Thomas Gray(1716-1771), English poet and philologist. Born December 26, 1716 in London, the son of a notary and stock broker. Gray is recognized as one of the most educated English poets (along with Milton), his style is distinguished by the thoroughness of the decoration. One of the best epistolary masters in England. He died in his university apartment on July 30, 1771 ...
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD (1751)

Thomas gray
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o "er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow "r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand "ring near her secret bow" r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree "s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mold "ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt "ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock "s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire "s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow "d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow "r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e "er gave,
Awaits alike th "inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Memory o "er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honor "s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt "ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway "d,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne "er unroll;
Chill Penury repress "d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom "d caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country "s blood.

Th "applause of list" ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o "er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation "s eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse "s flame.

Far from the madding crowd "s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn "d to stray;
Along the cool sequester "d vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev "n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck "d,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th "unletter" d muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e "er resign" d,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling "ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev "n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev "n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th "unhonour" d dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt "ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross "d in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss" d him on the custom "d hill,
Along the heath and near his fav "rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn: "

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frown "d not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark "d him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav "n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis "ry all he had, a tear,
He gain "d from Heav" n ("twas all he wish" d) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.


Vasily Andreevich Zhukovsky
(free translation)

Rural cemetery. Elegy

VILLAGE CEMETERY
Elegy

The day is already turning pale, hiding behind the mountain;
Rumbling herds crowd over the river;
Tired peasant with a slow foot
He walks, lost in thought, into his calm hut.

In the misty twilight, the surroundings disappear ...
Silence is everywhere; dead sleep is everywhere;
Only occasionally, buzzing, the evening beetle flickers,
Only a dull ringing is heard in the distance of the horns.

Only a wild owl hiding under an ancient vault
That tower, laments, heeded by the moon,
On the outraged midnight arrival
Peace of her silent dominion.

Under the shelter of black pines and bent elms,
Who are around, hanging, stand,
Here the forefathers sat, in solitary coffins
Shutting up forever, sleep soundly asleep.

Dennitsa's quiet voice, the young breath of the day,
Neither the crows of a rooster, nor the sonorous rumble of horns,
No early swallows chirping on the roof -
Nothing will call the dead from the coffins.

On the smoky hearth, a crackling fire, sparkling,
They will not be amused on winter evenings,
And the children are frisky, to meet them running out,
They will not catch them with greedy kissing.

How often did their sickles reap the golden cornfield
And their plow conquered stubborn fields!
How often did their ax oak groves flutter
And so the earth was sprinkled on their faces!

Let the slaves take their lot humiliate,
Laughing in blindness to their useful labors,
Let them listen with the coldness of contempt
Lurking in the darkness of the wretched deeds;

Death rages on everyone - the king, the favorite of glory,
The formidable one is looking for everyone ... and will find no time;
The statutes of the omnipotent fate are unshakable:
And the path of greatness leads us to the grave!

And you, confidants of fortune, are blinded,
Hurry to despise those who sleep in vain
Because their graves are inexpressible and forgotten,
That flattery to them does not think of erecting altars.

In vain over the dead, decayed bones
Trophies stand, tombstones shine,
In vain the voice of honor thunders before the graves -
They will not inflame our extinct ashes.

May death be softened by woven praise
And will it return the irrevocable prey?
Sleep under a marble board is no sweeter than the dead;
The haughty mausoleum only burdens them with dust.

Oh! maybe under this grave lurks
The dust of a gentle heart that knew how to love
And the grave-worm nests in the dry head,
Born to be in a crown, or to soar with thoughts!

But the temple of enlightenment, erected over the centuries,
I was shut up by a gloomy fate for them,
Their fate has burdened squalor with chains,
Their genius is put to death by severe need.

How often is a rare pearl, hidden in waves,
In the bottomless abyss it shines with beauty;

How often does the lily bloom in solitude,
In the desert air, losing its scent.

