Goblins Of The Steppes poem – Alexander Pushkin

A poem by Alexander Pushkin – Pouchkine, Pooshkin (1799-1837), in English translation

Stormy clouds delirious straying,

Showers of whirling snowflakes white,

And the pallid moonbeams waning–

Sad the heavens, sad the night!

Further speeds the sledge, and further,

Loud the sleighbell’s melody,

Grewsome, frightful ’tis becoming,

‘Mid these snow fields now to be!

Hasten! “That is useless, Master,

Heavier for my team their load,

And my eyes with snow o’er plastered

Can no longer see the road!

Lost all trace of our direction,

Sir, what now? The goblins draw

Us already round in circles,

Pull the sledge with evil claw!

See! One hops with frantic gesture,

In my face to grin and hiss,

See! It goads the frenzied horses

Onward to the black abyss!

In the darkness, like a paling

One stands forth,–and now I see

Him like walking-fire sparkling–

Then the blackness,–woe is me!”

Stormy clouds delirious straying,

Showers of snowflakes whirling white,

And the pallid moonbeams waning–

Sad the heavens, sad the night!

Sudden halt the weary horses,

Silent too the sleighbells whirr–

Look! What crouches on the ground there?

“Wolf,–or shrub,–I know not, Sir.”

How the wind’s brood rage and whimper!

Scenting, blow the triple team;

See! One hops here! Forward Driver!

How his eyes with evil gleam!

Scarce controllable the horses,

How the harness bells resound!

Look! With what a sneering grimace

Now the spirit band surround!

In an endless long procession,

Formless, countless of their kind

Circle us in flying coveys

Like the leaves in Autumn wind.

Now in ghastly silence deathly,

Now with shrilling elfin cry–

Is it some mad dance of bridal,

Or a death march passing by?

Stormy clouds delirious straying

Showers of snowflakes whirling white,

And the pallid moonbeams waning–

Sad the heavens, sad the night!

Cloudward course the evil spirits

In unceasing phantom bands,

And their moaning and bewailing

Grip my heart with icy hands!

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• Monody on a Lady, famed for her Caprice by Robert Burns by Robert Burns
• Masonic Song—Ye Sons of Old Killie by Robert Burns by Robert Burns
• Mary Morison by Robert Burns by Robert Burns
• Man was made to Mourn: A Dirge by Robert Burns by Robert Burns
• Lord Gregory: A Ballad by Robert Burns by Robert Burns
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• Lines to John Syme, Esq., with a dozen of Porter by Robert Burns by Robert Burns
• Lines to John M’Murdo of Drumlanrig by Robert Burns by Robert Burns
• Lines to an Old Sweetheart by Robert Burns by Robert Burns
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