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diff --git a/old/68486-0.txt b/old/68486-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b4a2451..0000000 --- a/old/68486-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4010 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Kobzar of the Ukraine, by Taras -Shevchenko - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Kobzar of the Ukraine - Being Select Poems of Taras Shevchenko - -Author: Taras Shevchenko - -Translator: Alexander Jardine Hunter - -Release Date: July 9, 2022 [eBook #68486] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net/ for Project Gutenberg (This - file was produced from images generously made available by - The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KOBZAR OF THE -UKRAINE *** - - - - - - THE KOBZAR OF THE UKRAINE - - Being Select Poems of - TARAS SHEVCHENKO - - - Done into English Verse with Biographical Fragments by - ALEXANDER JARDINE HUNTER - - - - Printed in Winnipeg. - - Published by Dr. A. J. Hunter, - Teulon, Man. - - - - - - - - -CONTENTS - - - Page - -Introduction 9 - - -POEMS. - - BALLADS: - - The Monk 13 - Hamaleia 21 - The Night of Taras 30 - - TALE: - - Naimechka; or The Servant 39 - - SOCIAL AND POLITICAL POETRY: - - Caucasus 68 - To the Dead 81 - A Dream 96 - The Bondwoman’s Dream 106 - To the Makers of Sentimental Idyls 109 - - POEMS OF EXILE: - - A Poem of Exile 114 - Memories of Freedom 120 - Memories of an Exile 123 - Death of the Soul 124 - Hymn of Exile 126 - - RELIGIOUS POEMS: - - On the 11th Psalm 130 - Prayers 132 - - EARLY POEMS: - - Mighty Wind 136 - The Water Fairy 138 - - HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL: - - Hymn of the Nuns 140 - To the Goddess of Fame 141 - - PREDICTION AND FAREWELL: - - Iconoclasm 143 - My Testament 144 - - -BIOGRAPHICAL FRAGMENTS. - - Who Was Taras Shevchenko 11 - The Cossacks 19 - Kobzars 29 - The Forming of a Life 36 - A Father’s Legacy 67 - The Meaning of Serfdom 79 - Freedom and Friends 94 - A Triumphal March 103 - Autocrat Versus Poet 112 - Siberian Exile 118 - Returning Home 127 - - - - - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - -The decorations and illustrations in this book are meant to show -something of Ukrainian art. - -The artistic instincts of the peasant women find satisfaction largely -in the working of embroidery, each district having its own -characteristic types of design. - -One of Shevchenko’s favorite fancies was to compare his versification -to the work of the girls and women embroidering their designs on their -garments. He frequently speaks of himself as “embroidering verses.” - -It is a favorite device of Ukrainian book-makers to decorate their -pages with miniature landscapes and little figures. - -The frontispiece of the present work is a picture of Shevchenko in -youth from an original painted by himself. On page 129 we see him as he -looked after his return from exile. - - - - - - - - -LIFE - - -Born 1811, February 26. - - 24 years a serf, - 9 years a freeman, - 10 years a prisoner in Siberia, - 3 1–2 years under police supervision. - -Died 1861, February 26. - - - - - - - - -INTRODUCTION. - - -Nearly twenty years ago the translator of these poems was sent by the -Presbyterian church as a medical missionary to a newly settled district -in Manitoba. A very large proportion of the incoming settlers in this -district were Ukrainians, indeed it was largely owing to the interest -taken in these newcomers that the writer was sent there. - -It was Mr. John Bodrug who first, introduced him to the study of the -poems of Shevchenko and with his help translations of three or four of -the poems were made a dozen years ago. Press of other work prevented -the following up of this study till last summer when with the help of -Mr. Sigmund Bychinsky translations were made of the other poems here -given, and considerable time spent in arriving at an understanding of -the spirit of the poems and the nature of the situations described. -Then the more formidable task was approached of trying to carry over -not only the thought but something of the style, spirit and music of -the original into the English tongue. - -The spirit of Shevchenko was too independent to suffer him to be much -bound by narrow rules of metre and rhyme. The translator has found the -same attitude convenient, for when the versification may be varied as -desired it is much easier to preserve the original thoughts intact. - -The writer’s thanks are due for help and advice to Messrs. Arsenych, -Woicenko, Rudachek, Ferley, Sluzar and Stechyshyn and especially to -Mrs. Bychinsky and for help with the manuscript to Miss