Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov was born on April 11, 1779, in Moscow. He came from a noble noble family of the Kozlovs, but in those days the family was already close to ruin. He was the son of Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov, the well-known Catherine's secretary of state, and the grandson of Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov, a captain, commander of the courts in Kazan and a member of the Military Collegium. His mother, Anna Appolonovna, nee Khomutova, the aunt of the famous ataman Khomutov, managed to give him an excellent, versatile education. He was brought up with brothers with foreign tutors, as was then usual in high-society families, but from childhood he loved everything Russian, native ... He himself gained a serious education in the study of various literatures and reading books, indulging in this with the enthusiasm of his passionate nature. At the age of five, like all boys from high-ranking families, he was enrolled in the Life Guards Izmailovsky Regiment, at sixteen he was promoted to ensign, and at eighteen he was promoted to second lieutenant. And all this - without passing the service.
At nineteen, he retired and entered the civil service in 1798, renaming provincial secretaries. On October 24, 1798, being transferred to collegiate assessors, he was enlisted in the office of the Prosecutor General. From 1799 he served in the heraldry. Since 1807, he was in the office of the Moscow Commander-in-Chief Tutolmin, where on November 13 he received the rank of court adviser. Kozlov was a frequenter of balls and salons. An interesting interlocutor, a lover of music and poetry, he became a famous person in Moscow salons. In 1809, the marriage of I.I. Kozlova on the daughter of foreman S.A. Davydova. In a happy family, two children appeared, son Ivan and daughter Alexander. In connection with the events of 1812, Ivan Kozlov joined the committee for the education of the Moscow militia. Being dismissed from the service along with other officials three days before Napoleon's entry into Moscow, Ivan Ivanovich left with his family for Rybinsk to the Khomutovs, his mother's relatives.
During a fire in Moscow, his house burned down, so after the expulsion of the French, he moved to St. Petersburg. July 24, 1813 Ivan Ivanovich received the position of assistant clerk in the Department of State Property. October 7, 1814 received the rank of collegiate adviser. His health began to deteriorate sharply, paralysis of the legs began. At first, he still tried to walk, leaning on a cane, but in 1818, after a blow, the disease chained him to bed - he lost both legs. I.I. Kozlov wrote:
“The wife I love and the children are the joy of my life, but an unfortunate illness poisons everything ... I can’t, as I must ... take up the upbringing of my son and daughter.”
However, this disaster was followed by another. In 1819, his eyesight began to deteriorate, and in 1821 he became completely blind.
During the illness of I.I. Kozlov learned German and English (he knew French and Italian since childhood), and began translating. He recited by heart Byron, Dante, Shakespeare, Walter Scott. His memory was exceptional, he knew the entire Gospel by heart. He dictated his poems to his daughter Alexandra Ivanovna and translated from her voice the most complex foreign texts of English, French, Italian and German poets. To engage in poetry and translations was forced not only by the need for creativity, but also by severe need; the inheritance was lived, literary earnings became the only means of subsistence.
In 1821, Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov began to publish regularly in St. Petersburg magazines. In 1824, his then famous "Chernets" was published, then - many of his poems, including the well-known translation of T. Moore's poem "Evening Bells".
His friend, V.A. Zhukovsky wrote:
“[He] endured his plight with amazing patience - and the Providence of God, which sent him a difficult test, gave him at the same time great joy: striking him with an illness that separated him forever from the outside world and with all his joys, which change us so much , he opened to his darkened gaze the whole inner, diverse and unchanging world of poetry, illuminated by faith, purified by suffering "
Old friends visited him, they came not to sympathize with Ivan Ivanovich, they were interested in this wise and surprisingly strong-willed man. Griboedov, Baratynsky, Krylov, Pushkin, Glinka, Zhukovsky and Dargomyzhsky visited his house. All these people helped the poet with everything they could. He had musical evenings, and the regulars of these evenings were Zinaida Volkonskaya, Adam Mitskevich, the Vielgorsky brothers, Lermontov. Despite his blindness and immobility, Kozlov carried himself with rare courage: sitting in a wheelchair, he was always exquisitely dressed, spoke excitingly vividly, and recited all European poetry by heart. No one guessed that at night he was tormented by severe pain.
O You, Whom I dare not praise,
Creator of all, my Savior;
But You, to whom I burn
With all my heart, with all my soul!Who, in His heavenly will,
Overcame sins with love
Prison the sufferers to the poor lot,
Like a friend and brother. Father and God;Who is the sun's bright rays
Shines to me in the beauty of the day
And fire-star dawns
Always burning in the silence of the night;Evil Destroyer. supreme judge,
Who saves us from the nets
And puts against the sinful darkness
The whole abyss of His goodness! -Hear, Christ, my prayer,
Illuminate my spirit
And hearts of stormy excitement,
Like the swell of the sea, pacify;Take me to Your abode,
I am the prodigal son, you are my Father;
And, as over Lazarus, the Savior,
Oh, look down on me!It's not my cross that terrifies me, -
Suffering by faith blooms
God Himself sends us crosses,
And our cross gives us God;
Ready to follow you
I pray that my spirit is strengthened,
I want to wear a crown of thorns
You yourself, Christ, carried it.But in a gloomy, woeful lot,
Though I am without legs and without eyes,
Still burning in the dead body
The fire of rebellious passions;You alone are my hope,
You are joy, light and silence;
Let there be wedding clothes
Given to a stubborn servant.Anxious conscience threats,
O Merciful One, calm down;
You see tears of repentance, -
Please don't go to court with me.You are omnipotent and I am powerless
You are the King of the worlds, and I am miserable,
You are immortal - I am the dust of the grave,
I am a quick moment - You are the eternal God!Oh, give, so that by holy faith
I dispelled the fog of passions
And so that with a cloudless soul
Forgiving enemies, loving friends;So that a ray of joyful hope
Always penetrated my heart
So that I remember good deeds
To forget insults!And I trust in You;
How sweet it is for me to love You!
I entrust your goodness
Wife, kids, everything!Oh redeemed with innocent blood
Guilty, sinful earthly world,
Be divine love
Everywhere, always, in me, with me!
By the time of writing the poem "My Prayer", he had already been blind and paralyzed for twelve years. Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov was published until the last days of his life, the last edition of his poems was published in 1892. His life was divided between religion and poetry.
Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov died on January 30, 1840 and was buried at the Tikhvin cemetery of the Alexander Nevsky Lavra.
Forgive me, God, sins
And renew my dark spirit.
Let me bear my pain
In hope, faith and love.
I am not afraid of my suffering,
They are the pledge of holy love,
But give me a fiery soul
I could shed tears of repentance.
Look at the hearts of poverty
Give Magdalene a sacred gift,
Give John purity;
Let me carry my perishable crown
Under the yoke of a heavy cross
At the feet of the Savior Christ.
"Prayer", December 3, 1839
Kozlov Ivan
Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov was born in Moscow in 1779. He came from an old noble family, his father was the state secretary of Empress Catherine II. The boy received an excellent education at home, for five years he was enrolled in the Izmailovsky Guards Regiment, and by the age of eighteen, when it was time to begin his service, he already had an officer rank. But Kozlov preferred a civilian career to a military career and soon became an official in the office of the Moscow Prosecutor General. "A brilliant guards officer, later an official on a good road, he was famous as a dandy and a dancer in Moscow" - this is how Kozlov appears in the 1800s in the memoirs of a contemporary. In 1812, he was one of the most active workers in the special committee for the organization of the Moscow militia and left Moscow only on the eve of the entry of the French into it. In 1813, Kozlov joined the Department of State Property and moved to St. Petersburg. But in 1818 he suffered a terrible misfortune - his legs were paralyzed, and three years later he was also blind. The active nature of Kozlov could not reconcile himself to the fact that fate doomed him to inactivity. If earlier the external side of life - service, secular communication - seemed to push into the background and obscure the inner spiritual life, now it has become the main content of his being. The long-standing love for literature, which made friends with Zhukovsky back in the 1800s, in Moscow, turned out to be not just an educated person’s interest in fine literature, but behind it was a poetic talent, unconsciously gravitating towards his native element. At forty-two, Kozlov wrote his first poems. But in them he found such a poetic maturity that they can by no means be called student's. Kozlov survived the period of study and preparation in his soul and mind before he signed up for the boom! about the first lines of poetry. V. A. Zhukovsky wrote about him:
"Misfortune made him a poet, and the years of suffering were the most active years of his mind. Having previously known completely French and Italian, he was already on his sickbed, deprived of sight, learned English and German .. he knew by heart all of Byron, all the poems Walter Scott, the best passages from Shakespeare, as well as, above all, Racine, Tassa, and the chief passages from Date."
