In one of the previous issues, we introduced Vazha-Pshavela to our readers with his publicist writing Cosmopolitanism and Patriotism. Today we want to offer a few poems of the genius from the mountains of Georgia. Vazha-Pshavela was a pen-name of Luka Razikashvili, who was born in the village of Chargali in 1861. Author of numerous poems and novels he portrayed the everyday life and psychology of his contemporary Pshavs. He was also known for his exceptional and unparalleled connection with the nature. His worldview expresses itself not only in Vazha Pshavela's lyrical pieces, but also in his poems, "The Snake-Eater", "The Guest and the Host", "Bakhtrioni" and others.
A FEAST Pour me the wine of liquid flame,
And steep my soul in rubied flow;
Perhaps twill banish cares away,
And tinge with rose this world of woe
Perchance 'twill drown the pangs of life
In Bacchus' horn of nectared fire,
And Fancy find for me a maid
Upon whose bosom I'll expire.
On whirlwind's wing my steed and I
Will cleave the waves of oceans wide.
We'll fly the haunts of mortal man
Where every joy of mine has died.
For death on high is sweeter far
Than life upon the earth below
Which is an urn of buried hopes,
Floating on a sea of woe.
THE SHEPHERD-MAID On quiet sleep you lie, fair maid,
With curly locks that lure the eye.
What visions, thoughts invade your dreams
As you rest here beneath the sky?
With beating heart and hurrying feet
You pass this forest every day.
Woe if you meet the tiger fierce,
The wolf or bear upon your way!
* * *
A light worn garment hid her form.
Her feet in slippers soft were clad.
The beauty of her arms on which
Her head reposed nigh made me mad.
A sheep-skin sack hung on her back,
A shepherd's rod beside her lay.
She slumbered on and sleep brought her
A short respite from toils of day.
Oblivious of any fear,
No troubled dreams disturbed her sleep,
Yet, for that angel of the woods
I feared, and prayed to God to keep
Her safe from every future pain.
Though I, by fate, am doomed to wander
With dire misfortune all my life,
God, may Thy blessings fall upon her,
For if those eyes are closed by death,
And no more will they brightly glow,
What other fires can warm my heart
Or on it equal joys bestow?
O mounts! O trees! O flowing streams!
On ye I call in humble prayer,
This lass, the angel of my dreams,
From pain and sorrow shield fore'er!
A SOLITARY WORD I breathed a word that grief had wrought.
It winged its flight into the air,
Then pierced the haunts and souls of men,
And left its tears and laughter there.
It was a word flung from a heart
That knew but misery and tears, —
A word that knew its lowly birth
In throes of agony and fears.
Though nursed by suffering and trial,
It spread and flourished in its flight,
And wondering I beheld it glow,
Adorned in sparkling jewels bright.
And soon upon a throne of gold
It ruled in radiance and might, —
The hope and faith of sunless hearts,
The darkened bosom's torch of light.
I marvelled at that vision fair,
The offspring of my passion's fires;
Resistless was its beauty as
It filled men's souls with strange desires.
I wondered much, and smiled to see
How over souls of men it reigned,
How it had sprung from misery
That birth with tears of blood had stained —
A solitary word of woe,
Abused, objected and profaned.
A SONG Beyond the river dark thou art.
Between us rushing waters flow.
There is no bridge, no boat have we,
Nor wings to cross the river, so,
I gaze upon thy smiling face
And long to press my lips to thine,
Though well I know I ne'er will hold
Thee in my arms, O dearest mine!
No hope relieves our hopelessness,
Nor lights the brooding darkening sky.
Delusion makes us bitter smile
Through tears that blind the aching eye.
Over the rushing waters wild
My voice takes wing and towards thee flies,
But mingling with the deafening roar
In raging depths it swoons and dies.
It's heart-corroding to behold
The years pass like the stream in sighs...
THE EAGLE In haughty pride, though wounded sore,
An eagle fought the raven-crow.
