Kozlov Ivan Ivanovich (1779-1840) - poet and translator, was born in Moscow, into a noble noble family, in which the eldest son was always called Ivan. Home teachers gave Kozlov an excellent education; he knew French and Italian perfectly. From the age of 16, Kozlov served in the Life Guards of the Izmailovsky Regiment. He was good-looking, distinguished by elegant manners, led a social life and “was considered the best gentleman at balls,” fell in love, was disappointed. At the same time, he was seriously interested in literature, read a lot, treated Karamzin with respect, and was friends with Zhukovsky. He made a successful career in the civil service and did not think of becoming a poet. In 1809 he married the beautiful Sofya Andreevna Davydova. Happy family life distracted him from creativity for a while.
I.I. Kozlov did not remain indifferent to Patriotic War 1812. He served in the Office of the Moscow Commander-in-Chief, took part in equipping the people's militia, and was an active participant and organizer of the defense of Moscow. During a fire in Moscow, Kozlov’s house and property burned down. He and his family moved to St. Petersburg and began serving in the Department of State Property. In St. Petersburg, Kozlov found himself at the center of literary and social life. He met young A.S. Pushkin, whom he loved very much and subsequently learned a lot from him, with the future Decembrists K. Ryleev, Nikita Muravyov and V. Kuchelbecker. Nikolai Turgenev (ideologist of the secret Decembrist society) became his close friend.
In 1816 I.I. Kozlov fell ill, began to lose his sight, by 1821 he was completely blind, paralyzed, and could not move, but he did not lose his sense of self-control. He began translating and writing poetry. Kozlova was also driven to literary work by necessity, since her inherited fortune had been spent. He bore his misfortune bravely. During the years of illness he learned English and German languages, became an expert in world poetry, began translating and writing poetry. In 1819 he translated into French Byron’s poem “The Bride of Abydos”, wrote the first poem-message “To Svetlana”, dedicated to V.A.’s niece. Zhukovsky. The poem was noticed in literary circles. In 1822 he wrote a poem-message “To friend V.A. J. upon his return from the trip.” In 1824, Kozlov’s poem “Chernets” was published, which enjoyed extraordinary popularity. The poem was highly appreciated by contemporaries - E.A. Baratynsky, P.A. Vyazemsky, and A.S. Pushkin responded to the poem with the poem “To Kozlov” (1825).
Kozlov is a romantic poet, student and follower of V.A. Zhukovsky. He owns his own and translated poems, in which one can hear grief over lost happiness, comprehension of one’s fate, and “hope for a better life beyond the grave.” His poems are soulful and musical. F. Alyabyev, A. Gurilev, M. Glinka, A. Dargomyzhsky and others wrote music to Kozlov’s poems. Kozlov tried himself in different genres (elegy, folk songs, ballads, patriotic poems, etc.). Kozlov's works conveyed to the reader the secret of the heart. “Kozlov is a poet of feeling, just like Baratynsky is a poet of thought,” noted V.G. Belinsky. I. Kozlov’s poem “Stanzas” (“Yesterday in the forest, sadly carried away, / sat alone and was broken-hearted”) is considered a masterpiece of Russian philosophical poetry.
Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov died in 1840 in St. Petersburg. He was buried in the cemetery in the Alexander Nevsky Lavra.
1823-1827
Kozlov Ivan Ivanovich (1779/1840) - Russian poet and translator. Kozlov’s work includes lyrical poems and romantic poems: (the best known are the poems “Chernets”, 1825, and “Princess Natalya Borisovna Dolgorukaya”, 1824/1827). T. Moore's translated poem "Evening Bells" (1828) became a folk song. In addition, “Romance” (1823), “Venetian Night” (1825), and “Portuguese Song” (1828) were set to music.
Guryeva T.N. New literary dictionary / T.N. Guryev. – Rostov n/d, Phoenix, 2009, p. 130-131.
Russian poet
Kozlov Ivan Ivanovich (04/11/1779-01/30/1840), Russian poet, translator. Born in Moscow, into a noble family. Having received a home education, he served for three years in the Izmailovsky Life Guards Regiment, and then retired and entered the civil service. All this time he led an absent-minded social life, without thinking about literature. Life changed dramatically when in 1819 Kozlov began to lose his sight, and by 1821 he was completely blind.
“Misfortune made him a poet,” wrote Kozlov’s literary mentor V. A. Zhukovsky. Not only the need for creativity, but also dire need forced me to take up poetry and translations; the inheritance was spent, literary earnings became the only means of subsistence. To Italian and French, which he knew since childhood, Kozlov adds German and English and begins to translate very successfully. T. Moore's poem “Evening Bells” (1827), in his translation, becomes a classic of Russian folk song.
Kozlov's original poetry also enjoyed considerable success. His romantic poem “Chernets” (1825) is enthusiastically received by the reader and highly appreciated A. S. Pushkin. Kozlov’s poems are published in almost all magazines and almanacs. Orthodox humility, sincerity and naive simplicity, musicality and culture of verse attract the reader in the romantic poet.
Poet and translator
Kozlov, Ivan Ivanovich - Russian poet, translator. He came from a noble noble family. He served in the guard, and from 1798 in the civil service. In 1821, after a long illness (paralysis and blindness), K. took up literary creativity. K.’s first poem “To Svetlana” was published in 1821. K.'s passion for literature led him to a close acquaintance with A.S. Pushkin, V.A. Zhukovsky, P.A. Vyazemsky and the Decembrist Turgenev brothers. In 1824 he was elected a member of the Free Society of Lovers of Russian Literature. Already in the early poems (a message to “friend V.A. Zhukovsky”), K.’s characteristic tendencies appeared: the desire for earthly happiness and “hope for a better life beyond the grave” (Belinsky). Resisting courageously tragic fate, the poet found solace in memories of the past, in friendship, love and inspired creativity (“Hymn of Orpheus”). Success was brought to K. by the 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 at the same time the sad fate of the singer himself...” (Poln. sobr. soch., vol. 3, 1953, p. 311 ). The poem was highly appreciated by A.S. Pushkin (the poem “To Kozlova”), it influenced “Mtsyri” by M.Yu. Lermontov and “Trizna” by T.G. Shevchenko. K. welcomed the national liberation struggle in Greece (“Prisoned Greek in Prison”) and in Ireland (“Young Singer”), glorified courage and daring (“Byron,” “Kiev,” “Yaroslavna’s Lament”). In the historical poem “Princess Natalya Borisovna Dolgorukaya” (1824, complete edition 1828), K. sympathizes with the victims of autocratic despotism, although he shifts his main attention from civil ideas to Dolgorukaya’s religious and heartfelt experiences. A difficult personal life and the onset of political reaction after 1825 strengthened the motives of grief in K.’s poetry: “To P.F. Balk-Polev”, “The Promised Land”, “Swimmer”, etc.; the last two poems speak warmly about the fighters who fell for their homeland. K.’s “cemetery” poems and ballads are marked with a gloomy romantic-mystical flavor: “The Secret,” “Brenda,” “The Departure of the Knight,” etc. The poet’s appeal to the people in some works of the 30s is significant: the poem “Mad,” the poems “ Deceived Heart", "Anxious Thought", "Song". K. also acted as a talented translator who promoted Western European poetry: J. Byron, (“The 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 "Evening Bells" became a popular Russian song. K.'s translations are mostly free adaptations. K. is a subtle elegiac and lyricist who amazed his contemporaries with “wonderful songs” (Pushkin), “musical-heartfelt sounds” (Gogol), and the lightness of verse. Some of his poems became famous songs and romances (“The Swimmer”, “The Drum Did Not Beat Before the Troubled Regiment”, “Anxious Thoughts”, “Venetian Night”). K.'s poems are characterized by the severity of dramatic situations; His lyrics are characterized by the authenticity of the lyrical hero’s experiences and the brightness of visual images.
