soul not made for happiness
Crowds of habitual dreams
And tributes to the servile service
Wearing a bustle idol?
Not! not! and warm days of friendship
And the days of hot love
They taught another heart:
Another fire they are in blood
Other senses settled.
What happiness is to me? Why is it?
Didn't you insist that fate
It is only given to the timid here,
What happiness with a fiery soul
You can't combine in this world
That for him I can't breathe ...
Oh, be blessed by me!
It's sacred to me
This is a prophecy of misfortune,
And, keeping his covenant,
With what delight of sensuality
I'm waiting for a ruinous day
And the triumph of an insidious fate!
And if the mind is ungrateful
Grumbled to heaven in troubles,
Your b appearance, dear angel,
Like a gift from heaven, stopped
The curse is on my lips.
I would do my chest again
The reverence of the saint
The healing look of your eyes
And again in my soul
Delight has risen to strength
And proud contempt of happiness,
And sweet silence.
This is what heaves my chest
And a secret murmur inspires me!
This is what my soul is full of,
When I am along the wide Neva
I wander gloomy, lonely.
To my ring
You were dug in a dusty grave
Age-old herald of love,
And again you are a grave dust
You will be bequeathed, my ring.
But not love now by you
Blessed the eternal flame
And over you, in heartbreak,
I made a holy vow ...
Not! friendship in the bitter hour of goodbye
Sobbing love gave
You are the pledge of compassion.
Oh, be my faithful talisman!
Keep me safe from serious wounds
And the light, and the crowd is insignificant,
From the acrid thirst for false glory,
From a seductive dream
And from spiritual emptiness.
In the hours of cold doubt
Revive your heart with hope
And if in the sorrows of confinement,
Far from the angel of love
It will conceive a crime, -
Tame with wondrous power
Gusts of hopeless passion
And from my rebellious chest
Turn away the lead of madness.
When will I be at the hour of death
Say goodbye to what I love here
I won't forget you in goodbye:
Then I'll beg my friend
So that he is from my cold hand
I did not take off you, my ring,
So that the coffin does not separate us.
And the request will not be fruitless:
He will confirm his vow to me
With the words of a fatal oath.
The centuries will fly by, and maybe
Someone will disturb my ashes
And in it he will discover you again;
And again timid love
Will whisper to you superstitiously
Words of painful passions
And again you will be her friend
As it was to me, my ring is faithful.
1826 or 1827
To Pushkin
I know: genius available
For the voice of sincere hearts.
To you, sublime singer,
I call out with the fervor of chants.
Dispel for a moment the saint's delight,
Reflection of the creative spirit
And condescending hearing
Worthy of a young muse.
When the prophet of freedom is brave
A melancholy poet,
Left the orphaned world
Leaving glory hot light
And the shadow of worldwide sorrow,
Laudatory thunder sounded
Your poems followed him.
You brought tribute to a faded power
And the glory at his grave
He bequeathed another name.
You are quieter, you chanted sweeter
At the muses of the abducted Gaul.
Excited by your song,
In my enthusiastic chest
The soul was torn and trembling.
But you haven't paid extra yet
To the stones of debt of inspiration:
To the praises of mourned graves
Add some merry praises.
Another singer is waiting for them:
He is ours - a resident of the same world,
Its crown has long been shining;
But the fame of loud greetings
The poet's voice is more resonant, more pleasant.
Our mentor, your mentor,
It lies in the land of dreams
In his own Germany, native.
Dosel Freezing Hands
Sometimes they run along the strings
And intermittent sounds
As after a woeful separation
A sweet voice of old friendship,
We are tending to familiar thoughts.
Until his heart was cold,
And believe he is happily alive
In the orphanage of dull old age
And maybe captivated by you,
Inspired by the last heat,
The swan will sing in response
And, to the sky with a song of farewell
Stirrup solemn flight,
Delighted with a wondrous dream
O Pushkin, he will name you.
Mid or October 1826
K S [curtain]
When sending him a vaudeville
Not the fruit of high inspirations
A singer and friend brings you a gift;
Do not pyerid heavenly heat,
Not a fiery delight, not a genius
I possessed my soul:
The lyre sounded in an incoherent song,
And I traded in madness
The smile of the muses for the laughter of a satyr.
But you will forgive me my innocent sin;
You yourself, a beautiful seeker,
A happy admirer of the arts,
Often, for pranks, forgetting the delight of the living,
Throwing a brush is an instrument of gifting,
Sinned in private before the muses
And bold coal on the wall
He drew fantasies of playful creatures.
Imagination without shackles
It's like a butterfly playful:
That loves over a shiny cornfield
Flutter in a circle of earthly flowers
Now rushes to the rainbow, to the heavenly flowers.
Do not think that it will go out in me
Heat for high songs! No, it lurks in the soul,
A powerful voice will awaken him again,
And, the brave student of Byron,
I will rush on the wings of a dream
To the magic side where the swan of Albion is
Plucked forgotten flowers.
Let it be a dream! he consoles me,
And I will not lose heart
As long as fate allows me
To share delight with friends.
Oh friend! we are on different paths
Let's go a certain way:
You have chosen a field covered with labor,
I wanted to rest beforehand;
Beneath the peaceful shade of olive
I have chosen my shelter; but my lot is lucky
Should not flicker with glory:
Have a modest silence in the bosom
My life will sneak up unknown
Like the calm water of a deserted stream.
