"How long since young maidens
Were dragged to their shame,
Since whistle of whips filled the land,
Since 'Service' possessed 260
A more terrible fame
Than death by the torturer's hand?
"Enough! It is finished,
This tale of the past;
'Tis ended, the masters' long sway;
The strength of the people
Is stirring at last,
To freedom 'twill point them the way.
"Your burden grows lighter,
O Motherland dear, 270
Your wounds less appalling to see.
Your fathers were slaves,
Smitten helpless by fear,
But, Mother, your children are free!"
* * * * *
A small winding footpath
Now tempted young Grísha,
And guided his steps
To a very broad hayfield.
The peasants were cutting
The hay, and were singing 280
His favourite song.
Young Grísha was saddened
By thoughts of his mother,
And nearly in anger
He hurried away
From the field to the forest.
Bright echoes are darting
About in the forest;
Like quails in the wheat
Little children are romping 290
(The elder ones work
In the hay fields already).
He stopped awhile, seeking
For horse-chestnuts with them.
The sun was now hot;
To the river went Grísha
To bathe, and he had
A good view of the ruins
That three days before
Had been burnt. What a picture!
No house is left standing; 301
And only the prison
Is saved; just a few days
Ago it was whitewashed;
It stands like a little
White cow in the pastures.
The guards and officials
Have made it their refuge;
But all the poor peasants
Are strewn by the river 310
Like soldiers in camp.
Though they're mostly asleep now,
A few are astir,
And two under-officials
Are picking their way
To the tent for some vodka
'Mid tables and cupboards
And waggons and bundles.
A tailor approaches
The vodka tent also; 320
A shrivelled old fellow.
His irons and his scissors
He holds in his hands,
Like a leaf he is shaking.
The pope has arisen
From sleep, full of prayers.
He is combing his hair;
Like a girl he is holding
His long shining plait.
Down the Volga comes floating 330
Some wood-laden rafts,
And three ponderous barges
Are anchored beneath
The right bank of the river.
The barge-tower yesterday
Evening had dragged them
With songs to their places,
And there he is standing,
The poor harassed man!
He is looking quite gay though, 340
As if on a holiday,
Has a clean shirt on;
Some farthings are jingling
Aloud in his pocket.
Young Grísha observes him
For long from the river,
And, half to himself,
Half aloud, begins singing:
The Barge-Tower
With shoulders back and breast astrain,
And bathed in sweat which falls like rain,
Through midday heat with gasping song,
He drags the heavy barge along. 352
He falls and rises with a groan,
His song becomes a husky moan….
But now the barge at anchor lies,
A giant's sleep has sealed his eyes;
And in the bath at break of day
He drives the clinging sweat away.
Then leisurely along the quay
He strolls refreshed, and roubles three 360
Are sewn into his girdle wide;
Some coppers jingle at his side.
He thinks awhile, and then he goes
Towards the tavern. There he throws
Some hard-earned farthings on the seat;
He drinks, and revels in the treat,
The sense of perfect ease and rest.
Soon with the cross he signs his breast:
The journey home begins to-day.
And cheerfully he goes away; 370
On presents spends a coin or so:
For wife some scarlet calico,
A scarf for sister, tinsel toys
For eager little girls and boys.
God guide him home—'tis many a mile—
And let him rest a little while….
* * * * *
The barge-tower's fate
Lead the thoughts of young Grisha
To dwell on the whole
Of mysterious Russia— 380
The fate of her people.
For long he was roving
About on the bank,
Feeling hot and excited,
His brain overflowing
With new and new verses.
Russia
"The Tsar was in mood
To dabble in blood:
To wage a great war.
Shall we have gold enough? 390
Shall we have strength enough?
Questioned the Tsar.
"(Thou art so pitiful,
Poor, and so sorrowful,
Yet thou art powerful,
Thy wealth is plentiful,
Russia, my Mother!)
"By misery chastened,
By serfdom of old,
The heart of thy people, 400
O Tsar, is of gold.
"And strong were the nation,
Unyielding its might,
If standing for conscience,
For justice and right.
"But summon the country
To valueless strife,
And no man will hasten
To offer his life.
"So Russia lies sleeping 410
In obstinate rest;—
But should the spark kindle
That's hid in her breast—