Perhaps this dust is covered with haughty Hamiden,
Defender of fellow citizens, tyranny is a brave enemy;
Or the blood of the citizens, Cromwell is not stained,
Or Milton is mute, hidden in the dust without glory.

To keep the fatherland by the sovereign hand,
Fight a storm of troubles, despise fortune,
The gifts of abundance on mortals pour like a river,
In tears of grateful deeds to read -

Fate did not give them that; but together with crimes
He, with valor, laid their close circle;
Run the path of murder to glory, pleasure
And he forbade to be cruel to the sufferers;

To hide in your soul the voice of conscience and honor,
The blush of timid bashfulness to lose
And, subserviently, on the altars of flattery
To dedicate the gifts of the heavenly muses to pride.

Hiding from the worldly perilous turmoil,
Without fear and hope, in the valley of this life,
Not knowing sorrow, not knowing pleasures,
They walked carelessly along their path.

And here they quietly sleep under the shadow of the grave -
And a modest monument, in the shelter of dense pines,
With fancy lettering and carving idleness,
The passer-by calls to breathe over their ashes.

Love kept their memory on this stone,
Their summer, begging to inscribe their names;
She depicted biblical morality around,
By which we must learn to die.

And who parted with this life without grief?
Who betrayed their ashes by themselves to oblivion?
Who in his last hour was not captivated by this world
And did not look back languid?

Oh! gentle soul, leaving nature,
Hopes friends to leave their flame;
And the eyes are dim, fading forever,
They still strive for them with the last tear;

Their heart hears a sweet voice in our grave;
Our grave stone is animated for them;
For them, our dead ashes breathe in a cold urn,
I am also kindled with the fire of love for them.

And you, deceased friend, a solitary singer,
And yours will strike the hour, the last, fatal;
And to your grave, accompanied by a dream,
The sensitive one will come to hear your lot.

Perhaps a peasant with a venerable gray hair
This is how the stranger will talk about you:
“He often met me here in the morning,
When I was in a hurry to warn the dawn on the hill.

There at noon he sat under the dozing willow,
Raised her shaggy root from the ground;
There often, in the grief of the carefree, silent,
He lay, lost in thought, over the bright river;

Often in the evening, wandering between the bushes, -
When we walked from the field and into the grove the nightingale
Whistled the Vespers song, - with languid eyes
Sadly followed the quiet dawn.

Regrettable, gloomy, with the head bowed,
He often went into the oak grove to shed tears,
Like a wanderer, homeland, friends, deprived of everything,
Which cannot please the soul with anything.

Dawn came up - but he did not appear at dawn,
I did not come to the willow, or to the hill, or to the forest;
Again the dawn rose - nowhere did he meet;
My eyes were looking for him - looking for - did not find.

In the morning we hear the grave singing ...
They carry the unfortunate man into the grave.

Come closer, read a simple tombstone,
To bless the good memory with a tear. "

Here the young men untimely hid the ashes,
That glory, happiness, he did not know in this world.
But the muses did not turn their faces away from him,
And melancholy, the seal was on him.

He was meek in heart, sensitive in soul -
The creator gave the award to the sensitive.
He gave the unfortunate - with whatever he could - with a tear;
As a reward from the creator, he received a friend.

Passer-by, pray over this grave;
He found shelter in her from all earthly troubles;
Here he left everything that was sinful in him,
With the hope that his savior, God, is alive.

Notes (edit)

"Elegy, written in a rural cemetery", translated by V. Zhukovsky twice. The second translation was made by him after he visited England and the cemetery where Gray wrote "Elegy."

"Rural cemetery". This translation was made in May - September 1802. First published in the journal "Vestnik Evropy", 1802, N 24, with a dedication to AI T — u (Andrei Ivanovich Turgenev). Free translation of the famous elegy by T. Gray "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard" ("Elegy, written in a rural cemetery"). This elegy was known to the Russian reader long before Zhukovsky's translation. Already in 1789, "The Conversing Citizen" published a prose translation of this work rather close to the original, and even earlier, in Novikov's magazine "The Resting Worker" for 1786, a poetic translation of the final part of the elegy was published under the title "Mr. Gray's Epitaph to himself." There were other translations as well.