Sara -Livingstone. - - -A. J. H. - - - - - - - - -WHO WAS TARAS SHEVCHENKO? - - -How many English-speaking people have heard of Taras Shevchenko? - -What “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” did for the negroes of the United States of -America the poems of Shevchenko did for the serfs of Russia. They -aroused the conscience of the Russian people, and the persecutions -suffered by the poet at the hands of the autocracy awakened their -sympathy. - -It was two days after the death of Shevchenko that the czar’s ukase -appeared granting freedom to the serfs. Possibly the dying poet knew it -was coming and died the happier on that account. - -But in still another way does this man’s figure stand out. In the -country called the Ukraine is a nation of between thirty and forty -millions of people, having a language of their own—the language in -which these poems were composed. - -This has been, as it were, a nation lost, buried alive one might say, -beneath the power of surrounding empires. - -They have a terrible history of oppression, alternating with desperate -revolts against Polish and Muscovite tyranny. - -In these poems speaks the struggling soul of a downtrodden people. To -our western folk, reared in happier surroundings there is a bitter tang -about some of them, somewhat like the taste of olives, to which one -must grow accustomed. The Slavonic temperament, too, is given to -melancholy and seems to dwell congenially in an atmosphere misty with -tears. But he gravely misreads their literature who fails to perceive -the grim resolve beneath the sorrow. - -In the struggle of the Ukrainians for freedom the spirit of this poet, -who was born a serf, remains ever their guiding star. - - - - - - - - -THE MONK - - -It happened sometimes, when a cossack warrior found his energies -failing and his joints growing stiff from much campaigning, he would -bethink him of his sins and deeds of blood. - -These things weighing on his mind, he would decide to spend the -remainder of his life in a monastery, but before taking this -irrevocable step, he would hold a time of high revel with his old -comrades. This poem pictures such an event. - - - 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 - 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. - 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. - - - - - - - - -THE COSSACKS - - -Back somewhere in the middle distance of European history—when the -Ukraine was under Polish rule, though ever harrassed by the devastating -raids of Turks and Tartars—there developed bands of guerilla fighters -in the wild border-land beyond the rapids of the Dnieper. - -Sometimes fighting against the Tartars, sometimes in alliance with -them, they became known by the name ‘Kazak,’ a word of uncertain -origin. - -Fierce banditti they were, many of them serfs who had run away from -their Polish masters. But they often developed great military power. At -times the Poles succeeded in securing numbers of them as fighters in -their army, but when the tyranny of the Polish landlords became -intolerable the so-called “Registered Cossacks” would sometimes join -with the “Free Cossacks” of the “border land”—which is the meaning of -the word “Ukraine,” and exact terrible vengeance on the Poles. - -The story of these warlike deeds of the Cossacks has the same -significance to the Ukrainian people that the tales of Wallace and -Bruce have for Scotchmen. - - - - - - - - -HAMALEIA - - -Hamaleia is an historical romance. The poet represents one of the -excursions of the Zaparoggian Cossacks under the leadership of Hamaleia -on Skutari, the Turkish city on the Bosphorus. The Cossacks saved -western Europe from the Tartar and Turkish invasions, by fighting the -invaders in the land of the barbarian. The poem describes one of these -excursions where the Cossacks animated by the desire of revenging -themselves on the Turks and freeing their brothers who were lying as -captives in Turkish prisons, undertake a perilous trip in small wooden -boats over the stormy Black Sea to Skutari, open the prisons, burn the -city, and return home with rich spoils and their freed brethren. - - - “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, - 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; - 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 - 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 - 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. - - - - - - - - -KOBZARS - - -These are the wandering minstrels of the Ukraine. - -They play on an instrument called the Kobza which somewhat resembles a -mandolin. Often in former days they were old prisoners of