Hristo Botev

Hristo Botev (1848-1876)
Botev is briliant author and revolutionary. He was born in the town Kalofer and his father is the teacher Botio Petkov. He was a student in Odesa. Hristo Botev emigrated to Romania in 1867. He was a teacher in Aleksandria and Izmail from 1869 until 1871. He published the newspapers ''Alarm clock'', ''Flag'' and ''New Bulgaria''. He died on 20 May 1876. He was killed in the war.

The Hanging of Vasil Levski

O my Mother, dear Motherland
Why weep you so mournfully, so plaintively?
And you, raven, cursed bird -
On whose grave croak you with such a dread?


Ah, I know - I know you're weeping, Mother
Because you are a dismal slave,
Because your holy voice, Mother
Is a helpless voice - a voice in the wilderness.

Weep! There, near the edge of Sofia town

Stretches - I saw it - a dismal gallows

And one of your sons, Bulgaria

Hangs from it with a terrible power.

The raven croaks dreadfully, ominously

Dogs and wolves howl in the fields,
Old people pray to God with fervor
Women weep, children cry.

Winter croons its evil song,
Gales sweep thistle across the field
And cold and frost and hopeless weeping
Heep sorrow on your heart.

Dobri Chintulov

Dobri Chintulov (1822- 1886)

Dobri Chintulov was born in the town  of Sliven. He was a student in Odesa (Odesa in a city in Russia) from 1839 until 1840. He published his first poem in the newspaper ''Tsarigratski vestnik''. From 1850 he was a teacher in Bulgaria. He is the author of many Bulgarian patriotic songs.

Ivan Vazov

Ivan Vazov (1850-1921)
Probably the best Bulgarian writer!
Vazov was born in the town Sopot in 1850. He was a pupil in Kalofer and a student in The High School in Plovdiv. Reading used to be his hobby and his favoutre authors were Alphonse de Lamartine, Pierre-Jean de Béranger and Victor Hugo. He was studing French. His first book of poetry was ''Пряпорец и гусла''. In 1870 he emigrated to Romania but he came back to Bulgaria a few months later.

Ivan Vazov has more than 50 creations. Some of his stories are ''Grandfather Iotso Is Watching'' ''One Bulgarian Women'' ''Is It Coming''. The most popular of Vazov`s poems are ''The Volunteers at Shipka'' ''Levski'' ''Where is Bulgaria'' ''I am a Bulgarian'' and other. The first Vazov`s novel is ''Under the Slavery''. Many people think this is the best Bulgarian novel.


The volunteers at Shipka





(August 11, 1877)



What if we still carry shame on our forehead,
Marks of the whip, signs of bondage abhorrent;
What if remembrance of infamous days
Hangs like a cloud over all we survey;
What if in history no place we're allotted,
What if our name be a tragic one, what if
Old Belasitsa and recent Batak
Over our past throw their deep shadows black;
What if men mockingly laugh in our faces,
Pointing to newly lost fetters, to traces
Still on our necks of the ages-long yoke;
What if this freedom was gives our folk?
What of it? We know a recent true story,
A shining new symbol, a symbol of glory,
That proudly within every bosom pulsates
And noble strong feeling within us awakes;
There on a mounting that glows in the distance,
Heaven's blue vault on its broad shoulder lifting,
Rises a famous wild peak with blood on its moss,
A monument huge to a deed that's immortal,
Because a deep memory lives in the Balkans,
Because there's a name that shall live for all time,
As bright as a legend in history it shines,
A new name, its roots to antiquity tracing,
As great ad Thermopylae, all fame embracing,
A same to wipe shame away, with its plain truth
Smashing to smithereens calumny's tooth.