Only a dull ringing is heard in the distance from the horns. - In the "Bulletin of Europe" the author made a note to this line: "In England, bells are tied to the horns of rams and cows."

Gumpden the arrogant - John Gempden (1596 - 1643), an active participant in the English revolution of the 17th century in its early stages.

Vasily Andreevich Zhukovsky
"Rural cemetery"

The day is already turning pale, hiding behind the mountain;
Rumbling herds crowd over the river;
Tired peasant with a slow foot
He walks, lost in thought, into his calm hut.

In the misty twilight, the surroundings disappear ...
Silence is everywhere; dead sleep is everywhere;
Only occasionally, buzzing, the evening beetle flickers,
Only a dull ringing is heard in the distance of the horns.

Only a wild owl hiding under an ancient vault
That tower, laments, heeded by the moon,
On the outraged midnight arrival
Peace of her silent dominion.

Under the shelter of black pines and bent elms,
Who are around, hanging, stand,
Here the forefathers sat, in solitary coffins
Shutting up forever, sleep soundly asleep.

Dennitsa's quiet voice, the young breath of the day,
Neither the crows of a rooster, nor the sonorous rumble of horns,
No early swallows chirping on the roof -
Nothing will call the dead from the coffins.

On the smoky hearth, a crackling fire, sparkling,
They will not be amused on winter evenings,
And the children are frisky, to meet them running out,
They will not catch them with greedy kissing.

How often did their sickles reap the golden cornfield
And their plow conquered stubborn fields!
How often did their ax oak groves flutter
And then their faces were sprinkled with earth!

Let the slaves take their lot humiliate,
Laughing in blindness to their useful labors,
Let them listen with the coldness of contempt
Lurking in the darkness of the wretched deeds;

Death rages on everyone - the king, the favorite of glory,
The formidable one is looking for everyone ... and will find no time;
The statutes of the omnipotent fate are unshakable:
And the path of greatness leads us to the grave!

And you, confidants of fortune, are blinded,
Hurry to despise those who sleep in vain
For the fact that their coffins are inexpensive and forgotten,
That flattery to them does not think of erecting altars.

In vain over the dead, decayed bones
Trophies stand, tombstones shine,
In vain the voice of honor thunders before the graves -
They will not inflame our extinct ashes.

May death be softened by woven praise
And will it return the irrevocable prey?
Sleep under a marble board is no sweeter than the dead;
The haughty mausoleum only burdens them with dust.

Oh! maybe under this grave lurks
The dust of a gentle heart that knew how to love
And the grave-worm nests in the dry head,
Born to be in a crown, or to soar with thoughts!

But the temple of enlightenment, erected over the centuries,
I was shut up by a gloomy fate for them,
Their fate has burdened squalor with chains,
Their genius is put to death by severe need.

How often is a rare pearl, hidden in waves,
In the bottomless abyss it shines with beauty;
How often does the lily bloom in solitude,
In the desert air, losing its scent.

Perhaps the arrogant Gampden is covered with dust,
Defender of fellow citizens, tyranny is a brave enemy;
Or the blood of the citizens, Cromwell is not stained,
Or Milton is mute, hidden in the dust without glory.

To keep the fatherland by the sovereign hand,
Fight a storm of troubles, despise fortune,
The gifts of abundance on mortals pour like a river,
In tears of grateful deeds to read -

Fate did not give them that; but together with crimes
He, with valor, laid their close circle;
Run the path of murder to glory, pleasure
And he forbade to be cruel to the sufferers;

To hide in your soul the voice of conscience and honor,
The blush of timid bashfulness to lose
And, subserviently, on the altars of flattery
To dedicate the gifts of the heavenly muses to pride.

Hiding from the worldly perilous turmoil,
Without fear and hope, in the valley of this life,
Not knowing sorrow, not knowing pleasures,
They walked carelessly along their path.