Kozlov's work belongs entirely to romanticism, he was and remained to the end a student and follower of Zhukovsky, but he introduced new notes into the poetics of Russian romanticism, which were fully developed by Lermontov, whose poem "Mtsyri" is closely connected with Kozlov's poem "Chernets", Starting with translations Byron, Kozlov soon began to create original works. In 1823-1824, he was working on the poem "The Chernets", the content of which is the story-confession of a monk who, in revenge for the death of his wife and child, killed the culprit of their death. Having become a murderer, he, according to the concepts of the Christian religion, committed a sin, it torments him, he retired to a monastery in order to forget earthly passions, but he could not forget them even there ... The poem was an extraordinary success. “Glory to Kozlov,” Belinsky wrote, “was created by his Chernets ... She took an abundant and complete tribute from beautiful eyes, men knew her by heart.” Kozlov becomes one of the most famous and widely read poets, the same Belinsky noted that "Chernets" had more readers than Pushkin's poems. All famous writers gather in Kozlov's house for literary evenings: Gnedich, Pletnev, Griboyedov, Zhukovsky, Delvig, Baratynsky, the Decembrist poets Ryleev, Kuchelbeker and others. Kozlov closely follows all the news of literary and social life. He admires the work of Pushkin. When "Chernets" came out of print, he sent the poem to Pushkin in Mikhailovskoye with the inscription "To dear Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin from the author." Pushkin wrote to his brother Leo (through whom the book was sent):
"The signature of the blind poet touched me inexpressibly. His story is charming, he was angry, don't be angry, but he wanted to forgive - he could not forgive worthy of Byron. The vision, the end are beautiful. The Message, perhaps better than a poem, is at least a terrible place , where the poet describes his eclipse, will remain an eternal example of painful poetry. I would like to answer him with verses, if I have time, I will send them with this letter ... "
Here are the poems of Pushkin:
Singer when in front of you
In the darkness the world of the earth was hidden,
Instantly your genius woke up
Looked at all the past
And in the choir of wondrous ghosts
He sang amazing songs.
Oh dear brother, what sounds!
In tears of delight I will listen to them.
With heavenly singing
He lulled earthly torments,
He created a new world for you
You can see and fly in it,
And again you live and embrace
Broken youth idol.
And I, since my single verse
Gave you a moment of consolation,
I don't want another reward
No wonder the dark paths
I've been through the desert of the world
Oh no! no wonder life and lyre
I was entrusted with fate!
Kozlov's works are distinguished by a high artistic level, they are unusually musical, a number of his poems, such as "Evening Bells", "Venetian Night" and others, were written romances that are still popular. But not only their melody and poetry attracted readers to Kozlov's works. They sensitively reflected the public mood. The sympathy of Russian society for the liberation struggle of the Greeks was reflected in the poem "The Captured Greek in Prison"; "Chernets" was created when the question of the moral right to regicide was heatedly debated in a secret Decembrist society, the historical poem "Princess Dolgorukaya" written in 1828 - about the fate of a woman who followed her husband into exile at the beginning of the 18th century, evoked thoughts about the wives of the Decembrists. Kozlov died in 1840.
KYIV
O Kyiv-grad, where with holy faith
Lighting up life in our native land,
Where is the bright cross with the Pechora head
Burning like a star in the blue sky
Where they spread a green veil
Your fields in expanse of gold
And the Dnieper River, under the ancient walls,
Boiling, making noise with foamy waves!
How often do I fly with my soul to you,
O bright city, dear to my heart!
How often do I captivate my eyes in dreams
Your sacred beauty!
At the Lavra walls I forget the earthly
And over the Dnieper I wander in the darkness of the night:
In my eyes, everything is Russian direct
Beautiful, great, holy.
The month has already risen
Pechersk is shining
Her heads are burning in the waves of the river,
She reminds the soul of the century
The heavenly ones sleep there in the dungeon,
Above her the shadow of Vladimir flies,
Its teeth speak of glory.
Do I look into the distance - everywhere the dream is with me,
And sweet everything breathes old times.
There the knights fought remote,
Mighty, for the homeland in the fields,
The beauty of the young princesses bloomed here,
Bashful, in high towers,
And Bayan sang fatal battles to them,
And a secret heat lurked in their hearts.
But midnight strikes, the sound of brass dies
By the past days, another day flies away.
Where are the brave ones who fought
Whose sharp sword flashed like lightning?
Where is the beauty that everyone was captivated by,
Whose cute look took away freedom?
Where is the singer whose singing was admired?
Oh, the prophetic God answered everything!
And you alone under the holy towers
You make noise, O Dnieper, with age-old waves!
BYRON A. S. Pushkin
But I have lived and have not lived m vain.
Among the misty hills of Albion,
In the valley, doomed silence,
In the ancestral castle, under the shade of oaks,
The singer grew inspired.
And royal blood flowed in inspiration,
And fate gave a lot of gold,
But the young man, proud, charming,
A high rank is brighter in soul,
The widow and the orphan know his treasury,
And the sound of his harp is wonderful.
And in the stormy impulses of all the feelings of the young
Liberty always breathed,
And the sharp flame of fatal passions
In the proud soul burned.
The young spirit is alarmed, sadness without grief
Behind a secret ghost draws him into the distance
And the waves crashed under him!
He grabs the harp with a trembling hand,
He presses her to his heart with gloomy longing,
Mysterious strings rang.
He wandered for a long time in the eastern regions
And glorified the wonderful nature,
Under a joyful sky in fragrant forests
He sang freedom to the oppressed,
The suffering of love frenzied singer,
He spoke to the heart all the secrets of hearts,
All violent passions of ecstasy,
It shines with a rainbow, then in the darkness of the night
He calls the shadows with a magic wand
And terribly charming visions.
And time flowed thoughtfully in songs,
And marvelous songs crowned
Rays of immortality young brow,
But the darkness was not driven from the face.
Sadly he looks at the light and people,
He stormily outlived his life in his spring,
He was afraid to believe in hopes,
Thoughts of heavy, deep features are visible in it,
Seething abyss of fire and dreams,
His soul is friends with grief.
But roses are softer, fresher lilies
Malvinas beauty young,
Captivating glances of sapphire eyes
And her golden curls
The singer, amazed, flies to her with his heart,
The immaculate star of love burns for them,
Withered he blossomed in soul,
But malice hissed, breathed misfortune,
And the darkness, like a terrible cover of the coffin,
Stretched over the young couple.
So bright waters, showing off, flow
And the clarity of heaven reflect
But, having met the stones, they are troubled, roar
And noisily share their current.
The singer was annoyed, but did not want to take revenge,
The adamant rock looked with contempt,
But in wild, arrogant sorrow
And in the fury of passion, in the madness of love
Torment, joy to him on earth
Only the image of her unforgettable!
And again he rushes through the menacing waves,
He threw a guiding magnet
With a dead soul through the forests, through the mountains
Wandering like a rootless wanderer.
He looks, he listens, as whirlwinds whistle,
How lightning curls, how thunders rumble
And with a rumble in the mountains they die.
O whirlwinds! oh thunders! tell me:
In what high, obscure country
Are mental storms subsiding?
He talks to the half moon,
The past is sad
Desire excited, longing oppressed,
He curses and forgives and loves.
"The madmen were looking to destroy me,
All thoughts, all my feelings are outlined,
Hope, love poisoned
And the one who was my heavenly dream,
And the joy of the heart, and the life of the soul,
Falsely separated from me.
And the daughter did not play on her own heart!
And her eyes only saw...
Oh, sleep across the seas, sleep like an angel
In your distant cradle!
Angry waves roar between us,
But the groan and prayers of the father will convey ...
It will be done!.. From an early grave
My ashes will raise their unearthly voice,
And with eternal love over her, over you My sad ghost will rush!
