At Kiev, in the low countrie,

Things happened once that you’ll never see.

For evermore, ’twas done;

Nevermore, ’twill come.

Yet I, my brother,

Will with hope foregather,

That this again I’ll see,

Though grief it brings to me.

To Kiev in the low countrie

Came our brotherhood so free.

Nor slave nor lord have they,

But all in noble garb so gay

Came splashing forth in mood full glad

With velvet coats the streets are clad.

They swagger in silken garments pride

And they for no one turn aside.

In Kiev, in the low countrie,

All the cossacks dance in glee,

Just like water in pails and tubs

Wine pours out ’mid great hubbubs.

Wine cellars and bars

with all the barmaids

The cossacks have bought

with their wines and meads.

With their heels they stamp

And dancing tramp,

While the music roars

And joyously soars.

The people gaze

with gladsome eyes,

While scholars of the cloister schools

All in silence bred by rules,

Look on with wondering surprise.

Unhappy scholars! Were they free,

They would cossacks dancing be.

Who is this by musicians surrounded

To whom the people give fame unbounded?

In trousers of velvet red,

With a coat that sweeps the road

A cossack comes. Let’s weep o’er his years

For what they’ve done is cause for tears.

But there’s life in the old man yet I trust,

For with dancing kicks

he spurns the dust.

In his short time left with men to mingle

The cossack sings,

this tipsy jingle.

“On the road is a crab, crab, crab.

Let us catch it grab, grab, grab.

Girls are sewing jab, jab, jab.

Let’s dance on trouble,

Dance on it double

Then on we’ll bubble

Already this trouble

We’ve danced on double

So let’s dance on trouble.

Dance on it double,

Then on we’ll bubble.”

To the Cloister of our Saviour

Old gray-hair dancing goes.

After him his joyous crowd

And all the folk of Kiev so proud.

Dances he up to the doors—

“Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!” he roars.

Ye holy monks give greeting

A comrade from the prairie meeting.

Opens the sacred door,

The Cossack enters in.

Again the portal closes

To open no more for him.

What a man was there

this old gray-hair,

Who said to the world farewell?

’Twas Semon Palee,

a cossack free

Whom trouble could not quell.

Oh in the East the sun climbs high

And sets again in the western sky.

In narrow cell in monkish gown

Tramps an old man up and down,

Then climbs the highest turret there

To feast his eyes on Kiev so fair.

And sitting on the parapet

He yields a while to fond regret.

Anon he goes to the woodland spring,

The belfry near, where sweet bells ring.

The cooling draught to his mind recalls [17]

How hard was life without the walls.

Again the monk his cell floor paces

’Mid the silent walls his life retraces.

The sacred book he holds in hand

And loudly reads,

The old man’s mind to Cossack land

Swiftly speeds.

Now holy words do fade away,

The monkish cell turns Cossack den,

The glorious brotherhood lives again.

The gray old captain, like an owl

Peers beneath the monkish cowl.

Music, dances, the city’s calls,

Rattling fetters, Moscow’s walls,

O’er woods and snows

his eyes can see

The banks of distant Yenisee.

Upon his soul deep gloom has crept

And thus the monk in sadness wept.

Down, Down! Bow thy head;

On thy fleshly cravings tread.

In the sacred writings read

Read, read, to the bell give heed,

Thy heart too long has ruled thee,

All thy life it’s fooled thee.

Thy heart to exile led thee,

Now let it silent be.

As all things pass away,

So thou shalt pass away. [18]

Thus may’st thou know thy lot,

Mankind remembers not.

Though groans the old man’s sadness tell.

Upon his book he quickly fell,

And tramped and tramped about his cell.

He sits again in mood forlorn

Wonders why he e’er was born.

One thing alone he fain would tell.

He loves his Ukraina well.

For Matins now

the great bell booms.

The aged monk

his cowl resumes.

For Ukraina now to pray

My good old Palee limps away.

“Oh breeze there is none,

Nor do the waters run

From our Ukraina’s land.

Perhaps, in council there they stand,

To march against the Turk demand.

We hear not in this foreign land.

Blow winds, blow across the sea,

Bring tidings of our land so free,

Come from Dnieper’s Delta low,

Dry our tears and chase away our woe.

Roar in play thou sea so blue.

In yon boats are Cossacks true,

Their caps above are dimly seen.

Rescue for us this may mean.

Once more we’ll hear Ukraina’s story.

Once more the ancient Cossack glory

We’ll hear before we die.”

So in Skutari the Cossacks sang,

Their tears rolled down, their wailing rang

Bosphorus groaned at the Cossack cry.

And then he raised his waves on high.

And shivering like a great grey bull,

His waters roaring far and full

Into the Black Sea’s ribs were hurled.

The sea sent on great Bosphorus’ cry,

To where the sands of the Delta lie,

And then the waters of Dnieper pale

In turn took up the mournful tale.

The father Dnieper rears his crest,

Shakes the foam from off his breast.

With laughter now aloud he calls

To spirits of the forest walls.

“Hortessa sister river, deep,

Time it is to wake from sleep.

Brother forest, sister river,

Come our children to deliver.”