You doomed Bellona to a cheerful spirit
And loving the valor of the strong
Doomed his sword to the idol of loud glory -
Go! - But the camp noise, military fun,
Everything will be foreign to you
Like unexpected dreams,
As a world of a new phenomenon.
Perhaps on the banks of the Dnieper,
When in the shadow of a movable tent
Your comrades, daring dragoons,
Seething with fighting courage,
Will gather around you in a noisy crowd,
And the circular glasses will knock loudly, -
Regretting the thought of the former silence,
You will remember your friends, you will remember me;
Avoiding these new merries,
You will remember my list
Or, looking at him by accident,
Say to yourself: we once knew how
To play naughty with decency, to play pranks with the mind.
K. I. Gerke (In the evening hour of solitude ...)
(When sending the tragedy of Werner)
In the evening hour of solitude
When, free from labor,
Your heart longs for inspiration
Harmony of sweet verses,
Read, dream - let it be before you
The veil of time will fall
And in a clear long line
A number of past years will rush by!
Take a look! already a mighty genius
Has dissolved the cold gloom of the graves;
Already, having gathered the heroes of the shadow,
I surrounded you with their host -
Recognize the seal of heavenly power
On their pale foreheads.
The dust of the grave did not flatten her,
And the same flame in their eyes ...
But you're in the temple. Around the tomb
Where a sweet child lies
The sad girls sing
And a slender cry flies to the sky:
“Why is she, like the color of May,
For a moment flashing beauty
Left the light so early
And she took the joy with me! "
You listen and tears have fallen
On a leaf with flaming cheeks,
And a quiet feeling of sadness
Involuntarily the heart moves.
Blessed, blessed is he who is at noon
And at the sunset of clear years,
As in the depths of a joyful homeland,
Still lives in fantasy.
To whom is heavenly - dear,
Who combines with gray hair
Imagination is young
And a mind with a fiery soul.
In a magic bowl of delight
He will not find an empty bottom
And exclaim, in feelings of rapture:
"There is no limit to beauty!"
Dagger
Leave me, forget me!
I loved you alone in the world
But I loved you as a friend
How they love a star on the air,
How they love a bright ideal
Or lucid dream of imagination.
I've learned a lot in life
In love alone I did not know torment,
And I want to go into the coffin
Like a charmed ignoramus.
Leave me, forget me!
Look - this is where my hope is;
Take a look - but why did you flinch?
No, don't tremble: death is not terrible;
Oh, don't you whisper to me about hell:
Believe, hell in the world, lovely friend!
Where there is no life, there is no flour.
Give a kiss as a guarantee of goodbye ...
Why are your kisses trembling?
Why is your gaze burning in tears?
Leave me, love another!
Forget me, I'll soon be on my own
I will forget the sorrow of earthly life.
Wings of life
From Milvoye
On light wings
Swallows fly;
But wings are lighter
Life is windy.
Doesn't know in his youth
She is tired
And joy is frisky
Takes trustingly
On your wing.
Flies, admires
A wonderful burden ...
But soon painful
Her guest is dear;
The wings are tired
And joy is frisky
She shakes them off.
Sadness seems to her
Not so hard
And, whimsical,
Misty sorrow
Takes on the wing
And starts into the distance
With a new friend.
But wings are light
All the pain, more
They lean under the burden.
And soon falls
They have a new guest,
And life is tired
Alone, no burden
It flies more calmly
Only in the wings
Barely noticeable
From the burden of the abandoned
Traces remained -
And imprinted
Only in feathers
Two colors are pale:
A little light
From frisky joy
A little dark
From a gloomy guest.
1826 or 1827
Love pet inspiration
And bow your proud mind before him;
But in a pure thirst for pleasure
Do not entrust your ears to every harp.
Not many true prophets
With the seal of power on your brow
With gifts of lofty lessons,
With the verb of heaven on earth.
Favorite color
(Dedicated to S [ofier] In [ladimirovna]
In [Enevitina])
All flowers in the sky are beautiful.
Everyone shines sweetly above the ground
All breathe mountain beauty.
I love the clear azure color:
He often captivated with languor
My brooding eyes
And poured into a timid heart
A gratifying ray of good hope.
I love, I love the color of the moon
When she's on the air
With the gifts of the sweet world
Floats like an angel of silence.
I love the transparent rainbow color -
But from flowers my beloved
There is a color of a young woman:
In this color, as in a wedding garment,
The sky is shining in the morning.
He is the color of happy innocence
He is as pure as a virgin's gaze,
And the dream is clear as a baby.
When both fear and a swarm of merriments -
Everything was alien to you
Within the cradle
Messenger of heaven, loving
Baby sweet carelessness,
I cherished you in silence
You rested - but in a dream
Solving eternity with my soul,
Met a lucid dream
A sweet, lovely smile.
That tore off that smile
That you were ripe, I do not know;
But your keeper, guest of heaven
Has waved a mysterious wing -
And the shadow of the night ran
I played in the sky
Dennitsa with purple fire,
And a ray of rosy dawn
Illuminated your lanits.
Since then he has become twice as sweet to me,
This ray of ruddy dawn.
Keep it - it's not for nothing that he
Lit on virgin cheeks,
Not a glimpse of vain beauty
Not! he is the seal of the clear minute,
It is a secret, unearthly pledge.
All flowers in the sky are beautiful
All breathe mountain beauty;
But between the flowers there is a holy color -
He is the color of a young woman.
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