And here they quietly sleep under the shadow of the grave -
And a modest monument, in the shelter of dense pines,
With fancy lettering and carving idleness,
The passer-by calls to breathe over their ashes.

Love kept their memory on this stone,
Their years, their names are inscribed;
She depicted biblical morality around,
By which we must learn to die.

And who parted with this life without grief?
Who betrayed their ashes by themselves to oblivion?
Who in his last hour was not captivated by this world
And did not look back languid?

Oh! gentle soul, leaving nature,
Hopes friends to leave their flame;
And the eyes are dim, fading forever,
They still strive for them with the last tear;

Their heart hears a sweet voice in our grave;
Our grave stone is animated for them;
For them, our dead ashes breathe in a cold urn,
I am also kindled with the fire of love for them.

And you, deceased friend, a solitary singer,
And yours will strike the hour, the last, fatal;
And to your grave, accompanied by a dream,
The sensitive one will come to hear your lot.

Perhaps a peasant with a venerable gray hair
This is how the stranger will talk about you:
“He often met me here in the morning,
When I was in a hurry to warn the dawn on the hill.

There at noon he sat under the dozing willow,
Raised her shaggy root from the ground;
There often, in the grief of the carefree, silent,
He lay, lost in thought, over the bright river;

Often in the evening, wandering between the bushes, -
When we walked from the field and into the grove the nightingale
Whistled the Vespers song, - with languid eyes
Sadly followed the quiet dawn.

Regrettable, gloomy, with the head bowed,
He often went into the oak grove to shed tears,
Like a wanderer, homeland, friends, deprived of everything,
Which cannot please the soul with anything.

Dawn came up - but he did not appear at dawn,
I did not come to the willow, or to the hill, or to the forest;
Again the dawn rose - nowhere did he meet;
My gaze was looking for it - looking for it - not finding it.

In the morning we hear the grave singing ...
They carry the unfortunate man into the grave.
Come closer, read a simple tombstone,
To bless the good memory with a tear ”.

Here the young men untimely hid the ashes,
That glory, happiness, he did not know in this world.
But the muses did not turn their faces away from him,
And the stamp of melancholy was on him.

He was meek in heart, sensitive in soul -
The creator gave the award to the sensitive.
He gave the unfortunate - with whatever he could - with a tear;
As a reward from the creator, he received a friend.

Passer-by, pray over this grave;
He found shelter in her from all earthly troubles;
Here he left everything that was sinful in him,
With the hope that his savior, God, is alive.

In this article we will analyze the elegy that Zhukovsky wrote in 1802, "Rural cemetery". This work belongs to romanticism and has its characteristic features and traits.

For early Zhukovsky, the favorite time of day is the transition from dusk to evening, from day to night, from darkness to dawn. In these hours and minutes, a person feels that he himself is changing, that everything is not over yet, that life is full of mystery and unpredictable, and death, perhaps, is only the transition of the soul into an unknown, different state.

Cemetery image

So, before you is the work that Vasily Andreevich Zhukovsky created - "Rural cemetery". Let's start the analysis of the poem with the main subject image indicated in the title. A favorite place in which a romantic indulges in difficult thoughts about the corruption of life is a cemetery. Everything here reminds of separation, of the past that reigns over people. But he does it without breaking his heart, gently, as noted by Zhukovsky ("Rural cemetery"). An analysis of the poem allows us to notice that the monuments twined with greenery on the graves, fanned by a light cool breeze, speak not only of all kinds of losses, but also that human suffering will certainly pass, as will joy. In the end, there will be only sad peace poured into nature.

Elegy heroes

The favorite hero of the romantic poet is himself, that is, Vasily Andreevich Zhukovsky. "Rural cemetery" depicts the thoughts and feelings of the author, his philosophical reflections... Who if not endowed with a special hearing "singer" is able to understand the joy and pain of life, to hear the voices of nature, to rise above worldly vanity in order to embrace the whole world in a single impulse of his soul, to unite with the Universe? The author, like Thomas Gray, devotes his "graveyard" meditation to the memory of the "poor singer". At the same time, Zhukovsky deliberately makes his descriptions less visible, strengthening their emotional mood (elegy "Rural cemetery").