And now the Dnieper is clad with boats,

The Cossack song o’er the water floats.

“In Turkey over there,

Are wealth and riches rare.

Hey, hey, blue sea play.

Then roar upon the shore,

Bringing with you guests so gay.

“This Turkey has in her pockets

Dollars and ducats.

We don’t come pockets to pick,

Fire and sword will do the trick.

We mean to free our brothers.

“There the janissary crouches,

There are pashas on soft couches.

Hey-ho, foemen ware,

For nothing do we care,

Ours are liberty and glory.”

On they sail a-singing

The sea to the wind gives heed, [24]

In foremost boat the helm a-guiding,

Brave Hamaleia takes the lead.

“Oh, Hamaleia, our hearts are fainting,

Behold the sea in madness raving.”

“Don’t fear,” he says, “these spurting fountains,

We’ll hide behind the water mountains.”

All slumber in the harem,

Byzantium’s paradise.

Skutari sleeps, but Bosphorus

In madness shouts, “Arise!

Awake Byzantium!” it roars and groans.

“Awake them not, Oh Bosphorus.”

Replies the sea in thunder tones.

“If thou dost I’ll fill thy ribs with sand,

Bury thee in mud, change thee to solid land.

Perhaps thou knowest not the guest

I bring to break the sultan’s rest.”

So the sea insisted,

For he loved the brave Slavonic band;

And Bosphorus desisted,

While in slumber lay the Turkish land.

The lazy Sultan in his harem slept,

But only in Skutari the weary pris’ners wept.

For something are they waiting,

To God from dungeon praying,

While the waves go roaring by.

“Oh, loved God of Ukraine’s land,

To us in prison stretch thy hand; [25]

Slaves are we a Cossack band.

Shame it is now in truth to say,

Shame it will be at judgment day

For us from foreign tomb to rise,

And at thy court, to the world’s surprise

Show Cossack hands in chains.”

“Strike and kill,

Now the infidels will get their fill

Death to the unbelievers all.”

How they scream beyond the wall!

They’ve heard of Hamaleia’s fame,

Skutari maddens at his name.

“Strike on,” he shouts, “kill and slay

To the castle break your way.”

All the guns of Skutari roar

The foes in frenzy onward pour,

The cossacks rush with panting breath

The janissaries fall in death.

Hamaleia in Skutari

Dances through the flames in glee.

To the jail his way he makes,

Through the prison doors he breaks.

Off the feet the fetters takes.

“Fly away my birds so gray,

In the town to share the prey.”

But the falcons trembled

Nor their fears dessembled [26]

So long they had not heard

A single christian word.

Night herself was frightened.

No flames her darkness lightened.

The old mother could not see

How the Cossacks pay their fee.

“Fear not! Look ahead,

To the Cossack banquet spread.

Dark over all, like a common day,

And this no little holiday.”

“No sneak thieves with Hamaleia,

To eat their bacon silently

Without a frying pan.”

“Let’s have a light,”

Now burning bright

To heaven flames Skutari,

With all its ruined navy.

Byzantium awakes, its eyes it opens wide

With grinding teeth hastes to its

comrade’s side,

Byzantium roars and rages,

With hands to the shore it reaches,

From waters gasping strives to rise,

And then with sword in heart it dies.

With fires of hell Skutari’s burning,

Bazaars with streams of blood are churning [27]

Broad Bosphorus pours in its waves.

Like blackbirds in a bush

The Cossacks fiercely rush.

No living soul escapes.

Untouched by fire,

They the walls down tear,

Silver and gold in their caps they bear,

And load their boats with riches rare.

Burns Skutari, ends the fray,

The warriors gather and come away,

Their pipes with burning cinders light,

And row their boats through waves flame

bright.

All by themselves lived

an old couple fond

In a nice little grove

just by a millpond.

Like birds of a feather

Just always together,

From childhood the two of them

fed sheep together,

Got married, got wealthy,

got houses and lands,

Got a beautiful garden

just where the mill stands,

An apiary full

of beehives like boulders.

Yet no children were theirs,

and death at their shoulders.

Who will cheer their passing years?

Who will soothe their mortal fears?

Who will guard their gathered treasure.

In loyal service find his pleasure?

Who will be their faithful son

When low their sands of life do run?

Hard it is a child to rear,

In roofless house ’mid want and fear.

Yet just as hard ’mid gathered wealth,

When death creeps on with crafty stealth,

And one’s treasures good

At end of life’s wandering,

Are for strangers rude

For mocking and squandering.

One fine Sunday,

in the bright sunlight,

All dressed up

in blouses white,

The old folks sat

on the bench by the door;

No cloud in sky,

What could they ask more?

All peace and love

it seemed like Eden.

Yet angels above

their hearts might read in,

A hidden sorrow,

a gloomy mood

Like lurking beast

in darksome wood.

In such a heaven

Oh, do you see

Whatever could

the trouble be?

I wonder now

what ancient sorrow

Suddenly sprang

into their morrow.

Was it quarrel

of yesterday

Choked off, then

revived today,

Or yet some newly sprouted ire

Arisen to set their heaven on fire?