Sufferer, console yourself! - maybe that night
Like a terrible storm roared
Above that cradle where your daughter sleeps
Malvina sat in thought,
Perhaps the lamps in the pale rays,
A familiar image in cute features
I searched with rebellious longing,
And, noticing the resemblance of the beloved in her,
Malvina, sighing, tenderer baby
Pressed to the snow-white chest!
But fight for freedom, for faith, for honor
In Hellas it burns,
And glory resurrected, and revenge flared up, -
The bloody glow glows.
He is the first to the sounds of free swords
With the treasury, and the army, and his harp
Flies to complete deliverance,
He is there, he will support in the fatal struggle
Great deed with a great soul Holy Hellas salvation.
And the sword is drawn, and the harp sounds,
Prophetess of wondrous freedom,
And the sacred flame burns brighter,
The governors are more friendly.
O land of hymns and valorous deeds,
Husbands incomparable cherished limit of Hellas!
He is at your bloody hour
Merges its lot with your fate!
Shining genius burns above you
The star of rebirth and glory.
He is there! He saves!
And death over the singer!
And in the brilliance the young color will fade!
And he will not be the creator of beautiful deeds,
And the wonderful strings fell silent!
And weeping in the East... and the news spread,
That even in the last mysterious hour
The sufferer of the past dreamed:
As if he sees his native country,
And the heart was looking for both a daughter and a wife,
And in the sky with the earth did not part!
two shuttles
A.N.M. A transparent river flows, Noisy, glitters between the banks. On that river two canoes Rush in swift waves; The appearance of the two shuttles is different, The song of the two swimmers is different. One shuttle was full of flowers, And the white sail blew softly, It flickered on the light waves, And the breeze cherished it; Admiring himself, he flies, - A young charm sits in him. The other boat barely dived, Making a hard run stubborn; With difficulty he cut through the waves, A black sail rose on him; And death roars around him, - The pale sufferer sits in him. Laughing, the beautiful one sings: “How delightful it is for me to swim in the river!.. Spring blooms on the banks, Fragrant air above me, And the sun drives my fear away, And the moon shines in the dark night. And it's easy for me to live in the world! .. My young dreams have come true, And it's sweet to share with my sweetheart All feelings dear to my heart! And every day I am happier, And my love is more fiery! Blossom in my soul!.. but in the distance One grief worries me: There is a gloomy abyss in the river, Where it flows into the sea! : “How terrible it is for me to swim in the river! .. On the banks from all sides A gloomy forest is in front of me, And the sun in the clouds is dark during the day, And at night there is darkness and fear all around. And it's hard for me to live in the world, Where my heart bleeds, Where, poor, I, trying to love, Will be deceived by friendship and love, Where a swarm of loved ones is killed by a thunderstorm of My hopes forever. And I am devoted forever to melancholy! .. Only one thing is comforting to me in grief: There is a gloomy abyss in the river, Where it flows into the sea! .. I am not afraid to dream about that, That we cannot escape the abyss! And shuttles to the distant edge of the River directs aspiration, - And suddenly, as if by chance, Their gloomy abyss meets; The river is noisy, roaring, boiling... Both shuttles are gone. And the light has long forgotten the swimmers; But the news lit up with hope, That the abyss of timid shuttles In its darkness did not destroy And that in a mysterious way They are in that blue sea, Where the storm no longer frightens us, Where fragrant ether pours bliss And the cloudless vault burns With the radiance of a fiery rainbow; Where everything shines in youthful beauty, Everything breathes with holy joy. And the one whose life was cherished by the light, Happier with the thought of the heart, That there is already no separation, That the heat of love burns forever, That protects the reliable current Her captivating shuttle. And, throwing off the darkness of his anguish, The sufferer of life recognized the sweetness; He embraces joy with the memory of sad days; Blossoms, breathing joy, His immortal soul.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Oak
The beauty of the native mountain, with shady branches, And the young oak tree was strong and tall; Green bushes with fragrant flowers Grow around him. A playful brook with a pleasant fresh moisture, Flowing near him, rustled affably, And a powerful son of oak forests with some kind of courage Through the field looked into the distance. And, blooming with youth, he was not afraid of thunderstorms - Spring is livelier from thunderstorms, azure is clearer between clouds - He admired the flashing of lightning and thunder, Breathed under the whistle of storms. Young men and rural girls loved to walk under his shade; and the midnight nightingale sang sweetly there, and the scarlet gleam of the morning star caught them in bliss. And, seeing the beauty of nature around him in everything, He thought that she would not betray him, And boldly dreamed that the wind of bad weather would not reach him. But suddenly the vault of heaven was dressed in a black cloud, And the rain poured down, and a violent hurricane, Swirling, swooped in, raising flying dust, And the valley was covered with fog. He uprooted the green bushes with fragrant flowers, and the bright brook Was thrown into the earth, stones and stumps, - The gratifying current disappeared. Thunder struck, lightning burned a strong oak; The oak cracked, but it was not crushed by a thunderstorm: The strength of a constrained life still remained in it, Though doomed to wither. There is no comforting moisture, and there is no native land, Where he grew violently, showing off between the valleys; On a bare mountain now, persecuted by fate, He was left alone. Alas, there is no hope, and fatal arrows are poisoned by Trouble, they destroy and kill everything; Only the skies, as before blue, Shine over the perishing one. And the oak began to dry; but, not inclined to the valley, He, lifting up the branches, showed them to the clouds, As if with his scorched peak He strove for heaven.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
A complaint
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Prayer (God forgive me...)
Forgive me, God, my sins And renew my languid spirit, Let me endure my torment In hope, faith and love. I am not afraid of my suffering: They are the pledge of holy love; But grant that with a fiery soul I can shed tears of repentance. Look at the hearts of poverty, Give Magdalene the sacred heat, Give John purity; Let me bring my perishable crown Under the yoke of a heavy cross To the feet of Christ the Savior.
young prisoner
In the fields, the brilliant sickle does not reap the green fields; Amber grapes, at the time when they bloom, Should not be afraid of predatory hands; And I just started a, flaunting, bloom ... And let me be destined to shed a lot of tears, I do not want to part with life. Look, sage, at death with a cold soul! I pl a chu, and I pray, and I wait for the stars to peep through the clouds above me. There are rainy days, but God's light is red; Not every hundred is fragrant; there is no such sea, Where stormy winds do not blow. Hope bright and in the fateful share Disturbs my chest with a captivating dream, No matter how gloomy my dungeon. So suddenly, freed from harmful networks, Into the heavenly fields happier, faster The oak-wood singer flies. It is too early for me to die: the night gives me peace, The day brings peace, it is not driven away Neither fear nor reproaches of conscience. And here I meet everyone's greetings in the eyes, A sweet smile on cloudy foreheads Always meet my eyes. A beautiful, long journey is still ahead of me, And the distance into which everything involuntarily beckons, Just unfolded before me; At a joyful feast at a young life With a mouth greedy for a circular bowl, I just touched it. I saw spring; I want to experience the scorching heat of summer, and with the sun I want to complete the course of life. Pure lily, the beauty of native fields, I only saw the brilliance of the morning lights; I'm waiting for the dawn of the evening. O death, do not touch me! Let in the darkness of the grave Villains pale with despair, shame From disasters think to hide; Well, an innocent one, joy awaits on earth, And gentle songs, and a kiss of love: I don’t want to part with life. So in the bonds I heard, I myself am doomed to death, Of a charming prisoner and complaints and groans, - And thoughts stirred my heart. I agreed with my lyre in my sad voice, And the groans and complaints of the young sufferer Involuntarily repeated the strings. And the sweet lyre, the friend of hard days, Perhaps, to ask about my prisoner Will force her with her song. O! know well: joy is more captivating; And just like her, of course, death is terrible for the one who spends his life with her.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
young singer
Irish melody A young singer flies to scold, Throwing sweetness of peaceful days; With him is his father's sword - a treasury, With him is a harp - the joy of life. “Oh, the sonorous song of the native land, the holy land of the Fathers, Here is my sharp sword in tribute to you, Here is the golden harp!” The singer fell victim to formidable battles; But, ending a young age, He throws a sharp sword into the water And tears the ringing strings. “Love, freedom, native land, O strings, I sang with you; Now how can you sing in that country Where the slave sounds like chains?
