Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol 58, No. 357, July 1845

Free as the breeze his music floweth,
But fruitless, too, as breeze that bloweth,
What doth it profit, Poet, tell?"

Poet. – Cease, idiot, cease thy loathsome cant!
Day-labourer, slave of toil and want!
I hate thy babble vain and hollow.
Thou art a worm, no child of day:
Thy god is Profit – thou wouldst weigh
By pounds the Belvidere Apollo.
Gain – gain alone to thee is sweet.
The marble is a god! … what of it
Thou count'st a pie-dish far above it —
A dish wherein to cook thy meat!

Mob. – But, if thou be'st the Elect of Heaven,
The gift that God has largely given,
Thou shouldst then for our good impart,
To purify thy brother's heart.
Yes, we are base, and vile, and hateful,
Cruel, and shameless, and ungrateful —
Impotent and heartless tools,
Slaves, and slanderers, and fools.
Come then, if charity doth sway thee,
Chase from our hearts the viper-brood;
However stern, we will obey thee;
Yes, we will listen, and be good!

Poet. – Begone, begone! What common feeling
Can e'er exist 'twixt ye and me?
Go on, your souls in vices steeling;
The lyre's sweet voice is dumb to ye:
Go! foul as reek of charnel-slime,
In every age, in every clime,
Ye aye have felt, and yet ye feel,
Scourge, dungeon, halter, axe, and wheel.
Go, hearts of sin and heads of trifling,
From your vile streets, so foul and stifling,
They sweep the dirt – no useless trade!
But when, their robes with ordure staining,
Altar and sacrifice disdaining,
Did e'er your priests ply broom and spade?
'Twas not for life's base agitation
That we were born – for gain nor care —
No – we were born for inspiration,
For love, for music, and for prayer!

The ballad entitled "The Black Shawl" has obtained a degree of popularity among the author's countrymen, for which the slightness of the composition renders it in some measure difficult to account. It may, perhaps, be explained by the circumstance, that the verses are in the original exceedingly well adapted to be sung – one of the highest merits of this class of poetry – for all ancient ballads, in every language throughout the world, were specifically intended to be sung or chanted; and all modern productions, therefore, written in imitation of these ancient compositions – the first lispings of the Muse – can only be successful in proportion as they possess the essential and characteristic quality of being capable of being sung. Independently of the highly musical arrangement of the rhythm, which, in the original, distinguishes "The Black Shawl," the following verses cannot be denied the merit of relating, in a few rapid and energetic measures, a simple and striking story of Oriental love, vengeance, and remorse: —

The Black Shawl

Like a madman I gaze on a raven-black shawl;
Remorse, fear, and anguish – this heart knows them all.

When believing and fond, in the spring-time of youth,
I loved a Greek maiden with tenderest truth.

That fair one caress'd me – my life! oh, 'twas bright,
But it set – that fair day – in a hurricane night.

One day I had bidden young guests, a gay crew,
When sudden there knock'd at my gate a vile Jew.

"With guests thou art feasting," he whisperingly said,
"And she hath betray'd thee – thy young Grecian maid."

I cursed him, and gave him good guerdon of gold,
And call'd me a slave that was trusty and bold.

"Ho! my charger – my charger!" we mount, we depart,
And soft pity whisper'd in vain at my heart.

On the Greek maiden's threshold in frenzy I stood —
I was faint – and the sun seem'd as darken'd with blood:

By the maiden's lone window I listen'd, and there
I beheld an Armenian caressing the fair.

The light darken'd round me – then flash'd my good blade…
The minion ne'er finish'd the kiss that betray'd.

On the corse of the minion in fury I danced,
Then silent and pale at the maiden I glanced.

I remember the prayers and the red-bursting stream…
Thus perish'd the maiden – thus perish'd my dream.

This raven-black shawl from her dead brow I tore —
On its fold from my dagger I wiped off the gore.

The mists of the evening arose, and my slave
Hurl'd the corses of both in the Danube's dark wave.

Since then, I kiss never the maid's eyes of light —
Since then, I know never the soft joys of night.

Like a madman I gaze on the raven-black shawl;
Remorse, fear, and anguish – this heart knows them all!

The pretty lines which we are now about to offer, are rather remarkable as being written in the manner of the ancient national songs of Russia, than for any thing very new in the ideas, or very striking in the expression. They possess, however – at least in the original – a certain charm arising from simplicity and grace.