Perchance they’re called to go to God,

Nor longer dwell on earth’s green sod.

Then who for them on that far way

Horses and chariot shall array?

“Anastasia, wife of mine,

Soon will come our fatal day,

Who will lay our bones away?”

“God only knows.

With me always was that thought

Which gloom into my heart has brought.

Together in years and failing health,

For what have we gathered

all this wealth?”

“Hold a minute,

Hearest thou? Something cries

Beyond the gate—’tis like a child.

Let’s run! See’st ought?

I thought something was there.”

Together they sprang

And to the gate running;

Then stopped in silence wondering.

Before the stile

a swaddled child,

Not bound tightly,

just wrapped lightly,

For it was

in summer mild, [46]

And the mother

with fond caress

Had covered it

with her own last dress.

In wondering prayer

stood our fond old pair.

The little thing

just seemed to plead.

In little arms

stretched out you’ld read

Its prayer,—

in silence all.

No crying—just a little breath its call.

“See, ’Stasia!

What did I tell thee?

Here is fortune and fate for us;

No longer dwell we in loneliness.

Take it

and dress it.

Look at it!

Bless it!

Quick, bear it inside,

To the village I’ll ride.

Its ours to baptize,

God-parents we need for our prize.”

In this world

things strangely run.

There’s a fellow

that curses his son,

Chases him away from home,

Into lonely lands to roam, [47]

While other poor creatures,

With sorrowful features,

With sweat of their toiling

Must much money earn;

The wage of their moiling

Candles to burn.

Prayers to repeat,

The saints to entreat;

For children are none.

This world is no fun

The way things run.

III.

Their joys do now such numbers reach

God fathers and mothers

’Mid lots of others

Behold they have gathered

Three pairs of each.

At even they christen him,

And Mark is the name of him.

So Mark grows,

And so it goes.

For the dear old folk it is no joke,

For they don’t know where to go,

Where to set him, when to pet him.

But the year goes and still Mark grows.

Yet they care for him, you’d scarce tell how,

Just as he were a good milk-cow.

And now a woman young and bright,

With eyebrows dark and skin so white,

Comes into this blessed place,

For servant’s task she asks with grace.

“What, what—

say we’ll take her ’Stasia.”

“We’ll take her, Trophimus.

We are old and little wearies us; [49]

He’s almost grown within a year,

But yet he’ll need more care, I fear.”

“Truly he’ll need care,

And now, praise God, I’ve done my share.

My knees are failing, so now

You poor thing, tell us your wage,

It is by the year or how?”

“What ever you like to give.”

“No, no, it’s needful to know,

It’s needful, my daughter,

to count one’s wage.

This you must learn, count what you earn.

This is the proverb—

Who counts not his money

Hasn’t got any.

But, child, how will this do?

You don’t know us,

We don’t know you.

You’ll stay with us a few days,

Get acquainted with our ways;

We’ll see you day by day,

Bye and bye we’ll talk of pay.

Is it so, daughter?”

“Very good, uncle.”

“We invite you into the house.”

And so they to agreement came.

The young woman seemed always the same, [50]

Cheerful and happy as she’d married a lord

Who’d buy up villages just at her word.

She in the house and out doth work

From morning light to evening’s mirk.

And yet the child is her special care;

Whatever befalls, she’s the mother there.

Nor Monday nor Sunday this mother misses

To give its bath and its white dresses.

She plays and sings, makes wagons and things,

And on a holiday, plays with it all the day.

Wondering, the old folks gaze,

But to God they give the praise.

So the servant never rests,

But the night her spirit tests.

In her chamber then, I ween,

Many a tear she sheds unseen.

Yet none knows nor sees it all

But the little Mark so small.

Nor knows he why in hours of night

His tossings break her slumbers light.

So from her couch she quickly leaps,

The coverings o’er his limbs she keeps.

With sign of cross the child she blesses,

Her gentle care her love confesses.

Each morning Mark spreads out his hands

To the Servant as she stands;

Accepts, unknowing, a mother’s care.

Only to grow is his affair.

IV.

Meantime many a year has rolled,

Many waters to the sea have flowed,

Trouble to the home has come,

Many a tear down the cheek has run.

Poor old ’Stasia in earth they laid.

Hardly old Trophim’ from death they saved.

The cursed trouble roared so loud,

And then it went to sleep, I trow.

From the dark woods where she frightened lay

Peace came back in the home to stay.

The little Mark is farmer now.

With ox-teams great in the fall must go

To far Crimea to barter there

Skins for salt and goods more rare.

The Servant and Trophimus

in counsel wise

Plans for his marriage

now devise.

Dared she her thoughts utter

For the Czar’s daughter

She’d send in a trice.

But the most she could say

While thinking this way

Was, “Ask Mark’s advice.”

“My daughter, we’ll ask him,

And then we’ll affiance him.” [53]

So they gave him sage advice,

And they made decision nice.

Soon his grave friends about him stand.

He sends them to woo, a stately band.

Back they come with towels on shoulder

Ere the day is many hours older.

The sacred bread they have exchanged,

The bargain now is all arranged.