Epithets in the work

In this work, almost every noun has an adjective as an epithet. It was not by chance that he introduced such a technique into his "Rural Cemetery". It shifts the emphasis from objects to characteristics. inner peace... So, the foot is slow, the villager is tired, the hut is calm. The reader's attention is thus transferred to an unobjective feature. All this is also present in Gray. But it is not enough for the Russian poet: he adds two more words to his work, which indicate the state: "pale" and "lost in thought." The word "fades", it would seem, refers to the visual range. But if you imagine this, it turns out that in a substantive, literal sense, this means that the day becomes brighter. And the work describes the completely opposite: the onset of evening twilight. Consequently, the word "fades" in the elegy means something completely different: disappears, fades, fades. Perhaps, like our very life.

Sound writing

This effect is enhanced in the second stanza. Here visual images (albeit transferred to a different, emotional plane) are relegated to second place, yielding to sound ones. The more impenetrable the darkness in the world described by the poet, the more the lyrical hero is guided by sound. In the second stanza, the main artistic load falls precisely on sound writing, and not on epithets. It is no accident that Zhukovsky uses this technique in his work. The verse "Rural cemetery" becomes more expressive thanks to him.

Doubling, lingering sonorous "n", "m", as well as hissing "u", "w" and sibilant "z", "s" create an image dead sleep nature. The third line by the abundance of these sounds seems to us to be simply onomatopoeic. However, it also "works" to create a certain mood, which is by no means peaceful and calm, which is characteristic of the first stanza, but alarming.

From line to line, the work written by Zhukovsky ("Rural Cemetery") is becoming gloomier and gloomier. As a signal bell, at the end of the second stanza a word sounds that plays the role of a kind of stylistic password in the elegy genre: "dull". This adjective means "completely immersed in sadness, merged with this feeling, not knowing any other mood, completely losing hope." Almost synonymous with a mournful sound - dull, that is, dreary, monotonous, hurting right in the heart.

The conventional landscape, beloved by pre-romantics, in the third stanza deepens this mood. A wild owl, an ancient vault, a moon pouring out its light on nature, deathly pale ... If the peasant's hut in the first stanza was called "calm" and nothing disturbed this equanimity, then in the third, the "peace" of the quiet dominion of the tower was violated.

Motive for death

We continue to describe this work, to analyze it. Zhukovsky created "Rural Cemetery" as a reflection on the meaning of life, the perishability of being. Here we are, at last, and approaching the center of the elegy, tragically tense. The motive of death begins to sound more and more insistently in her. The author of the work, trying to strengthen the already gloomy, heavy mood, intensifies the drama with additional means. The sleep of the deceased is called "unbreakable". Consequently, even the hope of the forthcoming resurrection of the dead, their "awakening" is not allowed. The fifth stanza is completely built on a whole series of such negations as "neither ... nor ... nothing", and ends with a rigid formula, which says that nothing will force those who rest there to come out of the graves.

The inevitability of demise for all

Developing the topic, Vasily Andreevich extends his bitter conclusion to all people that death will sooner or later touch everyone: and ordinary people, and kings, because even the "path of greatness" leads to the tomb.

Death is cruel and merciless, as its analysis shows. "Rural cemetery" (Zhukovsky) describes her deeds. Death indifferently takes away tender hearts that knew how to love, intended to "be in the crown", but bound at the same time "poverty in chains" (peasant ignorance and poverty), and the ashes of the one who was born in order to "win fortune", to fight the "storm of troubles".

Here the poet's voice, which until recently sounded bitter, accusatory, almost angry, suddenly softens. As if having reached a certain limit, having approached despair, the author's thought smoothly returns to the point of rest, and it is with her that the work that Zhukovsky created ("The Rural Cemetery") begins. This poem, thus, takes us to a certain initial state, just as life returns everything to normal. It is not for nothing that the word that flashed echo in the first stanza ("calm hut"), subsequently, in the second, rejected, again takes its rightful place in the poetic language of Vasily Andreyevich.