Brief literary encyclopedia in 9 volumes. State scientific publishing house "Soviet Encyclopedia", vol. 3, M., 1966.
Kozlov and Pushkin
KOZLOV Ivan Ivanovich (1779-1840). In 1821, Kozlov’s first poem “To Svetlana,” dedicated to V. A. Zhukovsky’s niece A. A. Voeikova, was published on the pages of the magazine “Son of the Fatherland.” The beginning of the poet's literary activity coincided with the tragedy that befell him: he was paralyzed and blind.
In the post-lyceum years, Pushkin, apparently, met with Kozlov in the literary circles of St. Petersburg - with V. A. Zhukovsky, P. A. Vyazemsky, and the Turgenev brothers. Direct evidence of these meetings in 1817 - 1820 has not survived, but the very tone of their subsequent correspondence speaks of a personal acquaintance. “Forgive me if I allow myself to talk to you as if you were an old friend,” Kozlov wrote to Pushkin in May 1825. At the same time, in May 1825, Kozlov sent Pushkin his poem “Chernets” with the inscription: “To dear Alexander Sergeevich from the author.” Pushkin was delighted with this gift and wrote to his brother: “The blind poet’s signature touched me beyond words. His story is delightful."
Pushkin responded to Kozlov with heartfelt verses:
Singer, when in front of you
The earthly world hid in the darkness,
Instantly your genius woke up,
Looked at everything past
And in the choir of bright ghosts
He sang wonderful songs.
Oh dear brother, what sounds!
In tears of delight I listen to them:
With your heavenly singing
He put to sleep the torments of earth.
The blind poet thanked Pushkin for his “lovely poems” and wished happiness to his fellow writer. In turn, he dedicated the poems “Byron” and “To the Sea” to Pushkin.
The tragic fate of Kozlov attracted the sympathies of the most remarkable people of that time. His house was visited in the 1830s by Pushkin, P. A. Vyazemsky, I. A. Krylov, E. A. Baratynsky, M. I. Glinka, A. Mitskevich and later M. Yu. Lermontov. At the end of 1836, at an evening with Kozlov, Pushkin expressed his thoughts about the “future of Russian opera.”
Many of I. I. Kozlov’s poems were set to music and became songs and romances. One of these poems by a blind poet is “Evening Bells,” written in 1827.
L.A. Chereisky. Contemporaries of Pushkin. Documentary essays. M., 1999, p. 266-267.
Kozlov Ivan Ivanovich (04/11/1779-01/30/1840), poet, translator. Born in Moscow. He came from a noble noble family. He served in the guard, and from 1798 in the civil service. In 1821, after a long illness (paralysis and blindness), Kozlov took up literary creativity. Kozlov’s first poem “To Svetlana” was published in 1821. Kozlov’s passion for literature led him to close acquaintance with A. S. Pushkin, V. A. Zhukovsky, P. A. Vyazemsky. In 1824 he was elected a member of the Free Society of Lovers of Russian Literature. Already in the early poems (a message to “friend V.A. Zhukovsky”), Kozlov’s characteristic tendencies appeared: the desire for earthly happiness and “hope for a better life beyond the grave.” Courageously resisting his tragic fate, the poet found solace in memories of the past, in friendship, love and inspired creativity (“Hymn of Orpheus”). Success was brought to Kozlov by the 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 at the same time the sad fate of the singer himself...”. The poem was highly appreciated by A. S. Pushkin (the poem “To Kozlov”), it influenced “Mtsyri” by M. Yu. Lermontov and “Trizna” by T. G. Shevchenko. Kozlov welcomed the national liberation struggle in Greece (“Prisoned Greek in Prison”) and in Ireland (“Young Singer”), glorified courage and courage (“Byron”, “Kiev”, “Lament of Yaroslavna”). In the historical poem “Princess Natalya Borisovna Dolgorukaya” (1824, full edition 1828), Kozlov focuses on revealing Dolgorukaya’s spiritual and heartfelt experiences. A difficult personal life strengthened the motives of grief in Kozlov’s poetry: “To P. F. Balk-Polev”, “The Promised Land”, “Swimmer”, etc.; the last two poems speak warmly about the fighters who fell for their homeland. Kozlov’s “cemetery” poems and ballads are marked with a gloomy romantic-mystical flavor: “Mystery”, “Brenda”, “The Departure of the Knight”, etc. The poet’s appeal to the people in some works of the 30s is significant: the poem “Mad”, the poems “Deceived Heart” ", "Anxious Thought", "Song". Kozlov also acted as a talented translator who promoted Western European poetry: J. Byron (“The Bride of Abydos”), W. Scott, Dante, T. Tasso, L. Ariosto, A. Chenier, R. Burns, A. Mickiewicz and others. Translation T. Moore's poem "Evening Bells" became a popular Russian song.
Kozlov's translations are mostly free adaptations. Kozlov is a subtle elegiac and lyricist who amazed his contemporaries with “wonderful songs” (Pushkin), “musical-heartfelt sounds” (Gogol), and the lightness of verse. Some of his poems became famous songs and romances (“The Swimmer”, “The Drum Did Not Beat Before the Troubled Regiment”, “Anxious Thoughts”, “Venetian Night”). Kozlov's poems are characterized by the severity of dramatic situations; His lyrics are characterized by the authenticity of the lyrical hero’s experiences and the brightness of visual images.