war—too old -to work—so their Turkish captors first blinded them and then set them -at liberty. - -Wandering among the villages, guided by some little boy, they earned -their bread by singing folk-songs and hero-tales to the accompaniment -of the Kobza. - -Shevchenko published his book of poems with the title “Kobzar.” - - - - - - - - -THE NIGHT OF TARAS - - - By the road the Kobzar sat - And on his kobza played. - Around him youths and maidens - Like poppy flowers arrayed. - - So the Kobzar played and sang - Of many an old old story; - Of wars with Russian, Pole and Tartar - And the ancient Cossack glory. - - He sang of the wars of Taras brave, - Of battle fought in the morning early, - Of the fallen Cossack’s grass-grown grave - Till smiles and tears did mingle fairly. - - “Once on a time the Hetmans ruled, - It comes not back again; - In olden days we masters were - This never comes again. - These glories of old Cossack lore - Shall be forgotten nevermore. - - Ukraine, Ukraine! - Mother mine. Mother mine! - When I remember thee - How mournful should I be. - - What has come of our Cossacks bold - With coats of velvet red? - What of freedom by fate foretold, - And banners the Hetmans led? - - Whither is it gone? - In flames it went: - O’er hills and tombs, - The floods were sent. - The hills are wrapt - in silence grim, - On boundless sea - waves ever play; - The tombs gleam forth - with sadness dim; - O’er all the land - the foe holds sway. - - Play on, oh sea, - Hills silent be: - Dance, mighty wind, - O’er all the land. - Weep, Cossack youth, - Your fate withstand. - - Now who shall our adviser be? - Then out spake Naleweiko, - A Cossack bold was he, - After him Paulioha - Like falcon swift did flee. - - Out spake Taras Traselo - With bitter words and true, - “That they trampled on Ukraina - For sure the Poles shall rue.” - Out spake Taras Traselo, - Out spake the eagle grey. - Rescue for the faith he wrought, - Well indeed the Poles he taught. - “Let’s make an end of our woe. - An end come now to your woe, - Arise, my gentle comrades, all - Upon the Poles with blows we’ll fall.” - - Three days of war - did the land deliver. - From the Delta’s shore - to Trubail’s river. - The fields are covered - with dead, in course, - But weary now - is the Cossack force. - - Now the dirty Polish ruler - Was feeling very jolly, - Gathered all his lords together, - For a time of feast and folly. - Taras did his Cossacks gather - To have a little talk together. - - “Captains and comrades, - My children and brothers, - What are we now to do? - Our hated foes are feasting, - I want advice from you.” - - “Let them feast away, - It’s fine for their health. - - When the sun descends, - Old night her counsel lends; - The Cossacks’ll catch them, - and all of their wealth.” - - The sun reclined beyond the hill - The stars shone out in silence still, - Around the Poles the Cossack host - Was gathering like a cloud; - So soon the moon stood in the sky - When roared the cannon loud. - - Woke up the Polish lordlings, - To run they found no place. - Woke up the Polish lordlings, - The foe they could not face. - The sun beheld the Polish lordlings, - In heaps all o’er the place. - With red serpent on the water, - River Alta brings the word— - That black vultures after slaughter - May feast on many a Polish lord. - - And now the vultures hasten - The mighty dead to waken. - Together the Cossacks gather - Praise to God to offer. - - While black vultures scream, - O’er the corpses fight. - Then the Cossacks sing - A hymn to the night; - That night of famous story - Full of blood and glory. - That night that put the Poles to sleep - The while on them their foes did creep. - - Beyond the stream - in open field - A burial mound - gleams darkly: - Where the Cossack blood was shed - There grows the grass full greenly. - - On the tomb a raven sits: - With hunger sore he’s screaming. - Waiting near a Cossack weeps: - Of days of old he’s dreaming.” - - The Kobzar ceased in sadness - His hands would no longer play: - Around him youths and maidens - Were wiping the tears away. - By the path the Kobzar makes his way, - To get rid of his grief he starts to play. - And now the youngsters are dancing gay, - And then he opes his lips to say: - - “Skip off, my children, - To some nice warm corner, - Of griefs enough; - I’ll no longer be mourner. - - To the bar I’ll go - and find my good wife - And there we’ll have - the time of our life. - For so we’ll drink away our woes - And make no end of fun of our foes.” - - - - - - - - -THE FORMING OF A LIFE - - -The little Taras was born a serf. His first memories are of a mother’s -love, of