They’ve found a maiden in noble dress,

A princess true, you well may guess.

Such a queen is in this affiance

As with a general might make alliance.

“Hail, and well done,” the old man says,

And now let’s have no more delays.

When the marriage, where the priest,

What about the wedding feast?

Who shall take the mother’s place?

How we’ll miss my ’Stasia’s face.”

The tears along his cheeks do fall,

Yet a word does the Servant’s heart appall.

Hastily rushing from the room,

In chamber near she falls in swoon.

The house is silent, the light is dim,

The sorrowing Servant thinks of him

And whispers: “Mother, mother, mother.”

V.

All the week at the wedding cake

Young women in crowds both mix and bake.

The old man is in wondrous glee,

With all the young women dances he.

At sweeping the yard

He labors hard.

All passers-by on foot and horseback

He hales to the court where is no lack

Of good home-brew.

All comers he asks to the marriage

And yet ’tis true

He runs around so

You’d not guess from his carriage

Though his joy is such a wonderful gift,

His old legs are ’most too heavy to lift.

Everywhere is disorder and laughter

Within the house and in the yard.

From store-room keg upon keg follows after,

Workers’ voices everywhere heard.

They bake, they boil,

At sweeping toil,

Tables and floors they wash them all.

And where is the Servant

who cares not for wage?

To Kiev she is gone

on pilgrimage.

Yes, Anna went. The old man pled,

Mark almost wept for her to stay,

As mother sit, to see him wed.

Her call of duty elsewhere lay.

“No, Mark, such honor must I not take

To sit while you your homage make

To parents dear.

My mind is clear.

A servant must not thy mother be

Lest wealthy guests may laugh at thee.

Now may God’s mercy with thee stay,

To the saints at Kiev I go to pray.

But yet again shall I return

Unto your house, if you do not spurn

My strength and toil.”

With pure heart

she blessed her Mark

And weeping, passed

beyond the gate.

Then the wedding blossomed out;

Work for musicians and the joyous rout

Of dancing feet;

While mead so sweet

Of fermented honey with spices dashed

Over the benches and tables splashed,

Meanwhile the Servant limps along

Hastening on the weary road to Kiev.

To the city come, she does not rest, [56]

Hires to a woman of the town;

For wages carries water.

You see she money, money needs

For prayers to Holy Barbara.

She water carries, never tarries,

And mighty store of pennies saves,

Then in the Lavra’s awesome caves

She seeks the blessed wealth she craves.

From St. John she buys a magic cap,

For Mark she bears it;

And when he wears it,

For never a headache need he give e’er a rap.

And then St. Barbara gives her a ring,

To her new daughter back to bring.

’Fore all the saints

she makes prostrations,

Then home returns

having paid her oblations.

She has come back.

Fair Kate with Mark makes haste to meet her,

Far beyond the gate they greet her,

Then into the house they bring her,

Draw her to the table there

Quickly spread with choicest fare.

Her news of Kiev they now request,

While Kate arranges her couch for rest.

“Why do they love me,

Why this respect?

Dear God above me,

Do they suspect?

Nay, that’s not so,

’Tis just goodness, I know.”

And still the Servant her secret kept,

Yet from the hurt of her penance wept.

VI.

Three times have the waters frozen

Thrice thawed at the touch of spring

Three times did the Servant

From Kiev her store of blessings bring.

And each time gentle Katherine,

As daughter, set her on her way,

A fourth time led her by the mounds

Where many dear departed lay.

Then prayed to God for her safe return,

For whom in absence her heart would yearn.

It was the Sunday of the Virgin,

Old Trophimus sat in garments white,

On the bench, in wide straw hat,

All amid the sunshine bright.

Before him with a little dog

His frolicsome grandson played,

The while his little granddaughter

Was in her mother’s garb arrayed.

Smiling he welcomed her as matron;

For so at “visitors” they played.

“But what did you do with the visitor’s cake?

Did somebody steal it in the wood,

Or perhaps you’ve simply forgotten to bake?”

For so they talked in lightsome mood.

But see,—Who comes?

’Tis their Anna at the door!

Run old and young! Who’ll come before?

But Anna waits not their welcome wordy.

“Is Mark at home, or still on journey?”

“He’s off on journey long enough,”

Says the old man in accents gruff.

With pain the Servant sadly saith,

“Home have I come with failing breath;

Nor ’mid strangers would I wait for death.

May I but live my Mark to see,

For something grievously weighs on me.”

From little bag the children’s gifts

She takes. There’s crosses and amulets.

For Irene is of beads a string,

And pictures too, and for Karpon

A nightingale to sweetly sing,

Toy horses and a wagon.

A fourth time she brings a ring

From St. Barbara to Katherine.

Next the old man’s gift she handles,

It’s just three holy waxen candles.

For Mark and herself

she nothing brought;

For want of money

she nothing bought.

For want of strength

more funds to earn,

Half a bun was her wealth

on her return.

As to how to divide it

Let the babes decide it.

VII.

She enters now the house so sweet,

And daughter Katherine bathes her feet.

Then sets her down to dine in state,

But my Anna nor drank nor ate.

“Katherine!