What is the opposite of death?

A very controversial work created by Zhukovsky ("Rural cemetery"). This poem is characterized by the fact that in it the author objects to himself. Only recently did he call the sleep of the dead restless. That is, the poet spoke of the omnipotence of death. And suddenly he slowly and difficultly begins to come to terms with the fact that it is inevitable. At the same time, the author constructs the statement in such a way that it becomes twofold - it is at the same time an argument about his friend-poet, who has irrevocably died, and about himself, his inevitable death.

The feeling of hopelessness now sounds, though sad, but not at all hopeless. Death is omnipotent, Zhukovsky admits, but not omnipotent, since there is a life-giving friendship on earth, thanks to which the eternal fire of a "gentle soul" is kept, for which dust even breathes in an urn, it is akin to faith.

If you are analyzing poetry, then VA Zhukovsky considered the translation of "Elegy, written in a rural cemetery" by the English poet Thomas Gray to be the beginning of his poetry. It was from this translation that a new and original phenomenon of Russian poetry was born - the poem "Rural Cemetery" (1802). The creation of this work was influenced by many reasons: the study of Western European poetry, and the experience of a translator, and the literary tastes of the time, and the artistic predilections of the author, and disputes about the appointment of a person, which were conducted in the circle of the poet's friends.

Following Thomas Gray in the development of poetic thought, Zhukovsky introduces ideas and moods into his translation that express his own perception of the world. The picture of a modest rural cemetery, the description of which is based on the impression of the surroundings of the poet Mishensky's native village, sets the author in an elegiac mood:

Under the shelter of black pines and bent elms,
Who are around, hanging, stand,
Here the forefathers sat, in solitary coffins,
Shutting up forever, sleep soundly asleep.

The poet's focus is on reflections on the meaning of human life, on his relationship with the world around him. Before us is a skillfully organized stream of feelings and thoughts of a particular person. The elegy is a change of questions, as if spontaneously arising in the mind of the lyric hero. The whole poem is a set of philosophical and moral-psychological motives, replacing each other, imbued with a sad mood and fastened by the common idea of ​​the transience of life and the vicissitudes of happiness. The reflective hero states:

Death rages on everyone - the king, the favorite of glory,
The formidable one is looking for everyone ... and will find no time ...

Developing the idea of ​​the equality of all before death, Zhukovsky draws attention to the social contradictions that exist in society. He gives his sympathies not to the “slaves of vanity”, not to the “confidants of fortune”, but to ordinary villagers, who were then “sprinkled” on the land. Convinced that all people are equal by nature, he grieves for these simple villagers, born "to be in a crown or to soar in thoughts," but died out in ignorance by blind chance:

Their fate has burdened squalor with chains,
Their genius is put to death by severe need.

In affirming the ideal of natural equality of people, the author is close to the French writer J.-J. Rousseau, with whose work he met while still at the boarding house and, like many young people of that time, became very interested in his philosophy.

The originality of the poem "Rural cemetery" lies in the poet's concentration on the inner experiences of the personality, revealed in the organic fusion of nature and human feelings. The transmission of this state is greatly facilitated by the animation of nature: “the day is already turning pale,” “the moon is listening,” “the quiet voice of the day,” “under the dormant willow,” “the oak groves trembled,” “the day of youthful breath”.

The original translation of "Rural Cemetery" brings out the poetic individuality of the author, who was close to sentimentalism during the creation of the poem. Here he achieves an amazing melody and melodiousness of the verse, gives it a soulful intonation.