Site materials used Great encyclopedia Russian people - http://www.rusinst.ru
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Victor Bochenkov. I still believe in love. (The author of “Evening Bells” wrote while blind and bedridden).
Essays:
Complete collection poems, Leningrad, 1960;
Diary. Introductory note by K.Ya. Grot, “Antiquity and Novelty”, 1906, No. 11.
Literature:
Gogol N.V., On Kozlov’s poetry, Complete collected works, vol. 8, M.-L., 1952;
Belinsky V.G., Collected poems by I. Kozlov, Complete collected works, vol. 5, M., 1954;
Gudziy N.K., I.I. Kozlov – translator of Mitskevich, “News of the Tauride Scientific Archival Commission”, 1920, No. 57;
History of Russian literature of the 19th century. Bibliographic index, under. ed. K.D. Muratova, M.-L., 1962.
Two shuttles
A.N.M. A transparent river flows, makes noise and shines between the banks. Along that river two shuttles rush in fast waves; The appearance of the two shuttles is different, the song of the two swimmers is different. One shuttle was covered in flowers, And the white sail blew quietly, It flashed on the light waves, And the breeze cherished it; Admiring himself, he flies, - Young beauty sits in him. The other shuttle barely dived, making a hard, stubborn run; With difficulty he cut through the waves, A black sail billowed on him; And death noises around him, - A pale sufferer sits in him. Laughing, the beautiful one sings: “How joyful it is for me to float the river!.. Spring is blooming on the banks, The fragrant air is 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 for me to share with my dear All the feelings dear to my heart! And every day I am happier, And my love is more ardent! I blossom in my soul!.. but in the distance, one grief worries me: There is a dark abyss in the river, Where it flows into the sea!.. And no matter how I play with life, - But I cannot escape that abyss!..” And the groan of the sufferer was heard : “How terrible it is for me to swim the river!.. On the banks on all sides there is a gloomy forest in front of me, And the sun is darkened in clouds 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 is bleeding, Where, poor me, trying to love, I’m deceived by friendship and love, Where the swarm of my loved ones is forever killed by the thunderstorm of My hopes. And I am forever devoted to melancholy!.. There is only one thing that brings joy to me in grief: There is a dark abyss in the river, Where it flows into the sea!.. I’m not afraid to dream about it, That we cannot escape the abyss!” And the desire directs the shuttles to the distant edge of the River, - And suddenly, as if by chance, The dark abyss meets them; The river is noisy, roaring, boiling... Both shuttles have disappeared. And the light has long forgotten the swimmers; But the news illuminated us with hope, That the abyss of timid shuttles did not destroy them in their darkness, And that in a mysterious way They are in that blue sea, Where the storm no longer frightens us, Where the fragrant ether flows blissfully And the cloudless vault burns With the radiance of a fiery rainbow; Where everything shines in youthful beauty, Everything breathes with holy joy. And she, whose life was cherished by the light, is happier with the thought of her heart, That there is no longer separation, That the heat of love burns forever, That the reliable current protects Her captivating shuttle. And, throwing off the darkness of his melancholy, the sufferer recognized the sweetness of life; With the memory of sad days he embraces joy more closely; His immortal soul blooms, breathing with joy.
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 appeared strong and tall; Green bushes with fragrant flowers grow all around him. A playful stream of gratifying fresh moisture, flowing near him, made a friendly noise, and the powerful son of the oak forest with some kind of courage looked across the field into the distance. And, blooming with youth, he was not afraid of thunderstorms - From thunderstorms spring is alive, between the clouds the azure is clearer - He admired the flash of lightning and thunder, Breathed under the whistle of storms. Young men and rural girls loved to walk under his shadow; and the Midnight Nightingale sang sweetly there, and the scarlet shine of the morning star found them in bliss. And, seeing the beauty of nature all around him, He thought that it would not change him, And he 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 like a downpour, and a violent hurricane, Swirling, flew in, whipping up flying dust, And the valley was covered with fog. He uprooted green bushes with fragrant flowers, and the bright stream was littered with earth, stones and stumps, - The joyful current disappeared. Thunder struck, lightning scorched the strong oak tree; The oak cracked, but it was not crushed by the thunderstorm: The strength of constrained life still remained in it, Even though it was doomed to wither. There is no pleasant moisture, and there is no native land, where he grew wildly, showing off between the valleys; Now on the bare mountain, driven by fate, he was left alone. Alas, there is no hope, and the fatal arrows are poisoned by Trouble, they destroy and kill everything; Only the skies, as blue as before, shine above the dying. And the oak tree began to dry out; but, not bowed to the ground, He, lifting up his branches, showed them to the clouds, As if with his scorched top He was striving for the heavens.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Complaint
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Prayer (Forgive me, God...)
Forgive me, God, my sins and renew my languid spirit, let me endure my torment in hope, faith and love. My sufferings are not scary to me: They are the guarantee of holy love; But grant that with a fiery soul I can shed tears of repentance. Look at the poverty of the hearts, Give Magdalene the sacred heat, Give John purity; Let me bring my corruptible crown under the yoke of a heavy cross to the feet of the Savior Christ.