When is our Sunday?”

“After tomorrow’s the day.”

“Prayers for the dead soon will we need

Such as St. Nicholas may heed.

Then we must an offering pay,

For Mark tarries on the way.

Perchance somewhere,

from our vision hid,

Sickness has ta’en him

which God forbid.”

The tears dropped down

from the sad old eyes,

So wearily did she

from the table rise.

“Katherine,

My race is run,

All my earthly tasks are done.

My powers no longer I command

Nor on my feet have strength to stand.

And yet, my Kate, how can I die

While in this dear warm home I lie?”

The sickness harder grows amain,

For her the sacred host’s appointed,

She’s been with holy oils anointed,

Yet nought relieves her pain.

Old Trophim’ in courtyard walks a-ring

Moving like a stricken thing.

Katherine, for the suff’rers sake

Doth never rest for her eyelids take.

And even the owls upon the roof

Of coming evil tell the proof.

The suff’rer now, each day, each hour,

Whispers the question, with waning power

“Daughter Katherine, is Mark yet here?

So struggle I with doubt and fear,

Did I but know I’d see him for sure

Through all my pain I might endure.”

VIII.

Now Mark comes on with the caravan

Singing blithely as he can.

To the inns he makes no speed,

Quietly lets the oxen feed.

Mark brings home for Katherine

Precious cloth of substance rich;

For father dear, a girdle sewn

Of silk so red.

For Servant Anne

a gold cloth bonnet

To deck her head,

And kerchief, too

with white lace on it.

For the children are shoes

with figs and grapes.

There’s gifts for all,

there’s none escapes.

For all he brings

red wine, so fine,

From great old city

of Constantine.

There’s buckets three

in each barrel put on.

And caviar

from the river Don.

Such gifts he has

in his wagon there,

Nor knows the sorrow

his loved ones bear. [64]

On comes Mark,

knows not of worry;

But he’s come

Give God the glory!

The gate he opens,

Praising God.

“Hear’st thou, Katherine?

Run to meet him!

Already he’s come,

Haste to greet him!

Quickly bring him in to me.

Glory to Thee, my Saviour dear,

All the strength has come from Thee.”

And she “Our Father” softly said

Just as if in dream she read.

The old man the team unyokes,

Lays away the carven yokes.

Kate at her husband strangely looks.

“Where’s Anna, Katherine?

I’ve been careless!

She’s not dead?”

“No, not dead,

But very sick and calls for thee.”

On the threshold Mark appears,

Standing there as torn by fears.

But Anna whispers, “Be not afraid,

Glory to God, Who my fears allayed.

Go forth, Katherine,

though I love you well,

I’ve something to ask him,

something to tell.”

From the place

fair Katherine went;

While Mark his head

o’er the Servant bent.

“Mark, look at me,

Look at me well!

A secret now I have to tell.

On this faded form

set no longer store,

No servant, I, nor Anna more,

I am——”

Came silence dumb,

Nor yet guessed Mark

What was to come.

Yet once again her eyelids raised

Into his eyes she deeply gazed

’Mid gathering tears.

“I from thee forgiveness pray;

I’ve penance offered day by day

All my life to serve another.

Forgive me, son, of me,

For I—am thy mother.”

She ceased to speak.

A sudden faintness

Mark did take:

It seemed the earth

itself did shake.

He roused—

and to his mother crept,

But the mother

forever slept.

Beyond the hills are mightier hills,

Cloud mountains o’er them rise,

Red, red have flowed their streams and rills,

They’re sown with human woes and sighs.

There long ago in days of old

Olympus’ Czar, the angry Jove,

His wrath did pour on a hero bold,

On brave Prometheus, he who strove

The fire of heaven to seize for men.

On mountain side, in vulture’s den

He suffered what no mortal pen

May well indite. The savage beak

Of his hearts’ blood doth daily reek.

Yet the torn heart again revives,

To triumph o’er its tortures strives.

Our souls yield not to grievous ills,

To freedom march our stubborn wills.

Though waves of trouble o’er us roll

The waves move not the steadfast soul.

Our living spirit is not in chains,

The word of God in glory reigns.

’Tis not for us to challenge Thee,

Though life rolls on in toil and tears;

Though we Thy purpose cannot see

We cling to hope ’mid doubts and fears.

Our cause lies sunk in drunken sleep

When will it awaken, Lord? [70]

Oppressors gloat and patriots weep,

When wilt strength to us afford?

So weary, then art Thou, Oh God,

Can’st life to us no longer give?

Thy Truth we trust beneath the rod,

Believing in Thy strength we live.

Our cause shall rise,

Our freedom rise

Though tyrants rage:

To Thee alone,

All nations bow

Through age on age

And yet meantime

the streams do flow

And ever tinged with blood

they go.

Beyond the hills are mightier hills,

Cloud mountains o’er them rise.

Red, red have flowed their streams and rills,

They’re sown with human woes and sighs.

Look at us in tender heartedness,

All in hunger dire and nakedness,

Forging freedom in unhappiness,

Toiling ever without blessedness.

The bones of soldiers bleaching lie,

In blood and tears must many die.

