Mikhail Lermontov
The Ghost Ship

As Darkness descends on the ocean,
As Night spreads her silvery veil,
A brigantine cuts through the waters
And glides downwind at full sail.

Her tall topsail masts are not bending,
Her vanes are not moved by the air,
Her cannons face open deck hatches
With silent indifferent stare.

You won’t hear the captain’s curt orders
You won’t see the sailors on deck,
Yet treacherous reefs or fierce tempests
Will not bring this vessel to wreck.

It steers to a wild distant island
Engulfed by funereal gloom.
A tomb has been carved in its granite
An emperor lies in that tomb.

He rests there, buried by rivals
Without the honors of war,
His heavy headstone would not let him
Escape from that desolate shore.

The day of the emperor’s passing
Each year, on his doleful death day
The mystic ship quietly anchors
And lies in a small tranquil bay.

At midnight, the powerful emperor
Does suddenly rise from the dead —
He’s dressed in his combat attire
A gray bicorn hat on his head.

His noble head slightly bent forward,
Without a farewell glance,
He steps on board, ready to steer
His ship on her journey to France.

For France he is ardently yearning
The land of his glorious reign;
The land where his son and successor
And old loyal guard have remained.

As soon as familiar shorelines
Emerge from the fog into sight,
The emperor’s heart starts to flutter
His eager eyes shine with delight.

The emperor boldly strides forward
Now setting his foot on the shore,
He loudly calls for his marshals,
He forcibly summons his corps.

But his grenadiers cannot hear —
They now rest forever amid
The infinite snows of cold Russia
The hot sands of great pyramids.

And his gallant marshals are silent;
Some fell on the Elbe’s grassy sward,
And others acceded to treason
And sold out their honor and sword.

The emperor angrily paces
The shore back and forth, all in vain;
And stomping his foot on the ground,
He fervently calls once again:

He calls for his son’s love and favor
To amend his sad circumstance;
He pledges the world to his heir
Except for his own, his sweet France.

But when he was still in full vigor,
Death claimed his beloved dauphin;
All night, the sad father awaits him
Not willing to leave or give in.

Alone, by the sea he is standing
Till dawn puts her blush on the sky.
His eyes well with hot bitter tears,
He breathes out a long heavy sigh.

To his magic ship, the doomed emperor
Walks slowly, his eyes downcast.
Dismissing all hope with a hand wave,
He heaves up the anchor at last.

Translated by Olga Dumer