Recreating everyday life, the poet introduces everyday colloquial vocabulary: "hut", "beetle", "shepherd", "sickles", "hearth", "plow", "herd". But there are few such words in the elegy. The vocabulary here is predominantly sentimentalist philosophical-contemplative. The poem is dominated by words related to emotional experiences ("contempt", "sorrow", "sigh", "tears", "sad") and broad thoughts about life ("silent dominion peace", "death rages on everyone", " omnipotent destinies "). Sentimental epithets and comparisons, such as "dull ringing", "tender hearts", "sweet voice", "languid eyes", "meek in heart", "sensitive soul".

The bright emotional and melodic expressiveness of the poem is achieved by the descriptive-lyrical structure of the phrase (“In the misty twilight, the neighborhood disappears ...”), the often used anaphora (“Only occasionally buzz ... Only heard in the distance”), repetitions (“Silence is everywhere, dead everywhere sleep ... "), appeals (" And you, confidants of fortune "), questions (" Can death soften? ") and exclamations (" Ah, perhaps, under this grave! ").

So, without being a translation in the full sense of the word, "Rural Cemetery" becomes a work of Russian national literature. In the image of a young poet reflecting on a rural cemetery, Zhukovsky enhances the features of dreaminess, melancholy, and poetic spirituality, bringing this image much closer to his inner world and making it as close as possible to the Russian reader, brought up on the sentimental poems of Dmitriev, Kapnist, Karamzin.

The appearance of "Rural cemetery" on the pages of the journal "Vestnik Evropy" published by Karamzin brought fame to Zhukovsky. It became obvious that a talented poet had appeared in Russian poetry. The period of apprenticeship for Zhukovsky was over. A new stage in his literary career began.

In this article we will analyze the elegy that Zhukovsky wrote in 1802, "Rural cemetery". This work belongs to romanticism and has its characteristic features and traits.

For early Zhukovsky, the favorite time of day is the transition from dusk to evening, from day to night, from darkness to dawn. In these hours and minutes, a person feels that he himself is changing, that everything is not over yet, that life is full of mystery and unpredictable, and death, perhaps, is only the transition of the soul into an unknown, different state.

Cemetery image

So, before you is the work that Vasily Andreevich Zhukovsky created - "Rural cemetery". Let's start the analysis of the poem with the main subject image indicated in the title. A favorite place in which a romantic indulges in difficult thoughts about the corruption of life is a cemetery. Everything here reminds of separation, of the past that reigns over people. But he does it without breaking his heart, gently, as noted by Zhukovsky ("Rural cemetery"). An analysis of the poem allows us to notice that the monuments twined with greenery on the graves, fanned by a light cool breeze, speak not only of all kinds of losses, but also that human suffering will certainly pass, as will joy. In the end, there will be only sad peace poured into nature.

Elegy heroes

The favorite hero of the romantic poet is himself, that is, Vasily Andreevich Zhukovsky. "Rural cemetery" depicts the thoughts and feelings of the author, his philosophical reflections. Who if not endowed with a special hearing "singer" is able to understand the joy and pain of life, to hear the voices of nature, to rise above worldly vanity in order to embrace the whole world in a single impulse of his soul, to unite with the Universe? The author, like the English pre-romantic poet Thomas Gray, devotes his "graveyard" meditation to the memory of the "poor singer". At the same time, Zhukovsky deliberately makes his descriptions less visible, strengthening their emotional mood (elegy "Rural cemetery").

Epithets in the work

In this work, almost every noun has an adjective as an epithet. It was not by chance that Zhukovsky introduced this technique into his work. "Rural cemetery" shifts the emphasis from objects to the characteristics of the inner world. So, the foot is slow, the villager is tired, the hut is calm. The reader's attention is thus transferred to an unobjective feature. All this is also present in Gray. But it is not enough for the Russian poet: he adds two more words to his work, which indicate the state: "pale" and "lost in thought." The word "fades", it would seem, refers to the visual range. But if you imagine this, it turns out that in a substantive, literal sense, this means that the day becomes brighter. And the work describes the completely opposite: the onset of evening twilight. Consequently, the word "fades" in the elegy means something completely different: disappears, fades, fades. Perhaps, like our very life.