Notes: Translation of a poem by Thomas Moore.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
My prayer
O you whom I dare not praise, Creator of all, my savior; But you, to whom I burn with My whole heart, with all my soul! Who, by his heavenly will, Overcame sins with love, Brought the sufferers to the poor share, Who is friend and brother, father and god; Who with bright rays of the sun Shines to me in the beauty of the day And with fire-star dawns Always burns in the stillness of the night; The destroyer of evil, the supreme judge, Who saves us from the nets And sets against the sinful darkness All the abyss of his goodness! - Hear, Christ, my prayer, Illuminate my spirit with yourself And the heart of stormy excitement, Like the swell of the sea, pacify; Take me to your abode, - I am the prodigal son, - you are my father; And, as over Lazarus, savior, Oh, weep over me! It is not my cross that terrifies me, - The suffering of faith blooms, God Himself sends us crosses, And our cross gives us God; Ready to follow you, I pray that my spirit strengthens, I want to wear a crown of thorns - You yourself, Christ, wore it. But in a gloomy, woeful destiny, Though I am without legs and without eyes, - The fire of rebellious passions still burns in the murdered body; You alone are my hope, You are joy, light and silence; Let the wedding garment be given to the obstinate Servant. Anxious conscience threats, O merciful, calm; You see tears of repentance, - I beg you, do not enter into court with me. You are omnipotent, and I am powerless, You are the king of the worlds, and I am wretched, You are immortal - I am grave dust, I am a quick moment - you are an eternal god! Oh, give me that by holy faith I disperse the fog of passions And that with a cloudless soul I forgive my enemies, love my friends; So that a ray of joyful hope Always penetrates my heart, So that I remember good deeds, So that I forget insults! And I trust in you; How sweet it is for me to love you! I entrust your goodness to my wife, children, all of myself! Oh, having redeemed with innocent blood the Guilty, sinful world of the earth, - Be divine love Everywhere, always, in me, with me!
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
On departure
When both darkness and sleep in the fields, And the night separates us, My friend, involuntary fear Excites me every time. I know the night will pass alone, In the morning we are with you; But the thought is secretly confused by Anxious melancholy. Oh, how can the heart not be sad! How to express sadness - When from those with whom it is nice to live, We strive into the dark distance; When, perhaps, Wrong fate will carry away For a whole month, a whole year, Perhaps - forever! Note: perhaps this poem is not a translation of Byron, but belongs to Kozlov himself.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
At the funeral of an English general...
The drum did not beat in front of the vague regiment, When we buried the leader, And the corpse, not with a farewell rifle fire, We lowered into the bowels of the earth. And poor honor by the night and given; They dug the grave with bayonets; The moon shone dimly in the fog for us, And the torches sparkled smoky. On him is not the dead cover of a coffin, Lying not in a plank captivity - Wrapped in his wide battle cloak, He fell asleep, like warriors in the field. Briefly, but fervently prayed to the Creator His daring team And silently looked into the face of the dead man, Thinking about tomorrow. Perhaps, suddenly appearing in the morning, The impudent enemy, full of arrogance, He will not respect you, comrade, and we will be swept away by irrevocable waves. Oh no, it will not touch in a mysterious dream Until the brave thought of sadness! Your bed is lonely in a foreign side, Beloved hands spread. The fatal rite had not yet been completed, And the hour of separation had come; And from the shaft the messenger's thunderbolt struck, And he is not a herald of battle for us. Forgive me, comrade! There is nothing here For the memory of a bloody grave; And we leave you alone With your immortal glory.
Russian poets. Anthology of Russian poetry in 6 volumes. Moscow: Children's Literature, 1996.
* * *
Countess 3. I. Lepzeltern Above the dark bay, along the resounding swells of Venice, the queen's sea, The midnight swimmer in his gondola From the dawn of dawn to the daylight With a carefree rudder carelessly cuts The lazy night moisture; He sings Rinald, Tancred sings, He sings young Erminia; He sings to his heart, vanity is removed, He is not afraid of someone else's judgment, And he is involuntarily captivated by his beloved song, He rushes merrily over the abyss. And I love to sing to myself, in silence, I dream of unknown songs, I sing, and as if it is more comforting to me, I forget my grief, No matter how the wind drives my poor shuttle The abyss of rebellious life, Where I am so sad and so alone Wandering in hopeless darkness. ..
Russian poets. Anthology of Russian poetry in 6 volumes. Moscow: Children's Literature, 1996.
We are seven
(From Wordsworth) A.V.V. A hospitable child, Easily accustomed to breathing, Blooming with health and life, How can death understand? The girl was walking towards me. She was about eight years old, A jet of thick curls encircled her head; And her steppe look was wild, And her simple outfit was wild, And the beauty of the Baby's sweet look delighted me. "How many of you are there? - I said to her, And brothers and sisters?" “There are seven of us in total,” and he casts a glance at me, marveling. "Where are they?" - “There are seven of us in total. - In response, the little one to me. - The two of us went to live in the village, - And two on the ship, And in the cemetery, brother and sister Lie out of seven, And behind the cemetery I am with my family, - We live near them. - "How? two went to live in the village, Two set off to swim, - And all of you are seven! My friend, tell me, how can this be? “There are seven of us, there are seven of us,” she immediately told me again, “There are two of us in the cemetery, Under the willow in the ground.” - “You run around her, you can see that you are alive; But there are only five of you, my child, When there are two under the willow. - “The earth is in flowers on their coffins, And there are no ten steps from the doors of my native To the coffins dear to us; I often knit stockings here, I cut my scarf here, And I sit near their graves And sing songs to them; And if late at times The dawn burns brightly, Then, taking my cheese and bread with me, I dine here. Little Jenny languished ill day and night, But the bot did not forget to help her, And she hid; When we buried her And the earth blossomed, We came to her grave To frolic - John and I; But I just waited for the winter Skates and sleighs, John, my brother, also left, And he lay down next to her. “So how many are you?” was my answer. - "There are two in heaven, believe!" - "There are only five of you." - "Oh sir, no, Count - we are seven now." - "Yes, there are no two - they are in the earth, And the souls are in heaven!" But was my words useful? All the girl kept telling me: “Oh no, there are seven of us, there are seven of us!”
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Not in reality and not in a dream
Fantasy Prince P. G. Gagarin And song that said a thousand things. * Throwing away the thought of earthly life, I look timidly into the dark distance; I don't know what I'm sad about, I don't know what I'm sorry for. A wave crushed between stones, A ray of a silver moon, A dawn, a beloved song Suddenly, feelings are confused. Hope, fear, remembrance Quietly huddle around me; The souls of involuntary dreaming I cannot express in words. Some dull gloominess Darkens the clarity of former days; Beckons, the ghost of a sweet one flickers, Captivating the eye in the darkness of nights. And it seems to me: I hear singing From under the misty clouds... And my secret excitement I'm ready to cherish with my heart. * How much was in that song! (Translated by V. A. Zhukovsky.)
Russian poets. Anthology of Russian poetry in 6 volumes. Moscow: Children's Literature, 1996.
New stanzas (Sorry! It's already midnight...)