In faith, there’s widows’ tears, I think,

To all the Czars to give to drink.

Then there’s tears of many a maiden

Falling so soft in the lonely night.

Hot tears of mothers, sorrow-laden,

Dry tears of fathers, in grievous plight.

Not rivers, but a sea has flowed,

A burning sea.

To all the Czars who in triumph rode,

With their hounds and gamekeepers,

Their dogs and their beaters,

May glory be!

To you be glory, hills of blue,

All clad in monstrous chains of frost.

Glory to you, ye heroes true,

With God your labors are not lost.

Fear not to fight, you’ll win at length,

For you, God’s ruth,

For you is freedom, for you is strength,

And Holy Truth.

’Twas dawn, ’tis evening light,

So passes Day divine.

Again the weary folk

And all things earthly

Take their rest.

I alone, remorseful

For my country’s woes,

Weep day and night,

By the thronged cross-roads,

Unheeded by all.

They see not, they know not;

Deaf ears, they hear not.

They trade old fetters for new

And barter righteousness,

Make nothing of their God.

They harness the people

With heavy yokes.

Evil they plough,

With evil they sow.

What crops will spring?

What harvest will you see?

Arouse ye, unnatural ones.

Children of Herod!

Look on this calm Eden,

Your own Ukraine,

Bestow on her tender love,

Mighty in her ruins.

Break your fetters,

Join in brotherhood,

Seek not in foreign lands [83]

Things that are not.

Nor yet in Heaven,

Nor in stranger’s fields,

But in your own house

Lies your righteousness,

Your strength and your liberty.

In the world is but one Ukraine,

Dnieper—there is only one.

But you must off to foreign lands

To look for something grand and good.

Wealth of goodness and liberty,

Fraternity and so forth, you found.

And back you brought to Ukraine

From places far away

A wondrous force

of lofty sounding words,

And nothing more.

Shout aloud

That God created you for this,

To bow the knee to lies,

To bend and bend again

Your spineless backs

And skin again

Your brothers—

These ignorant buckwheat farmers.

Try again

to ripen crops of truth and light

In Germany

or some other foreign place.

If one should add [84]

all our present misery

To the wealth

Our fathers stole

Orphaned, indeed, would Dnieper be

with all his holy hills.

Faugh! if it should happen

that you would never come back,

Or get snuffed out

just where you were spawned

No children would weep

nor mothers lament,

Nor in God’s house be heard

the story of your shame.

The sun would not shine

on the stench of your filth

O’er the clean, broad, free land,

Nor would the people know

what eagles you were

Nor turn their heads to gaze.

Arouse ye, be men!

For evil days come.

Quickly a people enchained

Shall tear off their fetters;

Judgment will come,

Dnieper and the hills will speak.

A hundred rivers

flow to the sea

with your children’s blood,

Nor will there be any to help. [85]

Smoke clouds hide the sun

Through the ages

Your sons shall curse you.

Wash yourselves—

The divine likeness in you

defile not with slime.

Befool not your children

that they were born to the world

to be lordlings.

The eyes of men untaught

see deep, deep

into your soul.

Poor things they may he,

yet they know the ass

in the lion’s skin.

And they will judge you,

the foolish will pronounce the doom

of the wise.

[86]

III.

To the very limit

has our country come,

Her own children

crucify her

worse than the Poles.

How like beer

they draw off

her righteous blood.

They would, you see

enlighten the maternal eyes

with everlasting fires;

Lead on the poor blind cripple

after the spirit of the age,

German fashion!

Fine, go ahead,

show us the way!

Let the old mother learn

how to look after such children

Show away!

For this instruction,

Don’t worry—

Good motherly reward will be.

The illusion fades

from your greedy eyes

Glory shall you see,

such glory as fits

the sons of deceitful sires.

To study then, my brothers,

Think and read, [92]

Learn from the foreigner

Despise not your own.

Who forgets his mother

Him God will punish.

Foreigners will despise him

Nor admit him to their homes;

His children shall as strangers be

Nor shall he find happiness on earth.

I weep when I remember

the deeds of our fathers,

deeds I can not forget.

Heavy on my heart they lie;

Half my life I’d give

could I forget them.

Such is our glory

the glory of Ukraine.

So read then

that ye may see

Not in dream

but in vision

All the wrongs that lie

beneath yon mighty tombs.

Ask then of the martyrs

by whom, when and for what

were they crucified.

Embrace then

brothers mine—

The least of your brethren.

That your mother may smile again,

Smile through her tears. [93]

Give blessings to your children

with hard toiler’s hands;

With free lips kiss them

when they are washed and clad.

Forget the shameful past

And the true glory shall live again,

the glory of the Ukraine.

And clear light of day

not twilight gloom

Shall gently shine.

Love one another, my brothers,

I pray you—I plead.

Oh my lofty hills—

Yet not so lofty

But beautiful ye are.

Sky-blue in the distance;

Older than old Pereyaslav,

Or the tombs of Vebla,

Like those clouds that rest

Beyond the Dnieper.

I walk with quiet step,

And watch the wonders peeping out.

