Biography of Hristo Botev
Hristo Botev (Bulgarian: Христо Ботев, also transliterated as Hristo Botyov) , born Hristo Botyov Petkov , was a Bulgarian poet and national revolutionary. Botev is widely considered by Bulgarians to be a symbolic historical figure and national hero.
Hristo Botev's Works:
In 1875 Botev published his poetic works in a book called "Songs and Poems", together with another Bulgarian revolutionary poet and future politician and statesman, Stefan Stambolov. Botev's poetry reflected the sentiments of the poor people, filled with revolutionary ideas, struggling for their freedom against both foreign and domestic tyrants. His poetry is influenced by the Russian revolutionary democrats and the figures of the Paris Commune. Under this influence, Botev rose both as a poet and a revolutionary democrat. Many of his poems are imbued with revolutionary zeal and determination, such as My Prayer ("Moyata molitva"), At Farewell ("Na proshtavane"), Hajduks ("Haiduti"), In the Tavern ("V mehanata"), or Struggle ("Borba"). Others are romantic, balladic (Hadzhi Dimitar, perhaps the greatest of his poems), even elegiac.
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Hristo Botev Poems
1868 Don't cry, mother, don't grieve that I grew up as an outlaw,
A Cloud Of Darkness Has Appeared
A cloud of darkness has appeared from the mountains and the forest: does it mean a gentle drizzle or a terrifying tempest?
He lives, still he lives! In the mountain fast, soaked in blood, he lies and groans, a rebel, wounded in the chest,
In sorrow youth passes, in sorrows and pains, Angrily boils the blood in the veins; Lowering brows - the mind cannot see,
The Hanging Of Levski
O you, my Mother, my Native Land, Why is your cry so sad and heart-rending! And you, O Raven, accursed bird,
To My First Love
Put aside that song of love, do not fill my heart with pain - I'm young but I don't know of youth and if I did I wouldn't claim
O my God, my righteous God. Not you, in heaven apart, but you, who are within me, God -
St. George's Day
'Rejoice, o people! Old and young Praise God today, and praise the king! 'Tis Saint George's Day,' the sheep gave tongue
To My Mother
Was it you, mother, with your tearful song, was it you who cursed me three years' long to be a luckless, drifting waif
To My Brother
It's difficult to live, my brother, among such thick-skulled blunderheads; the fires of my youth are smothered,
In the glade a pipe is played, By the forest green and still, Where Stoyana, fair, sweet maid, Runs for water to the rill.
Hurry, stranger, quickly come to your father's home at last, do a dance before his home,
Our feelings have made of us brothers and our hidden thoughts have a same set, I do not believe there's one thing
Father and Son Come, Grandfather, blow on your pipe now, And I will take up the tune With songs of our heroes, of haidouks,
O my God, my righteous God.
Not you, in heaven apart,
but you, who are within me, God -
within my soul and heart…
Not you, to whom the holy priests
and monks must genuflect
and all of orthodoxy's beasts
light tapers in respect;