Sorry! already midnight; above the moon, you see, a cloud flies; It is a misty veil, Gentle radiance glooms. I am rushing into the distance, my sail is blowing, The wave of the lovebird is rustling, - The moon will hardly clear up before. And I, like a thick cloud, have eclipsed you, my moon; I am a young heart with grief And clouded my merry gaze. Your color, both joyful and tender, Is scorched by my love; You are free - my rebellious heat Forget it soon, like a bad dream! Do not be carried away by the noisy rumor! Killed bright dreams Not what I loved madly, But what you did not love so much. I'm sorry - don't cry! The fog is already thinning before the clear moon, The sea has surged, the sail is blowing - And I rush into my canoe.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Parents' Saturday Night
Ballad Not a wonderful and false dream And not an empty rumor has spread, But we have a true, terrible legend In Ukraine we have: What if someone, casting aside all worries, Prayerfully holding a three-day fast, Comes on the night of his parents' Saturday To the deceased at the graveyard, - There he will see those mournful shadows, Doomed to whom already by fate To be victims in that year of the underground canopy And the cell of the grave. Young Elected with the beautiful Lyudmila And was betrothed with a ring and heart; But he thought, disturbed by a secret power, That our joy is a dream. And prophetic fear with an irresistible longing, Exciting the spirit, crowds into his chest, And he dreams of looking into the book of incomprehensible fate; And, putting aside all worldly worries, Prayerfully holding a three-day fast, He goes on the night of his parents' Saturday To the dead on the churchyard. Everywhere is darkness, and the wind howled, and the autumn moon hovered between smoky clouds; It seemed that the night itself was afraid, Full of terrible secrets. And long ago Chosen under the dark willow Sat alone on the stone of the coffin; Her blood cooled, but her impatient gaze wandered about in the darkness. And at midnight, he suddenly hears groans in the church, And the door is wide open, sounding with shutters, And now a candle flies from the church from the icon Through the air; And her flight as a flickering stream She mysteriously strives to the coffins, And the dead of the fatal leader In the airy darkness burns. And the dead in the coffins stirred, The underground inhabitants woke up again, And the fresh graves parted - And the dead stood up. And he sees those mournful shadows, Doomed to whom already by fate To be victims in that year of the underground canopy And the cell of the grave; Their face is gloomy, and it is clear that with tears Their gaze is forever mortal sleep... Do they, with faded hearts, Yearn for earthly things? But to God's temple as a forerunner of the fateful Air candle already leads them, And in the dead, under a white veil, he recognizes the Bride; And her shadow, ethereal, young, Still bloomed with beauty and in a shroud, And, bowing her sad gaze to the groom, Sighed and passed. And everything came true. The contrite madman From that hour is deprived of spiritual strength, Without feelings, without tears, he wanders in amazement, Like a ghost, between the graves, And the quiet coffin of the bride embraces And whispers to her: “Let's go, let's go to the crown ...” And the night wind only howls answers the Living dead man.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
charm
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Crying Yaroslavna
Princess 3. A. Volkonskaya It’s not a cuckoo in a dark grove Calling early at dawn - Yaroslavna cries in Putivl, Alone, on the city wall: “I will leave the pine forest, I will fly along the Danube, And in the Kayal River I will wet my sleeve; a bloody battle was in full swing, I will wash the prince's wound On his young chest. In Putivl, Yaroslavna, Zarya, cries on the city wall: “Wind, wind, oh mighty, violent wind! What are you making noise? Why are you black clouds in the sky And uplifting and swirling? ?" In Putivl, Yaroslavna, Zarya, cries on the city wall: “Is it close to blow in the clouds From the steep mountains of a foreign land, If you want to cherish ships in the blue sea? ?" In Putivl, Yaroslavna, Zarya, cries on the city wall: "My glorious Dnieper! You broke through the Polovtsy rocks with waves; Svyatoslav with the heroes He strove for you, - Do not worry, the Dnieper is wide, The swift current of icy waters, With them my black-eyed prince To Russia the saint will float." In Putivl, Yaroslavna, Zarya, cries on the city wall: "O river! Give me a friend - On the waves of his cherish, So that a sad girlfriend Embraces him soon; So that I no longer see Prophetic horrors in a dream, So that I do not send tears to him by the Blue Sea at dawn". In Putivl, Yaroslavna, Zarya, cries on the city wall: "The sun, the sun, you shine. Everything is beautiful and bright! In a sultry field, why are you burning my friend's army? . And quietly in the tower Yaroslavna Leaves the city wall.
Russian poets. Anthology of Russian poetry in 6 volumes. Moscow: Children's Literature, 1996.
Captured Greek in a dungeon
Holy homeland, my lovely land! All dreaming of you, I'm torn to you with my soul. But, alas, in captivity They keep me here, And on the battlefield I do not fight! Day and night I was tormented by your fate, The sound of your chains resounded in my heart. Can homogeneous Brothers be forgotten? Oh, or to be free, Or not to be at all! And with friends boldly With a deadly thunderstorm For a holy cause We rushed into battle. But, alas, in captivity They keep me here, And on the battlefield I do not fight! And in captivity I do not know How the war burns; I expect news - The news flies past. The rumor of murders rushes, Terrible revenge trail; My own blood is flowing, - But I'm not there! Ah, in the midst of the storm, the Fruit, freedom, is ripening! Your clear day glows with a fiery dawn! Unknown prisoner, Let me suffer - If only, lovely land, Free to know you!
Swimmer
Constricting grief in my chest, A swimmer shattered by a storm, I look at the blue sea, As if a dead man looked at life; But involuntarily, full of thoughts, With a sudden terrible thunderstorm, When my boat was destroyed by the waves, Drawn by a bright star. Alas! not mine alone by the waves The boat of hope is destroyed, And into the unfaithful distance by the stars I was not the only one who was fascinated! And who was not embarrassed by anxiety, Achieved the desired goal, Did not say goodbye to the dream of his beloved, Who passed the valley of tears? When would you from the angry waves, O sea! could throw out Everything that lay in the ships of the broken Higher thoughts and feelings; If someone came from the abyss, Who told the story of the lost, - Then the world, perhaps, would be amazed At what no one knew. How much in the fate of the rebellious, Being a victim of inevitable troubles, Withered hopeless longing, And their trace has long disappeared! Oh, many, many fiery pearls Buried at the bottom of the sea, And many fragrant winds Hidden in the ethereal darkness! And how many bright hopes, Torn off by a raid of thunderstorms, And hearts of joyful dreams, Decayed from burning tears! And the secrets of the wondrous condition Between heavenly thoughts and passions - Only one knows the headboard And the darkness of languid nights.
Colleridge. (From Christabel's poem) Forgive me! and if we are destined to be so by fate, forgive me forever! May you be ruthless - with you I cannot bear the enmity of my heart. It cannot be that You met the inflexibility of feeling in the one On whose chest you fell asleep Irrevocably sweet sleep! If you could see through her All the feelings of my heart, Then you would surely regret That you despised him so much. Let the light approve with a smile Now your cruel blow: He offends you with praise, With someone else's purchased, misfortune. Let me, blackened with guilt, gave myself the right to accuse; But why was he killed by the hand that used to hug me? And believe, oh believe! the ardor of tender passion Only years can cool; But suddenly the rebellious anger is unable to tear the heart from the heart. Yours keeps the same feeling; My destiny is to suffer, to love! - And the immortal thought torments, That we will not live together. A sad cry over the dead With that terrible thought how to equalize? - We are both alive, but widowers We already meet the day with you. And at the hour when you caress our daughter, Admiring the babble of speeches, How you hint at her father, Her father is separated from her. When the little one catches your eye, Kissing her, remember Who prays to you for happiness, Who found paradise in your love. And if there is a resemblance in her With the father abandoned by you, Your heart will suddenly tremble, And the trembling of the heart will be mine. Perhaps you know my guilt - Can you know my madness? Hopes - you carry away, The withered ones fly with you. You shook my soul; Despised light, my proud spirit was submissive to Thee; Parting with you, I part with my soul! Everything is done! Words are in vain, And there are no more vain than my words, - But in the feelings of the heart we have no power, And there are no barriers to their aspiration. I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Deprived of you, - Everything in which I thought to see happiness, Decayed in heart, crushed. Can I die anymore?