Young prisoner
In the fields the shining sickle does not reap green fields; Amber grapes, when they bloom, should not be afraid of predatory hands; And I've just begun A, showing off, blooming... And even though I am destined to shed a lot of tears, I don’t want to part with life. Look, sage, at death with a cold soul! I pl A I feel, and I pray, and I wait for the stars to appear above me through the clouds. There are days that are stormy, but God's light is beautiful; Not every honeycomb is scented; There is no such sea, Where the stormy winds would not blow. Bright hope and a fateful fate disturbs my chest with a captivating dream, no matter how dark my prison is. So suddenly, freed from the destructive nets, the oak forest singer flies happier and faster into the heavenly fields. It’s too early for me to die: the night gives me peace, the day brings peace, it is not driven away by neither fear nor reproaches of conscience. And here I greet everyone’s greetings in the eyes, A sweet smile on cloudy brows My eyes always greet me. A beautiful, long journey still lies ahead of me, And the distance into which everything involuntarily beckons, Just unfolded before me; At the joyful feast of young life, I have just touched the circular cup with greedy lips. I saw spring; I want to experience the scorching heat of summer, and with the sun I want to complete the flow of life. Pure lily, the beauty of native fields, I only saw the shine of the morning lights; I'm waiting for the evening dawn. O death, do not touch me! Let in the darkness of the grave Pale villains with despair and shame think of hiding from disasters; Joy on earth awaits me, the innocent one, And tender songs, and the kiss of love: I don’t want to part with life. So in prison I heard, myself doomed to death, the lovely prisoner's complaints and groans, - And thoughts troubled my heart. My sad voice agreed with the lyre, And the moans and complaints of the young sufferer Involuntarily the strings repeated. And the sweet lyre, a friend of hard days, Perhaps I will make you ask about my prisoner with her song. ABOUT! Know this: she is more captivating than joy; 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 The young singer flies to battle, leaving behind the sweetness of peaceful days; With him his father's sword is a treasure, with him a harp is the joy of life. “Oh, the native land of sonorous songs, the holy land of the Fathers, Here is my sharp sword as a tribute to you, Here is the golden harp!” The singer fell victim to terrible blows; But, as the young age ends, Throws a sharp sword into the water And breaks the sonorous strings. “Love, freedom, native land, O strings, I sang with you; Now how can you sing in that country, Where the slave sounds with 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 everything, my savior; But you, for whom I burn with all my heart, with all my soul! Who, according to his heavenly will, overcame sins with love, Who brought the sufferers to their poor lot, Who is friend and brother, father and god; Who shines with bright rays of the sun in the beauty of the day And with firestar dawns Always burns in the silence of the night; Destroyer of evil, supreme judge, Who saves us from snares And sets us against the darkness of sin The whole abyss of His goodness! - Hear, Christ, my prayer, Illuminate my spirit with you And calm the stormy excitement of my heart, Like the swell of the sea; Receive me into your abode, - I am the prodigal son, - you are my father; And, like over Lazarus, savior, Oh, shed a tear over me! It is not my cross that terrifies me, - Suffering blossoms through faith, God himself sends us crosses, But our cross gives us God; Ready to follow you, I pray that my spirit will be strengthened, I want to wear a crown of thorns, - You yourself, Christ, wore it. But in a gloomy, sorrowful lot, Even though I am without legs and without eyes, The fire of rebellious passions still burns in the murdered body; In you alone is my hope, You are joy, light and silence; Let the wedding garment be given to the obstinate servant. Calm the alarming conscience of the threat, O merciful one; You see tears of repentance, - I pray, do not go 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 the dust of the grave, I am a quick moment - you are an eternal god! Oh, grant that with holy faith I may dispel the fog of passions, and that with a cloudless soul I may forgive my enemies and 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 in you I trust; How sweet it is for me to love you! I entrust my wife, children, and all of myself to your goodness! Oh, having redeemed the guilty, sinful earthly world with innocent blood, - Remain with divine love Everywhere, always, in me, with me!
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
On departure
When there is darkness and sleep in the fields, And the night separates us, Involuntary fear excites me, my friend, every time. I know the night will pass alone, The next morning you and I; 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, Unfaithful fate will carry you away for a whole month, 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.
For the funeral of an English general...
The drum did not beat in front of the troubled regiment, When we buried the leader, And We did not lower the corpse with a rifle farewell fire into the bowels of the earth. And poor honor for the night And given away; They dug the grave with bayonets; The moon shone dimly for us in the fog, And the torches sparkled smokily. He is not wearing a grave cover for the deceased, He is not lying in plank captivity - He is wrapped in his wide battle cloak, He has fallen asleep like warriors in the field. Briefly, but fervently, his daring squad prayed to the creator and silently looked into the face of the dead man, thinking about tomorrow. Perhaps, the next morning, suddenly appearing, a daring enemy, full of arrogance, will not respect you, comrade, and we will be swept away by irrevocable waves. Oh no, in a mysterious dream the brave thought of sadness will not touch! Your bed is lonely in a foreign land. Dear hands are laid on it. The fatal rite had not yet been completed, And the hour of separation had come; And the messenger Perun struck from the rampart, And to us he is not a messenger of battle. Sorry, comrade! There is nothing here To commemorate the 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 Over the dark bay, along the sonorous swells of Venice, the sea of the queen, The midnight swimmer in his gondola From the evening dawn to the morning star With a carefree rudder he carelessly cuts through the lazy moisture of the night; He sings Rinalda, he sings Tancred, he sings young Erminia; He sings to his heart, is removed from vanities, is not afraid of someone else's judgment, and is involuntarily captivated by his beloved song, joyfully rushing over the abyss. And I love to sing to myself, in silence, I dream of unknown songs, I sing, and as if it makes me happier, I forget my grief, No matter how the wind drives my poor boat through the abyss of rebellious life, where I wander so sadly and so alone in hopeless darkness. ..
Russian poets. Anthology of Russian poetry in 6 volumes. Moscow: Children's literature, 1996.
There are seven of us
(From Wordsworth) A.B.B. A welcoming child, easily accustomed to breathing, blooming with health and life, How can death be understood? The girl was walking towards me. She was about eight years old, A stream of thick curls covered her head; And her steppe appearance was wild, And her simple outfit was wild, And the little one’s sweet look delighted me with her beauty. “How many of you are there?” I asked her, And brothers and sisters? “There are seven of us in total,” and he glances at me, Marveling. “Where are they?” - “There are seven of us in total.” The little one answered me. “Two of us went to live in the village, - And two on a ship, And in the cemetery, brother and sister lie out of the seven, And behind the cemetery, I and my relatives, - We live next to 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?” “We are seven, we are seven,” she immediately told me again, “There are two of us here in the cemetery, Under the willow tree in the ground.” - “You are running around her, you are obviously alive; But there are only five of you, my child, When there are two under the willow.” - “On their coffins there is earth in flowers, And there are no ten steps from the doors of my dear To the coffins dear to us; I often knit stockings here, cut my scarf here, and sit next to their graves and sing songs to them; And if sometimes late the dawn burns brightly, Then, taking my cheese and bread with me, I dine here. Little Jenny was sick 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 as soon as I waited in winter for the skates and the sleigh, John, my brother, also left, and he lay down next to her.” “So how many of you are there?” was my answer. - “There are two in heaven, believe!” - “There are only five of you.” - “Oh master, no, count, there are seven of us now.” - “Yes, there are no two - they are in the ground, And the souls are in heaven!” But was there any use in my words? 