Sound writing

This effect is enhanced in the second stanza. Here visual images (albeit transferred to a different, emotional plane) are relegated to second place, yielding to sound ones. The more impenetrable the darkness in the world described by the poet, the more the lyrical hero is guided by sound. In the second stanza, the main artistic load falls precisely on sound writing, and not on epithets. It is no accident that Zhukovsky uses this technique in his work. The verse "Rural cemetery" becomes more expressive thanks to him.

Doubling, lingering sonorous "n", "m", as well as hissing "u", "w" and sibilant "z", "s" create the image of the dead sleep of nature. The third line by the abundance of these sounds seems to us to be simply onomatopoeic. However, it also "works" to create a certain mood, which is by no means peaceful and calm, which is characteristic of the first stanza, but alarming.

From line to line, the work written by Zhukovsky ("Rural Cemetery") is becoming gloomier and gloomier. As a signal bell, at the end of the second stanza a word sounds that plays the role of a kind of stylistic password in the elegy genre: "dull". This adjective means "completely immersed in sadness, merged with this feeling, not knowing any other mood, completely losing hope." Almost synonymous with a mournful sound - dull, that is, dreary, monotonous, hurting right in the heart.

The conventional landscape, beloved by pre-romantics, in the third stanza deepens this mood. A wild owl, an ancient vault, a moon pouring out its light on nature, deathly pale ... If the peasant's hut in the first stanza was called "calm" and nothing disturbed this equanimity, then in the third, the "peace" of the quiet dominion of the tower was violated.

Motive for death

We continue to describe this work, to analyze it. Zhukovsky created "Rural Cemetery" as a reflection on the meaning of life, the perishability of being. Here we are, at last, and approaching the center of the elegy, tragically tense. The motive of death begins to sound more and more insistently in her. The author of the work, trying to strengthen the already gloomy, heavy mood, intensifies the drama with additional means. The sleep of the deceased is called "unbreakable". Consequently, even the hope of the forthcoming resurrection of the dead, their "awakening" is not allowed. The fifth stanza is completely built on a whole series of such negations as "neither ... nor ... nothing", and ends with a rigid formula, which says that nothing will force those who rest there to come out of the graves.

The inevitability of demise for all

Developing the theme, Vasily Andreevich extends his bitter conclusion to all people that death will sooner or later touch everyone: both ordinary people and kings, because even the "path of greatness" leads to the grave.

Death is cruel and merciless, as its analysis shows. "Rural cemetery" (Zhukovsky) describes her deeds. Death indifferently takes away tender hearts that knew how to love, intended to "be in the crown", but bound at the same time "poverty in chains" (peasant ignorance and poverty), and the ashes of the one who was born in order to "win fortune", to fight the "storm of troubles".

Here the poet's voice, which until recently sounded bitter, accusatory, almost angry, suddenly softens. As if having reached a certain limit, having approached despair, the author's thought smoothly returns to the point of rest, and it is with her that the work that Zhukovsky created ("The Rural Cemetery") begins. This poem, thus, takes us to a certain initial state, just as life returns everything to normal. It is not for nothing that the word that flashed echo in the first stanza ("calm hut"), subsequently, in the second, rejected, again takes its rightful place in the poetic language of Vasily Andreyevich.

What is the opposite of death?

A very controversial work created by Zhukovsky ("Rural cemetery"). This poem is characterized by the fact that in it the author objects to himself. Only recently did he call the sleep of the dead restless. That is, the poet spoke of the omnipotence of death. And suddenly he slowly and difficultly begins to come to terms with the fact that it is inevitable. At the same time, the author constructs the statement in such a way that it becomes twofold - it is at the same time an argument about his friend-poet, who has irrevocably died, and about himself, his inevitable death.

The feeling of hopelessness now sounds, though sad, but not at all hopeless. Death is omnipotent, Zhukovsky admits, but not omnipotent, since there is a life-giving friendship on earth, thanks to which the eternal fire of a "gentle soul" is kept, for which dust even breathes in an urn, it is akin to faith.