Out of the clouds march silently

Scarped cliff and bush and solitary tree;

White cottages creep forth

Like children in white garments,

Playing in the valley’s gloom.

And far below our gray old Cossack,

The Dnieper, sings musically

Amid the woods.

And then beyond the Dnieper on the hillside,

The little Cossack church

Stands like a chapel,

With its leaning cross.

Long it stands there, gazing, waiting,

For the Cossacks from the Delta;

To the Dnieper prattles,

Telling all its woe

From its green-stained windows,

Like eyes of the dead,

It peeps as from the tomb. [98]

Dost thou look for restoration?

Expect not such glory.

Robbed are thy people.

For what care the wicked lords

For the ancient Cossack fame?

And Traktemir above the hill

Scatters its wretched houses

Like a drunken beggar’s bags.

And there is old Manaster

Once a Cossack town.

Is that the one that used to be?

All, all is gone, as a playground for the kings

The land of the Zaporogues and the village

All, all the greedy ones have taken.

And you hills, you permitted it!

May no one look on you more

Cursed ones!—No! No!

Not you I curse,

But our quarreling generals,

And the inhuman Poles.

Forgive me, my lofty ones,

Lofty ones and blue,

Finest in the world, and holiest,

Forgive me, I pray God.

For so I love my poor Ukraina,

I might blaspheme the holy God,

And for her lose my soul.

On a curve of lofty Traktemir

A lonely cottage like an orphan stands, [99]

Ready to plunge from off the height

To loved Dnieper, far below.

From that house Ukraina is seen,

And all the land of the Hetmans.

Beside the house an old gray father sits.

Beyond the river the sun goes down

As he sits, and looks, and sadly thinks.

“Alas, Alas!” the old man cries,

“Fools, that lost this land of God,

The Hetmans’ land.”

His brow with thought is clouded,

Something bitter he would have said

But did not.

“Much have I wandered in the world,

In peasant’s coat and garb of lord.

How is it beyond the Ural,

Among the Kirghiz, Tartars?

Good God, even there it is better

Than in our Ukraina.

Perhaps because the Kirghiz

Are not Christians.

Much evil hast thou done, Oh Christ,

Hast changed the people God had made.

Our Cossacks lost their foolish heads

For truth, and the Christian faith.

Much blood they shed, their own and others.

And were they better for it?

Bah! No! They were ten times worse.

Apart from knife and auto-da-fe

They have chained up the people, [100]

And they kill them.

Oh gentlemen, Christian gentlemen!”

My grey old man, with sorrow beaten,

Ceased, and bent his brave old head.

The evening sun gilded the woods,

The river and fields were covered with gold.

Mazeppa’s cathedral in whiteness shines;

Great Bogdan’s tomb is gleaming,

The willows bend o’er the road to Kiev,

And hide the Three Brothers’ ancient graves.

Trubail and Alta, mid the reeds

Approach, unite in sisterly embrace.

Everything, everything gladdens the eyes,

But the heart is sad and will not see.

The glowing sun has bade farewell

To the dark land.

The round moon rises with her sister star,

Out they step from behind the clouds.

The clouds rejoiced

But the old man gazed,

And his tears rolled down.

“I pray Thee, merciful God,

Mighty Lord, Heavenly Judge,

Suffer me not to perish;

Grant me strength to overcome my woe.

To live out my life on these sacred hills:

To glorify Thee and rejoice in Thy beauty,

And at last, though beaten by the people’s sins. [101]

To be buried on these lofty hills,

And to abide on them.”

He dried his tears,

Hot tears, though not the tears of youth;

And thought on the blessed years of long ago

Where was this?

What, how, and when?

Was it truth, or was it dream?

On what seas have I been sailing?

The green wood in the twilight,

The maiden with eyebrows dark,

The moon at rest among the stars,

The nightingale on the viburnum,

Whether in silence or in song

Praising the Holy God.

And all, all is in Ukraina.

The old man smiled—

Well, it may be—you can’t avoid the truth

So it was—they wooed,

They parted, they did not marry.

She left him to live alone,

To live out his life.

The old man was sad again,

Wandered long about the house,

Then prayed to God,

Went in the house to sleep,

And the moon was swathed in clouds.

Thus in a foreign land

I dreamed my dream,

As if born again to the world

In freedom once more.

Grant me, Oh God, some time,

In old age, perchance,

To stand again on these stolen hills,

In a little cottage,

To bring my heart eaten out with sorrow

To rest at last, on the hills above the Dnieper.

To Tsars and kings

who tax the world,

Send dollars and ducats,

And fetters well-forged.

To toiling heads and toiling hands,

Laboring on these stolen lands

Endurance and strength.

To me, my God, on this sad earth,

Give me but love,

the heart’s paradise

And nothing more.

My prayer for the Tsars,

These traffickers in blood,

That Thou on them would’st put

Fetters of iron, in dungeons deep.

My prayer for the peoples

toiling long,

Do Thou to them

on their ravaged lands,

Send down Thy strength

most merciful One.

And for the pure in heart

Grant angel guards beside them,

To keep them pure.

And for myself, Oh Lord,

I ask nought else

But truth on earth to love,

And one true friend

to love me.