I. Kozlov. Poems. Poet's Library, small series, 2nd ed. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1948.
broken ship
Free imitation Countess S. I. Laval The day was fading in a ruddy glow, - And I, in the confusion of my thoughts, Wandered on the sandy shore, Listening to the murmur of the sea waves, And I saw between the sands The broken ship was submerged; He is carried in a storm by noisy waves On the wild shore, - And the moisture has long clothed the deep wells of emptiness like moss; Already the grass in them was green, Flowers were already appearing. We strive like a thunderstorm into the coastal cliff, From where and where did he sail? Who with him in the hour of a hopeless storm shared his ruin? The cliff and the waves, everything was silent, Everything is darkness in the destiny of fate, - Only the evening sun played Above him, the forgotten dead man. And at the stern of it sat the wife of a young fisherman, She looked into the distance and sang songs Under the languid murmur of the breeze. With a curly blond head, the Baby played near her, He jumped over the sonorous wave, And the wind fluttered the curls. He plucks delicate flowers, Cherishing children's masts. The joyful baby does not know That he is picking flowers on the coffin.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Rogue
Ballad A. A. Voeikova Mila of the Breingel shadow of the woods; Mil light current of the river; And in the field there are many flowers Beautiful for wreaths. The misty valley is silvered by the moon; A greyhound steed rushes me: In the Dalton Tower, at the window, the Beautiful sits. She sings: “Braingel waters I love the welcoming noise; There the meadow blooms luxuriantly in the spring, There the groves are full of thoughts. I want to love in silence, Not to wear royal dignity; There, on the river, it is more pleasant for me to live in the forest with Edwin. - “When you, beautiful girl, Leaving your castle, ready to run into the dark forests, Run alone with me, You, joy, guess how we live in the forests; What, find out, that wild land, Where we will find love! She sings: “Braingel waters I love the welcoming noise; There the meadow blooms luxuriantly in the spring, There the groves are full of thoughts. I want to love in silence, Not to wear royal dignity; There, on the river, it is more pleasant for me to live in the forest with Edwin. I see a greyhound horse Under a brave rider: You are a royal huntsman - you have a ringing horn behind your saddle. - “No, lovely! The hunter blows the horn of the ruddy dawn, And my horn sounds trouble, And then in the darkness of the night. She sings: “Braingel waters I love the welcoming noise; There the meadow blooms luxuriantly in the spring, There the groves are full of thoughts; I want to love you in free silence, my friend; There on the river it is gratifying for me To live in the forest with Edwin. I see, young traveler, You are with a saber and a gun; Perhaps you are a dashing dragoon And you ride behind the regiment. - “No, the thunder of the timpani and the trumpet voice Why among the steppes? Stealthily we sit on horses at the midnight hour. Welcome the sound of the Breingel waters In the green shores, And the sunrise is sweet in them, A fragrant meadow in flowers; But it is unlikely that the beautiful one will not grieve, When she has to live in the wilderness of the forest without a trace As my friend! It's wonderful, I live wonderfully, - So, apparently, fate ordered; And I will die a wondrous death, And my destiny is gloomy. The crafty one himself is not so terrible, When, before a black day, He wanders in the field at night With a brilliant lantern; And we are on the road remote, Friends of the wrong darkness, We no longer remember the days of the past Innocent silence. Mila of the Breingel shadow of the woods; Mil light current of the river; And there are many flowers here in the meadows Beautiful for wreaths.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
The fall of Rome and the spread of Christianity
A. I. Turgenev From the gloomy northern forests, From the distant eastern shores, Sons of courage and freedom, Wild peoples strive With a double ax, on foot, In animal skin, with maces, And on horses with a spear, with arrows, And the skull of the enemy behind the saddle. Have arrived; blows were scattered, Smoke swirls, fires burn, A heavy groan drowned out the battle, And Rome, the sovereign colossus, fell; Vicious fell he, a victim of vengeance, - And noisily the winds carried The terrible thunder of his fall To the ends of the frightened earth. But a formidable cloud of peoples With heavenly wrath swept, And the dust from violent transitions In the bloody fields subsided. Forever dead silence Changed screams and moaning. Already the terrible roar of the fall has fallen asleep in the woeful desert; In the fog the glow does not glow, And the black smoke is already thinning; The darkness clears; from the sad places Far away a bright cross became visible. Other people, faith, morals, Another language, rights, statutes, The purest world born by him, Appeared suddenly miraculously with him, - And the saints preachers To the ashes of fate Came with the Gospel in their hands, And among the ruins to the graves Sit down, full of secret power; Truth burned in the eyes; A quiet voice, a mournful comforter, a herald of heavenly will, gave another life to the universe; So their divine teacher By faith resurrected the dead.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Romance (There is a quiet grove...)
There is a quiet grove near the fast springs; And day and night the nightingale sings there; There, the bright waters flow invitingly, There, red roses, showing off, bloom. At that time, when youth beckoned to dream, In that grove I often liked to walk; Admiring the flowers under the thick shadow, I heard songs - and my soul was thrilled. I will never forget that green grove! Places of pleasure, how not to love you! But with the summer, the joy will soon pass, And involuntarily thought takes over the soul: “Ah! in the green grove, near the fast springs, Is everything the same as before, the nightingale sings? And scarlet roses in autumn sometimes Do they still bloom over the bright stream? " No, the roses have faded, the stream is murkier, And now the nightingale is not heard in the grove! When, showing off, roses bloomed there, They were often plucked, woven with wreaths; The brilliance of tender leaves, although darkened, In the fragrant dew, their spirit is preserved. And the air is freshened with fragrant dew; Spring has passed - and spring blows. So we can live by memory in the past And preserve the feelings of ecstasy in the soul; So it blows gratifying and late at times Experienced charm of young love! Time will not take joy at all: Let youth fade, but the heart blooms. And it is sweet for me to remember how the nightingale sang, And the roses, and the grove near the fast springs!
Russian poets. Anthology of Russian poetry in 6 volumes. Moscow: Children's Literature, 1996.
rural elegy
In the silence of a secluded village, the Young sufferer lived sadly, And, weary with long torment, He said to kind people: “Already in the church of our village you are called to pray, Ringing the evening bell; Pray to god for me. When the oak forest begins to languish, The mists will lie over the water, Then say: "Now the young sufferer does not languish." But you don't forget me, Remember me in sad songs And, hearing the ringing with the end of the day, Pray to God for me. Before cunning, malicious slander, I will give my whole life in return, And with an immaculate soul Without fear, I will leave the world. My sad path was not long, - In my spring, already over the grave I stand in tears; bowing her eyes to her, pray to God for me. My dear friend, my wonderful friend! I thought to live with you for a long time; But, a victim of a vain dream, My age was one minute. O! heart tender anxiety Forgive her; pray to God, Hearing the ringing in the twinkling of the day, And for her, and for me.
Secret
Ballad In the forest, a Damascus shield is nailed on an age-old oak, a witness to formidable battles; A star with a cross is visible on that shield, And a sharp sword sparkles near the shield. And the fresh grave is overshadowed by the Shady oak, and the secrets of the fateful Darkness is terrible: no one, no one knows Who is buried in the forest in the darkness of night. The day rushed by, again at times the fateful Night covered the dark oak forest; Everything is silent, and copper is already at midnight On the tower beats the neighboring village. And the autumn night has never darkened more terribly: it has clothed the dense forest, the river and the hill with a damp haze - Everywhere the cover turns black as a coffin. But between the trees a crimson gleam flickers, And a fragile leaf rustles not far away, And the torch illuminates the oak near by: His black man carried in a trembling hand. An aged hermit walked to the grave, And together with him it is unknown who, in tears, Goes, paler than his white clothes; The sadness of love burns in her eyes. And the monk sang a memorial service for the dead, But who he was - the monk did not remember; He sang, he disappeared from sight in the distance, But the torch still flickered in the thick shadow. On the fresh turf the beautiful fell And, throwing back the white veil, Shed streams of tears over the dead, Disturbing the grave silence; And, beside herself, suddenly her blue eyes On the shield she suddenly raised And, cutting off the golden curls, The bloody sword wrapped them in silk; Madness poison ignited in a cloudy look, A hearty cry goes numb on the lips. She left, and only in the dense forest Mysterious one remained fear; And between the trees the torch does not flicker, The leaf does not whisper, and the secrets of the fatal Darkness is terrible: no one, no one knows Who is buried in the forest in the darkness of night.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Homesickness (With eternal love...)
Free imitation of Chateaubriand With eternal love, saint, I remember my native country, Where life flourished; She sees me in my dreams. Native land, be you always sweet to me! We used to sit in front of the fire In the evening with our dear ones - Sister and I, Sing, laugh, - midnight beats - And she will press us to the heart, Blessing. I see a quiet, blue pond, How willows and reeds grow On the banks; And the swan flies along it, And the evening sun burns In its waves. And I see: not far away the Serrated castle on the river Stands in silence With a high tower, and on it I hear, it seems, in the darkness of nights, How copper buzzes. And how I remember how I love my dear friend! O! where is she? It used to be that she would go to the forest with me, Pick flowers, pick strawberries... Sweet, tender! When will I again see My Siyana, forest, fields And above the river That rural house where I lived?.. Oh, be, always be sweet to your heart, My native land!
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Elegy (Oh you, star of love, still in heaven...)
