Peter France writes:

Batyushkov, a precursor of Pushkin, was known for the classical harmony of his verse. Mandelstam wrote of him: ‘No-one commands such curves of sound, / never was there such speech of waves.’ His early poems are epicurean in tone, but his mature work, written during and after his military engagement in the Napoleonic wars, shows an increasing pessimism. Soon after 1820 he succumbed to mental illness which put an end to his career as a poet.

The poem translated here, addressed to a friend, expresses Batyushkov’s reaction to the destruction of Moscow in 1812.

To Dashkov

My friend, I have seen a sea
Of evil, heaven’s vengeance,
Our pitiless enemies’ deeds,
War and its deadly fires.
I have seen the rich in hordes
Fleeing in rags and tatters;
I have seen the pallor of mothers
Driven from their dear land.
I have seen them at the crossroads
Clutching babies to their breast,
Sobbing in desperation,
And scanning with a new terror
The red glow in the sky.
Three times with horror since then
I have wandered desolate Moscow
Among the ruins and tombs.
Three times I have washed with tears
Of grief her sacred ashes.
Where once the mighty halls,
Towers of ancient tsars,
Witnessed the glories of old
And the new glory of today;
Where they rested in peace, the relics
Of holy monks, the shrines
That passing time ignored;
And where the hand of luxury
Raised up in golden Moscow
Temples and gardens, the fruit
Of days of peace and work –
Everywhere I could see
Only ashes, dust and rubble,
Heaps of bodies by the river,
Pale regiments of beggars!
And you, my friend, my comrade,
Tell me to sing of love,
Of carefree joy and leisure
And youthful revelry!
Among the storms of war
In the city’s fearful glow,
To summon the shepherdesses
To dance to the flutes of peace!
To tell of the crafty wiles
Of Armidas and fickle Circes
Among the graves of my friends
Lost on the field of glory!
No, no! let my talent wither
And the lyre so dear to friendship
Perish, if I forget you,
Moscow, my golden home!
No, no! until I bring
My life, my love of country
As a sacrifice to vengeance
For my fathers’ ancient city;
Until with the wounded heroes
Who know the road to glory
I three times bare my breast
To the enemies’ close ranks –
My friend, until that time
Be the muses and graces strangers,
And the wreaths woven by love
And the hectic joys of wine!

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