O Shipka!
For three days out youthful battalions
The pass have defended. The high mountain valleys
Re-echo the battle's tumultuous roar.
The onslaught's ferocious! Again the dense hordes
Along the ravine for the twelfth time are crawling
Where warm blood is flowing and bodies are sprawling.
Assault on assault! Swarm on swarm they advance!
Once more at the towering peak Suleiman
is pointing: "Rush forward! Up there are the rayahs!"
Away race the hordes in a rage wild and dire,
A thunderous "Allah" re-echoes afar.
The summit replies with a rousing "Hurrah!",
A hail of fresh bullets and tree trunks and boulders;
Spattered with blood, our battalions boldly
Retaliate, every man in his own way
Striving to be in the front of the fray,
Each, like a hero, death bravely defying,
Determined to leave one more enemy dying.
Cannon are pounding. The Turks with a cry
Rush up the slope where they tumble and die;
Coming like tigers, like sheep they go flying,
Then come once again: the Bulgarians fighting
Like lions are running along the redoubt,
Neither heat, thirst nor toil are they worried about.
The onslaught is fierce, the rebuff no less stout.
For three days they fight but no help is arriving,
And no hope is visible on the horizon,
And no brother eagles come swiftly with aid.
No matter. They'll die, but die true, unafraid -
As died the brave Spartans who stood against Xerxes.
Fresh waves are now rolling up; all are alerted!
A last effort's needed: the moment is grave.
And then does Stoletov, our general brave,
Roar words of great courage: "Young volunteer fighters,
Now crown Bulgaria with laurels of triumph!
The Tsar has entrusted the pass, the whole war,
Himself even, unto these muscles, of yours!"
Thus heartened, our proud and heroic battalions
Courageously meet the next thrust of the rallying
Enemy hordes! O heroic time!
Fresh waves of assailants the cliffs now climb.
Our men have no bullets, with bravery girded,
Their bayonets broken, their breasts ever sturdy,
They're all to a man ready gladly to die
On the ridge which the whole of the world can descry,
To die here like heroes triumphant, victorious .
"The whole of Bulgaria watches, supports us,
The peak is a high one: if we run away,
She'll see us – so better to die here today!"
No weapons are left! What remains is the slaughter!
Each stone is a bomb and each tree-trunk a sword is.
Each object – a blow, and each soul – flame that sears.
From the peak every tree, every stone disappears.
"Grab hold of the bodies!" they hear a voice crying,
At once through the air lifeless corpses are flying,
And over the hordes like black devils they dive
And tumble and roll as if they were alive!
The Turks quake and tremble, not having seen ever
The living and death fight a battle together,
And raise a shrill cry of demoniac rage.
In life and death combat the armies engage.
Our heroes, there standing as steady as boulders,
Meet bayonet steel with steel breasts no less boldly,
And sing as they cast themselves into the fray
When they realize Death shall now snatch them away.
But still our young heroes rebuff, sink and swallow
The hordes that is wave upon wave swiftly follow.
The peak any minute shall ours be no more.
Then suddenly Radetzky arrives with a roar.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And today, every time there's a storm in the mountain,
The summit recall this grim day and, recounting
The story, its echoing glory relays
From valley ti valley, from age unto age!

Nikova Vaptsarov

Nikola Vaptsarov (1909- 1942)

Vaptsarov was born in the town Bansko. He was a student in The High School in the town Razlog. After that he was a student in The Military School in Varna. And after that he was a probationer on a warship in the port of Burgas. He traveled to Istanbul, Alexandria,Cyprus by warships. When he finished school, he worked as an editor, mechanic in a factory, stoker in a train and his life used to be very difficult. In 1940 he published his one and only book of poetry. In 1942 Vaptsarov was given a death sentence and was killed because he was a member of an illegal group of anti- fascists.

ON PARTING

                                    To My Wife

Sometimes I'll come when you're asleep,
An unexpected visitor.
Don't leave me outside in the street.
Don't bar the door!
I'll enter quietly, softly sit.
And gaze upon you in the dark.
Then when my eyes have gazed their fill,
I'll kiss you and depart