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 my thoughts away from 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. Like a wave, crushed between stones, A ray of the silver moon, Dawn, the song of a beloved Suddenly, feelings are confused. Hope, fear, memories crowd quietly around me; The souls of involuntary dreams cannot be expressed in words. Some kind of dull gloom darkens the clarity of former days; The ghost of a sweetheart beckons, flashes, captivating the gaze in the darkness of the night. And it seems to me: I hear singing From under the foggy clouds... And my secret excitement I am ready to cherish with my heart. * There was so much in that song! (Translation 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! it's already midnight; above the moon, you see a cloud flying; It darkens the gentle radiance with a foggy veil. I'm rushing into the distance, my sail is blowing, the homewrecker's wave is rustling, - It's unlikely that the moon will clear up on the cloudy vault before. And I, like a thick cloud, eclipsed you, my moon; I have a grief-stricken young heart and darkened my cheerful gaze. Your color, both joyful and tender, is scorched by my love; You are free - my rebellious fever Forget quickly, like a bad dream! Don't get carried away by the noisy rumors! What killed my bright dreams was not what I loved madly, but what you loved differently. Sorry - don't cry! The fog is already thinning before the clear moon, the sea is leaping, the sail is blowing - and I throw myself into my shuttle.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Parents' Saturday Night
Ballad It’s not a wonderful and false dream, And it’s not an empty rumor that has spread, But we have a true, terrible legend In Ukraine: What if someone, throwing away all worries, Prayerfully holding a three-day fast, Comes on the night of his parents’ Saturday To the deceased in the graveyard, - There he will see those mournful shadows, those who are already doomed by fate to be victims that year of the underground canopy and the grave cell. Young Chosen with the beautiful Lyudmila And betrothed with a ring and heart; But he thought, alarmed by the secret power, That our joy is a dream. And prophetic fear with an irresistible melancholy, Exciting the spirit, presses into his chest, And he dreams of looking into the book of incomprehensible fate; And, putting aside all worldly concerns, prayerfully holding a three-day fast, he goes on the night of his parents' Saturday to the deceased at the graveyard. There was darkness everywhere, and the wind howled, and the autumn moon sank between the smoky clouds; It seemed that the night itself was afraid, full of terrible secrets. And long ago he was Chosen under a dark willow, Sat alone on a grave stone; The blood ran cold, but the impatient gaze wandered around in the darkness. And at midnight he suddenly hears groans in the church, And the door is wide open, the shutters sound, And then a candle flies from the church from the icon Through the air; And she mysteriously rushes her flight like a flickering stream towards the coffins, And the dead, like a fatal guide, burns in the darkness of the air. And the dead in their coffins began to stir, the underground inhabitants woke up again, and the fresh graves parted - and the dead stood up. And he sees those mournful shadows, those who are already doomed by fate to be victims in that year of the underground canopy and the grave cell; Their face is gloomy, and it is clear that with tears their gaze is forever obscured by the sleep of death... Are they really yearning for earthly things with withered hearts? But an airy candle is already leading them to God’s temple as the forerunner of the fatal one, And in the dead, under a white veil, he recognizes the Bride; And her shadow, ethereal, young, Still bloomed with beauty and in the shroud, And, bowing her sad gaze to the groom, Sighed and walked away. And everything came true. The contrite madman From that hour, 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: “Come, let’s go to the crown...” And the night wind only answers the Living One with a howl. to a 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.
Yaroslavna's cry
Princess 3. A. Volkonskaya It’s not a cuckoo in a dark grove Cuckooing early at dawn - In Putivl Yaroslavna is crying, Alone, on the city wall: “I will leave the pine forest, I’ll fly along the Danube, And in the Kayal River I’ll wet my beaver sleeve; I’ll rush to my native camp, Where The 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! ?" In Putivl, Yaroslavna, Zarya, cries on the city wall: “Is it possible to breathe closely in the clouds From the steep mountains of a foreign land, If you want to cherish ships in the blue sea? Why have you strewn Our lot with fear? Why have you scattered the Joy of my heart through the feather grass? ?" In Putivl, Yaroslavna, Zarya, cries on the city wall: “My glorious Dnieper! you broke through the rocks of the Polovtsians with waves; Svyatoslav and the heroes rushed through you, - Don’t worry, the Dnieper is wide, the fast flow of icy waters, through them my black-eyed prince into Rus' the saint will float." In Putivl, Yaroslavna, Zarya, cries on the city wall: “Oh river! Give me a friend - Cherish him on the waves, So that the sad friend Hugged him soon; So that I no longer see Prophetic horrors in my dreams, So that I don’t send tears to him By the Blue Sea at dawn". In Putivl, Yaroslavna, Zarya, cries on the city wall: “Sun, sun, you shine Beautifully and brightly for everyone! In a sultry field, why are you burning the Army of my friend? Thirst dried up the bows and strings in their hands, And sadness laid the quiver of arrows on their shoulders.” . And quietly in the mansion Yaroslavna leaves the city wall.
Russian poets. Anthology of Russian poetry in 6 volumes. Moscow: Children's literature, 1996.
Captive Greek in prison
Holy Motherland, my lovely land! I dream of you all the time, I yearn for you with my soul. But, alas, they keep me here in captivity, And I don’t fight on the battlefield! Day and night I was tormented by your fate, The sound of your chains echoed in my heart. Is it possible for homogeneous Brothers to forget? Ah, or be free, Or not be at all! And with friends, boldly, in a disastrous thunderstorm, for a holy cause, we rushed into battle. But, alas, they keep me here in captivity, And I don’t fight on the battlefield! And in captivity I don’t know How the war burns; I'm expecting news - the news is flying by. The rumor of murders rushes, the trail of terrible revenge; My dear blood is flowing, - But I’m not there! Ah, in the midst of the storm the Fruit, freedom, is yours! Your clear day glows with a fiery dawn! An unknown prisoner, Let me suffer, - If only, lovely land, I am free to know you!
Swimmer
In my chest, oppressed by grief, a swimmer broken by a storm, I look at the blue sea, as if a dead man were looking at life; But against my will, full of thoughts, A sudden terrible thunderstorm, When my boat was destroyed by the waves, Drawn by a bright star. Alas! I’m not the only one who was destroyed by the waves of the shuttle of hope, And into the unfaithful distance by the stars I wasn’t the only one who was carried away! And who was not embarrassed by anxiety, Who achieved the desired goal, Who did not say goodbye to the dream of his beloved, Who passed the valley of tears? If only you would emerge from the angry waves, O sea! he could have thrown out everything that lay in the ships of the broken Highest thoughts and feelings; If someone came from the abyss and told the story of the dead, the world would perhaps be amazed at what no one knew. How many in the rebellious fate, Having been a victim of inevitable troubles, have faded into hopeless melancholy, And their trace has long since disappeared! Oh, many, many fiery pearls are buried at the bottom of the sea, And many fragrant scents are hidden in the ethereal darkness! And how many bright hopes, torn off by a raid of thunderstorms, And hearts of joyful dreams, decayed by burning tears! And the secrets of a wonderful condition Between heavenly thoughts and passions - Only the headboard knows And the darkness of languid nights.