The bird in desperation strove
To rise but fell in frenzied woe.
His right wing swept the blood-stained ground;
His bosom shone in crimson glow.
"Alas! you smite, O ravens wild,
When I am wounded, fallen low.
Were I not struck, your feathers black
Would surely deck the plains below!"
DESPAIR Beneath the shade of a beech tree high
In solitude a violet grew.
It wished to woo the sunbeams gold
And lure them to its realm of blue.
The flower in breathless eagerness
Waits for the sun-rays from on high
And gazes on the sunny world
With wistful sighs and tearful eye.
The violet longs to curtsey low
And dance amidst the sunbeams bright,
To have its pretty head adorned
With rays of shimmering golden light.
The lovely flower droops and weeps;
It heaves a piteous, hopeless sigh,
For to this realm of shadows soft
No rays of sunlight ever fly.
The violet's heart in sorrow breaks
As on the ground it withering lies.
Near by, its dying eyes behold
Sun-lighted flowers dance 'neath the skies.
A SONG Once there bloomed upon a meadow
Roses, violets, flow'rs of grace.
The gods from urns poured nectared beauty
On the meadow's up-turned face.
Hanging vines and branches wove
Canopies of gold and shade
Through which the sky serenely peeped
And gentle breezes humming strayed.
The bulbul sang of only love;
Nature listened in delight —
I felt joy rise in my breast;
Thrilled at the beauty of the sight.
Captivated by the place
The morrow found me there again...
But alas! the scene was changed
And horror petrified my brain.
The violets and roses were
Lovely; though the bulbul's song
Was as musical and sweet,
Yet my heart in pain was wrung!
Stunned, I saw a sight that made me
Wish my seeing eyes were blind...
Stagnant vapours and black snakes
About the flower stems were twined.
ELEGY O heart, in dreams I behold thee,
In toils of despair and of pain.
Thy throbbings are wrung by emotions
That torture the heart and the brain.
The sun and the moon shine no longer,
The world lies in darkling and gloom,
And my life nursed by grief and by sorrow
Is shrouded in darkness and doom.
Thus tortured with madness of dreaming,
I curse all my past and my life;
And the heart embittered and weary
Wants but to be freed from the strife.
'Tis torture to live in a land where
The faith of one's sires is profaned,
Where honour and justice have fallen,
Where freedom in darkness is chained.
O where are the deeds of true valour
Our past and our heritage claim?
Thou phantom of glory rise from thy
Grave where is buried thy fame.
O breathe in me, Georgia, the epic
And life-giving fires of thy might!
Infuse in me strength for the struggle;
In pride let my falchion gleam bright.
May the bosom that nursed me to manhood
Curse and blast me fore'er if I fall.
O my heart, that is aching, have courage,
Fight on, though in agony's thrall!
THE SWORD'S COMPLAINT Rust adorns thee, sword, and mould'ring
Is thy scabbard once so fine.
Where's thy master's arm of iron,
Where's that flashing gleam of thine?'
"On the fatal plain of Shamkor,
He fell dead, with many a wound,
And his blood flowed like a torrent,
Dyeing red the battle ground.
Though he fell beneath the struggle
With the deadly enemy,
Valiant were his deeds and dauntless.
Matchless was his bravery
Foremost was he in the battle,
Smiting, hewing down the foe.
Georgia and a soldier's honour
Made him bear the crushing blow.
A coward's hand has hung me useless
Here to rust in endless night.
Georgia has become a market
Cursed and doomed by venal blight!
I, who proudly fought for freedom,
Now am pawned or sold for gold,
A bartered thing to crown the downfall
Of my country's pride of old.
Many years have passed since
Georgia's Son did whet me till I flashed,
Rendered sharp my blade so deadly,
And with me to battle dashed.
Nor have I heard sounds of trumpets,
Nor the shouts of victory...
I have passed an age thus hanging
Here in rust and slavery."