O you, star of love, still in heaven, Diana, do not shine in captivating rays! Into the valleys under the hill, where the playful current roars, Shed a radiance on my hurried path. I’m not going to steal someone else’s in the darkness of the night Or to destroy a traveler with a criminal hand, But I love, love, my only desire is To find a date with a lovely nymph in silence; She is the most beautiful of all, dearer, As you are the midnight stars, the beauty of all is brighter.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Poet, born April 11, 1779 in Moscow, d. January 30, 1840 His body was buried at the Tikhvin cemetery in the Alexander Nevsky Lavra, where his friend and patron V. A. Zhukovsky was later buried next to him. His father is quite famous in ... ... Big biographical encyclopedia
Talented poet. Born in Moscow on April 11, 1779. His father was the state secretary of Catherine II, his mother was from the old Khomutov family. At the age of 5, the boy was recorded as a sergeant in the Life Guards Izmailovsky Regiment and in 1795 he was promoted to ... ... Biographical Dictionary
Kozlov Ivan Ivanovich- (1779-1840), poet, translator. He moved to St. Petersburg from Moscow in 1813, served in the Department of State Property (dismissed "due to illness" in 1823). In 1818 Kozlov was paralyzed and began to go blind; in 1821 completely blind; then in…… Encyclopedic reference book "St. Petersburg"
- (1779 1840), Russian. romantic poet, translator and propagandist of J. Byron in Russia. Prod. K. were part of L.'s reading circle as a teenager and were for him one of the first sources of acquaintance with Byronic. poem. Early poems L. ("Circassians", "Corsair", ... ... Lermontov Encyclopedia
- (1779 1840) Russian poet, translator. In 1821 he went blind. Lyric poetry, romantic poem Chernets (1825); the poem Evening Bells (1828, translation of the poem by T. Moore) became a folk song ... Big Encyclopedic Dictionary
Russian poet, translator. From nobles. He served in the guard, from 1798 in the civil service. I was ill for a long time (blindness, paralysis). He began to publish in 1821. He met A. S. Pushkin, V. A. Zhukovsky. TO … Great Soviet Encyclopedia
- (1779 1840), poet, translator. He moved to St. Petersburg from Moscow in 1813, served in the Department of State Property (dismissed "due to illness" in 1823). In 1818 K. was paralyzed and began to go blind; in 1821 completely blind; then in the "Son of ... ... St. Petersburg (encyclopedia)
Kozlov, Ivan I.- KOZLOV Ivan Ivanovich (1779 1840), Russian poet, translator. In 1821 he went blind. Lyric poetry, romantic poem Chernets (1825); the poem Evening Bells (1828, translation of T. Moore's poem) became a folk song. … Illustrated Encyclopedic Dictionary
Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov (April 11 (22), 1779, Moscow January 30 (February 11), 1840, St. Petersburg) Russian poet, translator. Contents 1 Biography 2 Literary activity 3 Works ... Wikipedia
- (1779 1840), Russian poet, translator. In 1821 he went blind. Lyrical poems, the romantic poem "Chernets" (1825), full of national color. The poem "Evening Bells" (1828, translated by T. Moore) became a folk song. * * * KOZLOV Ivan… … encyclopedic Dictionary
In the fate of the romantic poet Kozlov, there is a dramatic paradox, noticed even Zhukovsky.
“Before his illness, Kozlov lived in the world and was carried away by absent-mindedness ... Deprived of both legs, he began to teach in English and in a few months he could already understand Byron and Shakespeare. Having lost his sight, he became a poet… The inner rich world opened up for him at a time when the outer one disappeared.”
And the "external" world of Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov was quite ordinary for a descendant of an old noble family. Moscow childhood in the rich house of his father, Catherine's nobleman; boyish entertainment with brothers, foreign tutors, a military "career" characteristic of the underage of his circle: at the age of five, a sergeant of the Life Guards of the Izmailovsky Regiment, at sixteen - an ensign, at eighteen - a second lieutenant. All this in absentia, without going through the service. Then resignation - at the age of nineteen. Kozlov becomes an official under the Moscow Prosecutor General. Formally, the duties of the civil service did not interfere with the free, festive flow of the pores of youthful "absent-mindedness." Kozlov is a frequenter of balls and salons, a brilliant dancer, an enviable groom. But these qualities did not distinguish him from others. Subtle artistic taste, erudition of a young aristocrat were noticed Zhukovsky and Batyushkov.
The whirlpool of secular life, which included both "rebellion of passions", and "daring hopes", and a happy marriage, is interrupted by 1812. Feeling the real deal, Kozlov is a member of the Committee for the formation of the Moscow military force, participates in the preparation of the defense of Moscow. During the days of the Moscow fire, he was deprived of his home and property, and in 1813 he and his family moved to St. Petersburg, began serving in the Department of State Property of the Ministry of Finance.
At the same time, Kozlov finds vital incentives not in clerical zeal. He approaches Krylov, Vyazemsky, with young poets Pushkin, Delvig, Küchelbecker. The future founder of the "Union of Welfare" and the Northern Society, Nikolai Turgenev, introduces him to his anti-serfdom "Experience in the theory of taxes", other works of the figures of the coming Decembrism.
Such is the soil on which this talent grew, "awakened by suffering" ( Zhukovsky). From the age of forty, paralyzed and blind, Kozlov, however, works hard and fruitfully.
And my destiny, with hopes, with dreams, With happy and sad days, According to my heart; he didn’t hide my spiritual secrets, and I didn’t live in vain ...
Kozlov's first poetic experiments were inspired by the genius of Byron. Unexpectedly stricken with illness, Kozlov seeks to comprehend the skill of the great romantic: he reads his poems in the original, makes an unusual translation of The Abydos Bride - from English into French (and a few years later - into Russian). This is followed by transcriptions of fragments from "Childe Harold", "Don Juan", "The Siege of Corinth", "Gyaur" ... Today it is obvious that the beginning of Byron's fame in Russia, his peculiar life in Russian lyrics, is connected with Kozlov's translation activity.
In the original poem, written on the death of Byron, Kozlov conveyed the most important moods for his compatriot contemporaries:
He is the first to the sounds of free swords With a treasury, and an army, and his harp Flies to complete deliverance; He is there, he will support in the fatal struggle The great cause with a great soul - the salvation of Holy Hellas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And in the stormy impulses of all the feelings of the young, love of freedom always breathed.
Another cherished theme of Kozlov's lyrics is determined by his concepts of human will, honor, nobility. A private episode of the era of the Napoleonic wars, captured in a poem, sounded not only like a requiem for a worthy warrior, but also as a defense of genuine spirituality and cordiality, irreconcilable with the tinsel and vulgarity of vain reality.
As well as civic passion and moral exactingness, the lyrics of the subtlest human experiences were also accessible to Kozlov. Doubts, anxieties, “gloomy idleness”, “sorrow of the soul”, “secrets of high thoughts”, “bright dreams”, living joy, the beauty of a woman, “sweet longing”, happiness, love - all this is the breath of his lyrics.
Greetings of hopes, fate of threats, Excitement of feelings, fun, tears, The depth of the heart abyss, All that life is gloomy, clear And not to say what words ...
The confessional sincerity of Kozlov's romantic lyrics brought him wide popularity among readers, found a response in the best hearts of the era. In Kozlov's house there were - not just compassionate guests, but inspired interlocutors - Pushkin, Zhukovsky, Griboyedov, Ryleev, Gnedich, Baratynsky, composers Glinka and Dargomyzhsky, as well as I. M. Muravyov-Apostol, Zinaida Volkonskaya ... Kozlov's poems, conversations with him helped creative development Lermontov. Adam Mickiewicz, who often visited the poet, dedicated to him the poem "Faris", in odic tonality glorifying the opposition of man to the natural elements.
With all the structure of his lyrics, with all his fate - both personal and poetic - Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov affirmed the idea of the strength of the human spirit, of beauty and the eternal secrets of earthly existence.