Collegeridge. (From Christabel's poem) Sorry! and if we are destined to do so by fate, forgive us forever! Even if you are ruthless, with you I cannot bear enmity in my heart. It cannot be that you met the inflexibility of feeling in the one on whose chest you fell asleep in an irrevocably sweet dream! If you saw through her all the feelings of my heart, then you would probably regret that you despised him so much. Let the world approve with a smile Now your cruel blow: He offends you with praise, Someone else's bought, misfortune. Even though I, blackened by guilt, have given myself the right to blame; But why was he killed by a hand that is used to hugging me? And believe, oh, believe! the heat of tender passion Only years can cool; But suddenly the rebellious anger is unable to tear my heart away from my heart. Yours retains the same feeling; My destiny is to suffer, to love! - And the immortal thought torments me, That we will not live together. A sad cry over the dead How can we compare that terrible thought? - We are both alive, but as widowers We are already greeting the day with you. And at the hour when you caress our daughter, Admiring the babble of speeches, As you hint to her about her father, Her father is separated from her. When the little one catches your gaze, - Kissing her, remember About the one who prays for your happiness, Who found paradise in your love. And if there is a resemblance in her With the father you abandoned, Your heart will suddenly flutter, And the trembling of your heart will be mine. Perhaps you know my guilt - Is it possible to know my madness? You carry away hopes, withered ones fly with you. You shook my soul; Having despised the light, my proud spirit was submissive to You; Having parted with you, I part with my soul! It's all done! words are in vain, And there are no more in vain than my words, - But in the feelings of the heart we have no power, And there are no barriers to their aspirations. Sorry, sorry! Deprived of you, - Everything in which I thought happiness would ripen, Corrupted in heart, contrite. Can I die anymore?
I. Kozlov. Poems. The Poet's Library, small series, 2nd ed. Moscow: Soviet writer, 1948.
Wrecked ship
Free imitation Countess S.I. Laval The day faded in a rosy 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 A broken ship was sunk; In a storm, by noisy waves, he was brought to the wild shore, - And the moisture has long covered the deep wells of emptiness with moss; The grass was already turning green in them, the flowers were already appearing. We rush like a thunderstorm into a coastal cliff, Where did he come from and where did he sail to? Who shared His ruin in the hour of a hopeless storm? The cliff and the waves, everything was silent, All darkness in the fateful lot, - Only the evening sun played Above him, a forgotten dead man. And at the stern sat the young fisherman’s wife, looking into the distance and singing songs to the languid murmur of the breeze. With a curly blond head, a baby played near her, he jumped over the sonorous wave, and the wind blew his curls. He plucks tender 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.
Robber
Ballad A. A. Voeikova Mila of the Bryingel forests; Mil the bright current of the river; And in the field there are many flowers here, beautiful for wreaths. The misty valley will be silvered by the moon; A greyhound horse rushes me: In the Dalton Tower, by the window, the Beautiful One sits. She sings: “The welcoming sound of the waters of Braingel is dear to me; There the meadow blooms lushly in spring, There the groves are full of thoughts. I want to love in silence, Not to wear the royal dignity; It’s nicer for me to live there on the river in the forest with Edwin.” - “When you, a beautiful maiden, Having left your castle, are ready to run into the dark forests alone with me, you first, joy, guess how we live in the forests; Find out what that wild land is like, Where we will find love! She sings: “The welcoming sound of the waters of Braingel is dear to me; There the meadow blooms lushly in spring, There the groves are full of thoughts. I want to love in silence, Not to wear the royal dignity; It's nicer for me to live there on the river in the forest with Edwin. I see a greyhound horse Under a brave rider: You are a royal hunter, - you have a ringing horn behind your saddle.” - “No, lovely! The hunter blows his horn with the ruddy dawn, And my horn sounds misfortune, And then in the darkness of the night.” She sings: “The welcoming sound of the waters of Braingel is dear to me; There the meadow blooms lushly in spring, There the groves are full of thoughts; I want to love you, my friend, in free silence; There on the river it is pleasant for me to live in the forest with Edwin. I see, young traveler, you with a saber and a gun; Perhaps you are a dashing dragoon and gallop behind your regiment.” - “No, the thunder of the timpani and the voice of the trumpet. Why among the steppes? Stealthily we mount our horses at the midnight hour. The sound of the Breingel waters is welcome on the green banks, And the sunrise of the month is sweet in them, The fragrant meadow with flowers; But it’s unlikely that the beautiful one won’t be bothered when she has to live in the wilderness of the forest unknown as my friend! It’s wonderful, it’s wonderful I live there, - So, apparently, fate ordered; And I will die a wonderful death, And my destiny is gloomy. The evil one himself is not so terrible, When, before a dark day, He wanders in the field at night With a shining lantern; And we are on the road, daring, Friends of the unfaithful darkness, We no longer remember the days of yore Innocent silence.” Mila of the Bryingel forests; Mil the bright current of the river; And there are many beautiful flowers here in the meadows for wreaths.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
The Sack of Rome and the Spread of Christianity
A. I. Turgenev From the dark northern forests, From the distant eastern shores, Sons of courage and freedom, Wild peoples are striving With a double ax, on foot, In animal skin, with maces, And on horses with a spear, with arrows, And an enemy skull behind the saddle. We've arrived; blows scattered, smoke swirled, fires burned, the groan of the heavy battle was drowned out, and Rome, the colossus of the sovereign, fell; The vicious one fell, a victim of vengeance, - And the noisy winds carried the terrible thunder of his fall to the ends of the frightened earth. But the menacing cloud of peoples swept by with heavenly anger, and the dust from the violent marches settled in the bloody fields. Eternally dead silence replaced screams and moaning. Already the fall of the terrible roar In the desert, the sorrowful one fell asleep; In the fog the glow does not glow, And the black smoke is already thinning; The darkness is clearing; from the sad places a bright cross became visible in the distance. Other people, faith, morals, Another language, rights, statutes, The purest world, born of him, Suddenly appeared miraculously with him, - And the holy preachers Came to the fatal ashes with the Gospel in their hands, And sat among the ruins on the graves, full of secret power; The truth burned in the eyes; A quiet voice, a comforter for the sorrowful, a proclaimer of the heavenly will, and gave another life to the universe; So their divine teacher resurrected the dead by faith.
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; The nightingale sings there both day and night; There the bright waters flow welcomingly, There the scarlet roses bloom, showing off. At that time, when my youth beckoned me to dream, I often loved to walk in that grove; 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 can I not love you! But with summer, the joy will soon pass, And the soul involuntarily begins to think: “Ah! in the green grove, by the fast springs, Is everything as it was before, does the nightingale sing? And in the autumn, do scarlet roses still bloom the same over the bright stream? " No, the roses have faded, the stream is cloudier, And now the nightingale is no longer heard in the grove! When the roses bloomed there, showing off, They were often plucked and woven into wreaths; Although the shine of the tender leaves is darkened, their spirit is preserved in the fragrant dew. And the air is freshened with fragrant dew; Spring has passed, but spring is blowing. So with memory we can live in the past and preserve feelings of ecstasy in our souls; It blows so joyfully even late at times, The old charm of young love! Time will not bring joy at all: Let youth fade, but the heart blooms. And it’s sweet for me to remember how the nightingale sang, And the roses, and the grove at the quick springs!