For those that have done wrong to me,

No longer do I fetters ask,

Nor dungeons deep.

For hands that faithful toil for good

Send Thy instructions’ gracious aid,

And Holy strength.

For tender ones,

the pure in heart

Do Thou, Oh God,

their virtue save

With angel’s guard.

For all Thy children on this earth

May they Thy wisdom

know alike,

In brother love.

To those of the ever-greedy eyes,

Gods of earth, the Tsars,

Are the ploughs and the ships,

And all good things of earth

For these little gods.

To toiling hands,

To toiling brains

Is given to plough the barren field,

To think, to sow, and take no rest

And reap the fields anon.

Such the reward of toiling hands.

For the true-hearted lowly ones,

Peace-loving saints,

Oh, Creator of heaven and earth,

Give long life on earth,

And paradise beyond.

All good things of earth

Are for these gods, the Tsars,

Ploughs and ships,

All wealth of earth

For us—good luck!

Is left to love our brothers.

Mighty wind, mighty wind!

With the sea thou speakest;

Waken it, play with it,

Question the blue sea.

It knows where my lover is,

Far away it bore him.

It will tell, the sea will tell,

What it has done with him.

If it has drowned my darling,

Beat on the blue sea.

I go to seek my loved one,

And to drown my woe.

If I find him, I’ll cling to him,

On his heart I’ll faint.

Then waves bear me with him

Where’er the winds do blow.

If my lover is beyond the sea,

Mighty wind, thou knowest

Where he goes, what he does,

With him thou speakest. [137]

If he weeps, then I shall weep,

If not, I sing.

If my dark-haired one has perished,

I shall perish, too.

Then bear my soul away

Where my loved one is,

Plant me as a red viburnum

On his tomb.

Better that an orphan lie

In a stranger’s field,

Over him his sweetheart

Will bud and bloom.

As a blossom of viburnum

Over him I’ll bloom,

That foreign sun may burn him not,

Nor strangers trample on his tomb.

At even I’ll grieve,

In the morning I’ll weep.

The sun comes up,

My tears I’ll dry,

And no one sees.

Mighty wind, mighty wind!

With the sea thou speakest.

Waken it, play on it,

Question the blue sea.

Me my mother bore

’Mid lofty palace walls,

Me at midnight hour

In Dnieper’s flood she bathed;

And bathing, she murmured

Over little me:

“Swim, swim, little maid,

Adown the Dnieper water,

You’ll swim out a fairy

Next midnight, my daughter.

I go to dance with him,

My faithless lover;

You’ll come and lure him

Into the river.

No more shall he laugh at me,

At my tears out-flowing,

But o’er him the Dnieper

Its blue water is rolling.

Swim out, my only one,

He will come to dance with thee.

Waves, waves, little waves,

Greet ye the water fairy.”

Sadly she cried and ran away,

As I floated down the stream. [139]

But sister fairies met me,

I grew as in a dream.

A week, and I dance at midnight,

And watch from the water pools.

What does my sinful mother?

Lives she still in shameful pleasure,

With him, the faithless lord?

Thus the fairy whispered,

Then like diving bird she dropped

Back in the stream,

And the willows bowed above her.

The mother comes to walk by the river side.

’Tis weary in the palace,

And the lord is not at home.

She comes to the bank, thinks of her little one

Whom she plunged in with muttered charms.

What matters it? She would go back to the palace,

But no, hers is another fate.

She noticed not how the river maidens hastened

Till they caught her, and tickled her ’mid laughter.

Joyfully they caught her, and played and tickled her,

And put her in a basket net

(Unto her death).

And then they roared and laughed;

But one little fairy did not laugh.

Strike lightning above this house,

This house of God where we are dying,

Where we think lightly of Thee, God,

And, thinking lightly, sing

Hallelujah.

Were it not for Thee,

we had loved men;

Had courted and married,

Brought up children,

Taught them and sung

Hallelujah.

Thou hast cheated us,

poor wretches!

And we, defrauded and unlucky,

Ourselves have fooled Thee,

And howled and sung: Hallelujah.

With barber’s shears hast put us in this nunnery,

And we—young women still—

We dance and sing,

And singing say: Hallelujah.

Hail, thou barmaid slovenly,

Stagg’ring like fish-wife drunkenly;

Where the dickens dost thou stay,

With thy stock of haloes, pray?

Was it on credit thou gavest one

To the thief of Versailles, that Corsican?

Perhaps now thou’rt whispering in some fellow’s ear;

And all because of boredom or beer.

Come then awhile with me to lodge,

Fondly, together, trouble we’ll dodge.

With a smack and a kiss

This dreary weather,

Let’s make a bargain

to live together.

Thou’rt a painted queen

with manners free,

Yet in thy company

I’d gladly be.

What though thou holdest

thy nose in air,

Dancest in barrooms

with kings at a fair; [142]

And most with that chap

they call the Tsar;

Still that’s no bother,

thy stock’s still at par.

Come, my dear, make haste to me,

Let me have a look at thee;

Bestow on me a little smile,

’Neath thy bright wings

I’d rest a while.