FROM NEKRASOF.

In our village there’s cold and there’s hunger; Through the mist the sad morn rises chill; Tolls the bell—the parishioners calling From afar to the church on the hill; Austere and severe and commanding Pealed that dull tone thro’ the air. I spent in the church that wet morning; I can never forget the scene there. For there knelt the village hamlet, Young and old in a weeping crowd; To be saved from the grievous famine The people prayed aloud. Such woe I had seldom witnessed, Such agony of prayer, And unconsciously I murmured, “O God, the people spare!” “Spare their friends, too, in Thy mercy! Oh, hear our heartfelt cry! For those who strove to free the serf We lift the prayer on high; For those who bore the battle’s brunt And lived to win the day, For those who’ve heard the serf’s last song, To Thee, O God, we pray.”

Ah! tell me not he prudence quite forgot; That he himself for his own fate’s to blame. Clearer than we, he saw that man cannot Both serve the good and save himself from flame. But men he loved with higher, broader glow; His soul for worldly honours did not sigh; For self alone he could not live below, But for the sake of others he could die. Thus thought he—and to die, for him, was gain. He will not say that “life to him was dear;” He will not say that “death was useless pain;” To him, long since, his destiny was clear.

Offer my Muse a friendly hand, For I can sing no other song. Who feels no woe, nor flames at wrong, Loves not his Fatherland.

I dreamt that, standing on a height, I wished to plunge me in the sea, When, lo! a spirit of peace and light, This wondrous song sang unto me: ‘Await the spring! I’ll soon be here;’ I’ll say, ‘Again let manhood rise!’ The mist from clouded brows I’ll clear, And dreary dreams from heavy eyes. Back to your Muse her voice I’ll give, And once again you’ll find the days All blessed—as you bind the sheaf— Reaping your unmown upland ways.

A heavy cross, the lot Fate laid upon her— “Suffer! be silent! weep not! feign the smile!” And he, to whom her love, her youth, her will, Her all, she’d given, her torturer proved the while. For years no greeting with a friend knew she; Subdued, in sadness, and in trembling fear, Bitter, unreasoning, sarcastic jeers, Without a murmur, ’twas her lot to hear. “Hush! tell me not you’ve lost your youth for me— That you’re distracted by my jealousy; Nay, tell me not! My grave is close at hand, While you are fresher than spring’s blossoms be. “That day, the day when you at first loved me, And heard from me, ‘I love,’ in whispered breath, Curse not that day! The grave is near for me! I will right all, redeem all, by my death. “Cease! Tell me not the days for you are sad; This invalid a jailor cease to name. For me remains the cold gloom of the grave; For thee the embraces of another flame. “Full well I know thou dost another love. To spare, to wait, this seemed a tedious plan. Oh, wait awhile! my grave is very near! Let Fate end that which Fate in me began!” Such cruel, torturing, insulting words— Lovely, yet pale as chiselled marble—she In silence heard, and only wrung her hands. What could she answer to such jealousy?

To whom I like I mercy show, And whom I like I kill; My fist—my only constable, My only law—my will. A blow from which the sparkle flits, A blow that knocks the teeth to bits, A blow that breaks the jaw!

The mighty chain is snapped in twain, Is snapped and bounds asunder. The landlords clutch one broken end; At t’other peasants blunder. The fields remain unploughed and bare; The seed is left unsown; No trace of order anywhere, O mother-land, our own! Not for ourselves thus sorrow we; We grieve, O native land, for thee! Oh, true-believing peasantry! Russia’s your mother small; The Tsar’s your little father. And that for you is all!

Then up there comes a veteran, With medals on his breast; He scarcely lives, but yet he strives To drink with all the rest. “A lucky man, am I,” he cries, And thus to prove the fact he tries. “In what consists a soldier’s luck? Pray, listen while I tell. In twenty fights, or more, I’ve been, And yet I never fell. And, what is more, in peaceful times Full meal I never knew; Yet, all the same, I have contrived Not to give Death his due. Again, for sins both great and small, Full many a time they’ve me With sticks unmercifully flogged, Yet I’m alive, you see!”