Russian poets. Anthology of Russian poetry in 6 volumes. Moscow: Children's literature, 1996.
Rural Elegy
In the silence of the secluded village of Mlada, the sufferer lived sadly, And, tired from long torment, He good people said: “They call you to the church of our village for prayers, ringing the evening bell; Pray to God for me. When the oak grove begins to darken, the fogs fall over the water, then say: “Now the young sufferer does not languish.” But don’t forget me, Remember me in sad songs And, hearing the ringing of the end of the day, Pray to God for me. Before cunning, evil slander, I will give my whole life in response, And with an immaculate soul, Without fear, I will leave the world. My sad path was not long, - In my spring I’m already standing over the grave in tears; Inclining your gaze towards her, Pray to God for me. My dear friend, my wonderful friend! I thought about living with you for a long time; But, the victim of a vain dream, My life was one minute. ABOUT! tender heart's anxiety Forgive her; Pray to God, Hearing the ringing in the flickering day, Both for her and for me.”
Secret
Ballad In the forest, a Damask shield is nailed to a centuries-old oak tree, a witness to terrible slaughters; On that shield you can see a star with a cross, and near the shield a sharp sword sparkles. And the shady oak overshadows the fresh grave, and the secrets of the fatal darkness are terrible: no one, no one knows who is buried in the forest in the darkness of the night. The day rushed by, and again, at times, the dark night fell over the oak grove; Everything is silent, and the copper is already midnight on the tower beats the neighboring village. And the autumn night has never darkened more terribly: it covered the dense forest, river and hill with damp darkness - Everywhere the cover turns black as a grave. But between the trees a crimson shine flashes, And a fragile leaf rustles not far away, And a torch already illuminates an oak tree nearby: The black carried it in a trembling hand. An elderly hermit walked to the grave, And with him, an unknown person, in tears, Walks, paler than his white clothes; The sadness of love burns in her eyes. And the monk sang a dirge for the dead, But the monk did not remember who he was; The funeral service, he disappeared from view in the distance, But the torch still flickered in the thick shadow. The beautiful one fell onto the fresh turf and, throwing back the white veil, shed streams of tears for the dead, disturbing the silence of the grave; And, beside herself, suddenly she raised her blue eyes to her shield And, cutting off her golden locks, she wrapped silk around them in a bloody sword; The poison of madness lit up in the dull gaze, The heartfelt cry goes numb on the lips. She left, and only fear remained in the dense forest of Mysterious; And between the trees the torch no longer flickers, the leaf does not whisper, and the darkness of the fatal secrets is terrible: no one, no one knows who is buried in the forest in the darkness of the night.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Homesickness (With eternal love...)
Free imitation of Chateaubriand With eternal love, holy one, I remember my native country, Where life bloomed; I see her in my dreams. Dear land, be you always dear to me! It used to be that we sit in front of the fire in the evening with our dear one - Sister and I, Sing, laugh - midnight strikes - And she will press us to her heart, Blessing. I see a quiet, blue pond, How willows and reeds grow on the banks; And a swan flies along it, and the evening sun burns in its waves. And I see: not far away, a jagged castle on the river stands in silence with a high tower, and on it I hear, in the darkness of the night, the sound of copper humming. And how I remember how I love my dear friend! ABOUT! where is she? It used to be that she would go into the forest with me, pick flowers, strawberries... Sweet, gentle! When will I see My Shining again, the forest, the fields And above the river That rural house where I lived?.. Oh, be, always be dear 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 the captivating rays! In the valleys under the hill, where the playful current makes noise, Shed radiance on my hasty path. I will not steal someone else’s property in the darkness of the night, Or destroy a traveler with a criminal hand, But I love, we love, my only desire is to find a date with a lovely nymph in silence; She is the most beautiful of all, dearer, just as you are the brightest beauty of the midnight stars.
I. I. Kozlov. Complete collection of poems. Leningrad: "Soviet Writer", 1960.
Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov is a Russian poet and translator. His works are not known to all readers, although the plots of the poems are interesting and mysterious, as is his biography.
Origin of the poet
Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov was born on April eleventh, 1779 in Moscow. His family was not only noble, but also ancient. Ivan Ivanovich on his father's side was the grandson of a senator. By the way, the poet’s father, Ivan Ivanovich, served as a state councilor at court. Mother, Anna Apollonovna, in her maiden name bore the surname Khomutova and was the aunt of the famous Cossack chieftain.
Despite the fact that Ivan Kozlov was raised by his mother, and he received his science education at home, the poet was a versatile personality, and all his contemporaries noted his excellent education.
Military service
The future poet Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov, barely five years old, was enlisted in military service. In October 1784, he had the rank of sergeant of the famous Izmailovsky regiment, where only wealthy nobles were enrolled. And already in February 1795, when the young poet was sixteen years old, he was transferred to a new rank - ensign.
Then there was service in the Life Guards, which lasted three years. After this, the poet Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov deservedly retired.
Civil service
In 1798, the poet Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov entered the post of provincial secretary. But after a few months, having proven himself worthily, he was transferred to collegiate assessors and even for special successes was enrolled in the office of Pyotr Lopukhin. A year later, service in the heraldry followed.
Eight years later, a new appointment came: Ivan Kozlov was transferred to the office of Commander-in-Chief Tutolmin, which was located in the capital. And soon in a new place, showing diligence and unusual education, the poet was able to receive the rank of court councilor.
The War of 1812 brought many changes to the life of Ivan Ivanovich. So, for several months he has been working on a committee whose goal is to assemble and create a powerful Moscow military force, as well as prepare it for hostilities with Napoleon.
But three days before Napoleon was supposed to enter the capital, Ivan Kozlov and his other fellow officials were fired. Realizing that he needs to save his family, he leaves Moscow and goes to his mother’s relatives in Rybinsk. But even after the end of the war with the French, he did not return to Moscow.
Now he chooses St. Petersburg as his place of residence for himself and his family. Soon Ivan Ivanovich receives an appointment to the service. At the end of July 1813, the talented poet Ivan Kozlov began serving in the state Department of Property, where he was appointed to the position of assistant mayor. And already in October 1814 he received a new rank - collegiate official. But an unexpected illness deprived him of the opportunity to further build his public career.