S. Dmitrenko
Russian poets. Anthology of Russian poetry in 6 volumes. Moscow: Children's Literature, 1996
KOZLOV, Ivan Ivanovich - Russian poet, translator. He came from a noble noble family. He served in the guard, from 1798 - in the civil service. In 1821, after a long illness (paralysis and blindness), Kozlov took up literary work. Kozlov's first poem "To Svetlana" was published in 1821. Passion for literature led Kozlov to become intimately acquainted with A. S. Pushkin, V. A. Zhukovsky, P. A. Vyazemsky and Decembrist brothers Turgenev. In 1824 he was elected a member of the Free Society of Lovers of Russian Literature. Already in the early verses (message "To a friend of V. A. Zhukovsky") manifested tendencies characteristic of Kozlov: the desire for earthly happiness and "hope for a better life beyond the grave" (Belinsky). Courageously resisting the tragic fate, the poet found solace in memories of the past, in friendship, love and inspired creativity ("Hymn of Orpheus"). Success brought Kozlov a poem "Chernets"(complete edition 1825), written in the form of a lyrical confession of a young monk. The originality of this romantic poem was determined by V. G. Belinsky: "The somewhat sentimental nature of the poem, the sad fate of its hero, and together the sad fate of the singer himself ...". Poem highly appreciated A. S. Pushkin(poem "Kozlov"), she influenced "Mtsyri" M. Yu. Lermontova and "Trizna" by T. G. Shevchenko. Kozlov welcomed the national liberation struggle in Greece ( "The Captured Greek in the Dungeon") and in Ireland ("Young singer"), glorified courage and courage ("Byron", "Kyiv", "Lament of Yaroslavna"). In a historical poem "Princess Natalya Borisovna Dolgorukaya"(1824, complete edition 1828) Kozlov sympathizes with the victims of autocratic despotism, although he shifts his main attention from civil ideas to Dolgoruky's religious and heartfelt feelings. The difficult personal life and the onset of political reaction after 1825 strengthened the motives of grief in Kozlov's poetry: "To P.F. Balk-Polev", "Promised Land", "Swimmer" and others; the last two poems warmly speak of the fighters who fell for their homeland. A gloomy romantic-mystical coloration marks Kozlov's "cemetery" poems and ballads: "The Secret", "Brenda", "Departure of the Knight" other. It is significant that the poet's appeal to the people in some works of the 30s: the poem "Mad", poems "Deceived Heart", "Anxious Contemplation", "Song" . Kozlov also acted as a talented translator who promoted Western European poetry: J. Byron ("Bride of Abydos"), W. Scott, Dante, T. Tasso, L. Ariosto, A. Chenier, R. Burns, A. Mickiewicz and others. The translation of T. Moore's poem has become a popular Russian song. Kozlov's translations are mostly free translations. Kozlov is a subtle elegiac and lyric poet who amazed his contemporaries with "wonderful songs" ( Pushkin), "musical heart sounds" (Gogol), lightness of verse. Some of his poems have become famous songs and romances ("Swimmer",, "Anxious Thoughts", "Venetian night"). Kozlov's poems are characterized by the sharpness of dramatic situations; his lyrics are characterized by the authenticity of the experiences of the lyrical hero, the brightness of visual images.
Cit.: Full. coll. poems. [Intro. Art. I. D. Glikman], L., 1960; Diary. Intro. note by K. Ya. Grot, “Ancient and new”, 1906, No. 11.
Lit .: Gogol N.V., On the poetry of Kozlov, Poln. coll. soch., v. 8, M. - L., 1952; Belinsky V. G., Sobr. poems. I. Kozlova, Poln. coll. soch., v. 5, M., 1954; Neiman B. V., Reflection of Kozlov's poetry in the work of Lermontov, “Izv. ORYAS”, 1914, vol. 19, no. 1; Gudziy N. K., I. I. Kozlov - translator of Mitskevich, “Izv. Tavrich. uch. Archival Commission, 1920, No. 57; History of Russian. literature of the 19th century Bibliographic index, ed. K. D. Muratova, M. - L., 1962.
I. A. Shchurov
Brief literary encyclopedia: In 9 volumes - V. 3. - M .: Soviet encyclopedia, 1966
KOZLOV Ivan Ivanovich - poet. He came from the ranks of the noble, but ruined nobility (the son of the secretary of state). He served in the military, then in the civil service. At the age of about forty, he was stricken with paralysis, which deprived him of his legs, three years later he was completely blind. The year of loss of vision was the year of the beginning of Kozlov's literary activity: in 1821 his first poem "To Svetlana" appeared in print.
After some time, a romantic poem spreading in the lists becomes widely known. "Chernets", the publication of which in 1824 caused a welcoming poem Pushkin and met with resounding success. In addition to two more poems and a large number of lyrical poems, Kozlov wrote numerous translations from English, French, Italian and Polish, some of which have become classics (, etc.).
In the socio-economic existence of Kozlov, new bourgeois-capitalist influences (professional literature) are combined with the old class-noble system (pension, “patronage” of the court and nobility). This determines the duality of his ideology, in which sympathy for the defeated, "half-dead" Decembrists coexists with sharp political conservatism, and the special nature of his stylistic manner. In Kozlov's poetry, new "romantic" trends coming from the young Pushkin, are combined not only with the influence of the "pacified" muse Zhukovsky, - a poet especially close to him, - but also with "sentimental" traditions Karamzin. Kozlov's favorite genres are the ballad and the romantic poem. Kozlov is one of the first energetic conductors of Byron's influence on Russian literature (translations from Byron, "Byronic" poems). However, borrowing from Byron the magnificent and mournful pathos of “suffering” and “passions”, Kozlov reads meek words of hope and reconciliation in his work. Together with the generation of Decembrists, he sings in his poems "liberty", "wonderful freedom" ( "The Captured Greek in the Dungeon" etc.), but in the context of his work, these concepts are devoid of any political sharpness. Byron dedicates his translation of Byron's The Bride of Abydos - the heroic apotheosis of the uprising against the legitimate authorities of the "robber" Selim - to the wife of Nicholas I, Empress Alexandra Feodorovna, in the dedicatory preface, welcoming the defeat of the Decembrists by the tsar, as "the salvation of the altars, Russia and the state." Personal tragic fate determined the monotonous theme of Kozlov's poetry with the prevailing motifs of the collapse of an unfulfilled love idyll, persistently repeating images of brides going crazy, grooms dying on their wedding day, etc. However, even here Kozlov finds reconciliation in the spirit Karamzin and Zhukovsky. Kozlov's "Byronic" poems had a significant influence on the young Lermontov.
Bibliography: I. Complete. coll. sochin., ed. corrected and considerably supplemented by Ars. Iv. Vvedensky, St. Petersburg, 1892 (the most complete edition); other ed.: Sobr. sochin., 2 hours, St. Petersburg, 1833; ed. V. A. Zhukovsky, 2 hch., St. Petersburg., 1840 (based on the ed. 1892); ed. Smirdina, 2 hours, St. Petersburg, 1855; 4 hours, St. Petersburg, 1890-1891; Grotto K. Ya., Diary of I. I. Kozlov, Sat. "Antiquity and novelty", St. Petersburg., 1906, XI.
II. Belinsky V., coll. Kozlov's poems (see Collected Works); Trush K., Essay on the literary activity of Kozlov, M., 1899; Selivanov I., My acquaintance with Kozlov, Russian Archive, 1903, XII; Grot K. Ya., On the biography, works and correspondence of I. I. Kozlov, Izvestiya Otd. Russian lang. and literature Acad. Sciences, vol. IX, St. Petersburg, 1904, II, and vol. XI, St. Petersburg, 1906, I; Aikhenvald Yu., I. I. Kozlov, in ed. "History of Russian literature of the 19th century", ed. t-va "Mir", vol. I, book. one; Rozanov I. N., Russian Lyrics, M., 1914 (reprinted in his book "Poets of the twenties of the XIX century", M., 1925); Neiman B. V., Reflection of Kozlov's poetry in creativity Lermontov, Izvestiya Otd. Russian lang. and literature Acad. Sciences, vol. XIX, St. Petersburg, 1914, I; Danilov N. M., I. I. Kozlov, ibid., vol. XIX, St. Petersburg., 1914, II. His own, Materials for the complete collection. sochin. I. I. Kozlova, ibid., vol. XX, St. Petersburg, 1915, II, and vol. XXII, St. Petersburg, 1917, II; Spiridonov V., I. I. Kozlov, I. Kozlov and criticism of the 50s, 1922 (with the addition of the first published article Ap. Grigorieva about Kozlov about the publication of the latter's poems in the ed. 1855); Sat. "Sertum bibliologicum", II., P., 1922.
III. Mezier A. V., Russian literature from the XI to the XIX century. inclusive, part II, St. Petersburg, 1902; Vladislavlev I.V., Russian writers, ed. 4th, Guise, L., 1924.
D. Blagoy
Literary Encyclopedia: In 11 volumes - [M.], 1929-1939