Literary activity
Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov, whose poems are expressive and beautiful, unexpectedly fell ill in 1818. Paralysis deprives him of the ability to move, and the poet stops public service. But he does not want to give up and decides to devote himself to literary work. But by the end of 1819 he gradually began to go blind and completely lost his sight in 1821.
Ivan Ivanovich begins to work diligently on translations. He knew many languages, including French, German, Italian, English and others. He translates the best literary works into these languages. He starts with works and the first work that appeared in print was Zhukovsky’s poem “Svetlana”. And soon his own poems appeared: “To Svetlana”, “Chernets”, “To the Poet Zhukovsky”.
The poet was personally acquainted with Vasily Zhukovsky, Alexander Pushkin, Ivan Turgenev and other outstanding educated people of that time.
Ivan Kozlov's poems are popular, and fame finally comes to the ill poet. Contemporaries recalled that Ivan Ivanovich, despite the fact that he was in a wheelchair, always behaved courageously and openly. Everyone around him noted: the poet dressed, despite the fact that he was blind and practically motionless, always elegantly and fashionably.
But contemporaries especially noted conversations with him, since he always spoke in such a way that one wanted to listen to him without interrupting, holding his breath and admiring every word. In addition, he beautifully and expressively read poems by European poets. And no one could guess, looking at this man inspired by poetry, that at night he was tormented by severe and constant pain.
Personal life
Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov, whose biography is interesting and eventful, got married in 1809. His wife was Sofya Andreevna Davydova, who was the daughter of a foreman. In this marriage, the talented poet has two children: a son and a daughter. Nothing is known about the fate of Ivan and Alexandra.
The famous nineteenth-century poet Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov died on January thirtieth, 1840.
(1840-02-11 ) (60 years)Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov(April 11, Moscow - January 30 [February 11], St. Petersburg) - Russian poet and translator of the Romantic era.
Biography
He came from the noble family of the Kozlovs, the grandson of the senator and general racketeer I.I. Kozlov Sr. His father Ivan Ivanovich held the rank of full state councilor. Mother Anna Appolonovna, nee Khomutova, aunt of the Cossack ataman Mikhail Grigorievich Khomutov, raising her son at home, managed to give the future poet an excellent, versatile education.
At the age of six, on October 5, 1784, he was included in the lists of the Life Guards of the Izmailovsky Regiment as a sergeant; On February 19, 1795 he was promoted to ensign, and on April 16, 1797 to second lieutenant. After serving for three years, on September 8, 1798, he transferred to the civil service and was renamed provincial secretaries; On October 24, 1798, having been promoted to collegiate assessor, he was enrolled in the office of Prosecutor General Pyotr Lopukhin. From June 16, 1799 he served in the heraldry. From July 20, 1807, he was in the office of the Moscow Commander-in-Chief, where on November 13 of the same year he received the rank of court councilor.
In 1809, he married the daughter of the foreman, Sofya Andreevna Davydova. They had a son, Ivan (in 1810) and a daughter, Alexandra (in 1812). From June 20 to August 30, 1812, he worked on the committee for the formation of the Moscow military force. Having been dismissed from service along with other officials three days before Napoleon entered Moscow, Ivan Ivanovich went with his family to Rybinsk, to live with the Khomutovs, his mother’s relatives.
After the expulsion of the French from Russia, Kozlov moved to St. Petersburg, receiving on July 24, 1813 the position of assistant chief in the Department of State Property; On October 7, 1814, he was promoted to the rank of collegiate councilor.
In 1816, paralysis deprived him of his legs. In 1819, Kozlov began to lose his sight, and by 1821 he was completely blind. Then he took up poetry and translations from Italian, French, German and English.
In 1821, his poem “To Svetlana” appeared in print; behind it is a message “To friend V.A.Zh<уковскому>"(1822), in which he described the misfortune that befell him as a spiritual insight, a saving awakening of the soul to the truths of faith and the consolations of poetry. The poem “Chernets”, published in 1824, put Kozlov’s name among the most popular poets of that time.
Despite his blindness and immobility, Kozlov behaved with rare courage: sitting in a wheelchair, he was always elegantly dressed, spoke breathtakingly vividly, and recited all European poetry by heart. No one knew that he was tormented by severe pain at night.
Literary activity
Kozlov’s first poem “To Svetlana” was published in 1821. Kozlov's passion for literature led him to close acquaintance with A. S. Pushkin, V. A. Zhukovsky, P. A. Vyazemsky and the Turgenev brothers.
A. A. Alyabyev, A. S. Dargomyzhsky and others wrote music to Kozlov’s poems; the poem “Evening Bells” (1827, translation from Thomas Moore), with music by an unknown author, became a classic of Russian folk song; The translation of a poem by another Irishman, Charles Wolf, “For the burial of the English general Sir John Moore” (“The drum did not beat before the troubled regiment…”) also became very popular. Some of Kozlov’s poems are subordinated to the tasks of Christian didactics (“The Ruin of Rome and the Spread of Christianity,” 1826; “Elegy. Free Imitation of St. Gregory of Nazianzus,” 1830; “My Prayer,” 1834; “Prayer,” 1834). Religious and didactic motifs also permeate his poem “Princess Natalya Borisovna Dolgorukaya” (1824-1827, separate edition 1828), dedicated to the fate of I. A. Dolgorukov’s wife.
In 1827, using the prose interlinear translation of P. A. Vyazemsky, the poet Kozlov completely translated “Crimean Sonnets” by Mitskevich.
During the life of I. I. Kozlov, three collections of his poems were published (1828, 1833, 1834). The posthumous edition (in 2 parts, 1840) was prepared by V. A. Zhukovsky, who edited some of his poems.
Essays
Poems and poems
- "Prisoned Greek in Prison"
- To friend V.A. Zhukovsky
- Hungarian forest. Ballad
- Crimean sonnets
- "Young Singer"
- "Byron"
- "Kyiv"
- "Yaroslavna's Lament"
- "Princess Natalya Borisovna Dolgorukaya"
- "To P. F. Balk-Polev"
- "Promised Land"
- "Swimmer"
- "Chernets" Kiev Tale (1825)
- "Secret"
- "Brenda"
- "The Departure of the Knight"
- "Mad" Russian story
- "Deceived Heart"
- "Anxious Thought"
- "Song".
- “The Broken Ship”, Countess Sofia Ivanovna Laval (1832)
Translations of poetry
- George Noel Gordon Byron ("The Bride of Abydos")
- Mickiewicz, Adam. Crimean sonnets by Adam Mickiewicz Translations and imitations by Ivan Kozlov. St. Petersburg, 1829