the kindness of an elder sister, and like a musical undertone -to all his life—the consciousness of the wonderful beauty of Nature. - -But soon another power of hideous aspect laid its grasp on the childish -soul. It was the knowledge of slavery, a grim and horrible thing that -was slowly but surely grinding out the lives of his parents, and that -would surely, later, reach out for his own. - -Yet even the system of serfdom may allow a little happiness to a child, -still too young to work. - -The little boy had been told that beyond the distant hills were iron -pillars holding up the sky. At five years of age he set out to find -these pillars. Some teamsters found him wandering on the steppe and -brought him back to his home. But this incident marked the character of -the boy as an idealist and a dreamer. - -Then there was Grandfather John, the brave old man who, half a century -before, had fought in the ranks of the Haidemaki who so nearly broke -the Polish power. On a Sunday the wondering family would listen to the -mighty voice ringing out in the little home—telling of ancient battles -for freedom. - -When Taras was seven years of age he lost his mother. His father was -left with six children, and thought to improve matters by marrying a -widow with three. Thereafter the miseries increased for little Taras -who was hated by his stepmother. - -The father lived a few years longer, and to him Taras owed the -knowledge of reading, for though they were serfs and lived in a -wretched hovel, the Shevchenko’s prided themselves on having retained -some elements of culture. - -Our little hero, however, had a strange passion for drawing and -painting and also for singing, and found some employment among the -drunken painters, and church-singers of the village. - -Later his master tried to make him work, but found the lad hopeless for -anything but his beloved painting. Finally, he reached Petrograd in the -suite of his master’s son, where he was apprenticed to a decorator. - -A famous man came upon a ragged boy sitting on a pail, in the Royal -Gardens, in the moonlight, drawing a picture of a statue there. This -was the beginning of a period of good fortune. The lad was introduced -to some of the great men of the capital. His genius was recognized. A -famous painter painted a picture that was raffled off for sufficient -money to purchase the boy’s freedom, and he was entered as a student in -the Academy. - - - - - - - - -NAIMECHKA OR THE SERVANT - - - Prologue. - - On a Sunday, very early, - When fields were clad with mist - A woman’s form was bending - ’Mid graves by cloud wreaths kissed. - Something to her heart she pressed, - In accents low the clouds addressed. - - “Oh, you mist and raindrops fine, - Pity this ragged luck of mine. - Hide me here in grassy meadows, - Bury me beneath thy shadows. - Why must I ’mid sorrows stray? - Pray take them with my life away. - In gloomy death would be relief, - Where none might know or see my grief. - Yet not alone my life was spent, - A father and mother my sin lament. - Nor yet alone is my course to run - For in my arms is my little son. - Shall I, then, give to him christian name, - To poverty bind, with his mother’s shame? - This, brother mist, I shall not do. - I alone my fault must rue. - Thee, sweet son, shall strangers christen, - Thy mother’s eyes with teardrops glisten. - Thy very name I may not know - As on through life I lonely go. - I, by my sin, rich fortune lost, - With thee, my son, to ill fate, was tossed. - Yet curse me not, - for evils past. - My prayers to heaven - shall reach at last. - The skies above - to my tears shall bend, - Another fortune to thee I’ll send.” - Through the fields she sobbing went. - The gentle mist - its shelter lent. - Her tears were falling - the path along, - As she softly sang - the widows song: - - “Oh, in the field there is a grave - Where the shining grasses wave; - There the widow walked apart, - Bitter sorrow in her heart. - Poison herbs in vain she sought, - Whereby evil spells are wrought. - Two little sons - in arms she bore - Wrapped around in - dress she wore; - Her children to the river carried, - In converse with the water tarried; - ‘Oh, river Dunai, gentle river, - I my sons to thee deliver, - Thou’lt swaddle them - and wrap them, - Thy little waves - will lap them, - Thy yellow sands - will cherish them, - Thy flowing waters - nourish them.’ - - - - I. - - 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. - - - - II. - - 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, - 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, - 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; - 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, - 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.” - 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, - 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. - 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. - - - - - - - - -A FATHER’S LEGACY - - -When Gregory Shevchenko—for this was the father’s name—was on his -deathbed, he called his family around him and gave his parting -bequests. A serf might not, indeed, sell any of his household goods -without permission of his landlord, but he could give them to his -relatives who, of course, were the property of the same landlord. So -Gregory Shevchenko distributed his pitiful treasures to the children -and to his wife,—saying finally— - -“To my son, Taras, I give nothing. He will be no common man. Either he -will be something very good or else a great rascal. For him the -patrimony will either mean nothing, or will not help any.” - - - - - - - - -CAUCASUS - - -To Jacques de Balmont—French friend of the Ukrainians who perished in -the Circassian war. - -The Czars used the Ukrainians as tools in their ambitious projects. A -hundred thousand of them perished in the marshes, digging the -foundations of Petrograd. As many more died in the attempt to subdue -the Circassians—tribes inhabiting the Caucasus mountains—to the -imperial will of the Russian autocrat. - -The memory of these sufferings was the inspiration of this bitter poem. - -The text is taken from the prophecy of Jeremiah, Chapter 9, verse 1. - -“Oh, that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that -I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people.” - - - 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? - 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. - - - - - - - - -TO THE CIRCASSIANS - - - “Our bread and home,” in your own tongue, - In Tartar words you dare to say. - Nobody gave it you, your world is young, - So far no one has ta’en it away. - Nobody yet has led you in fetters, - But we have wisdom in such matters. - - In God’s good word we daily read, - But from dungeons where the pris’ners moan, - To Caesar’s high-exalted throne - ’Tis gilt without, while the soul’s in need. - - To us for wisdom should you come, - We’ll teach you all the tricks of trade. - Good Christians we, with church and Ikon; - All goods, even God, our own we’ve made. - - But that house of yours - Still hurts our eyes; - If we didn’t give it, - Why should you have it? - These ways of yours - cause much surprise. - We never granted - The corn you planted. - The sunlight, you - Should pay for, too. - Oh, quite uneducated you! - - Good Christians we, no pagans needy, - Sound in the faith, not a bit greedy. - If you in peace from us would learn - Store of wisdom you would earn. - - With us what great illumination, - A cont’nent ’neath our domination; - Siberia great, for illustration. - There’s jails and folks ’yond computation. - - From Moldavia to Finlandia - Many tongues but nothing said, - Except for blessings on your head. - - A holy monk here reads the Bible, - Tells the story, ’tis no libel, - Of king who stole his neighbour’s wife, - And then the neighbour he robbed of life. - The king now dwells in paradise. - Such folks ’mong us to heaven rise. - - Oh, you creatures unenlightened, - Be ye not of our dogmas frightened! - Our gentle art of “grab” we’ll teach; - A coin to the church and heaven you’ll reach. - Whatever is there we can’t do? - The stars we count and crops we sow; - The foreigner curse, - Then fill our purse, - The people selling, - ’Tis truth I’m telling. - - No niggers we sell, I’m not making jokes, - Just common ord’nary Christian folks. - No Spaniards we, may God forbid! - Nor Jews that stolen goods have hid. - So don’t you think you’d like to be - Such law-abiding folks as we? - - - - - - - - -TO THE RICH AND GREAT - - - Is it by the apostle’s law - That ye your brother love? - Hypocrites and chatterers, - Ye’re cursed of God above. - - Not for your brother’s soul you care. - It’s only for his skin. - The skin from off his back you’d tear, - Some trifling prize to win. - - There’s furs for your daughter, - Slippers for your wife, - And things that you don’t utter - About your private life. - - - - - - - - -TO THE MASTER - - - Oh, wherefore wert Thou crucified, - Thou Christ, the Son of God? - That the word of Truth be glorified? - Or that we good folks should ’scape the rod - Of avenging wrath, by faith confest? - Meanwhile of Thee we make a jest, - Mocking Thy love in our conduct’s test. - - Cathedrals and chapels with Icons grand! - ’Mid smoke of incense lavers stand. - There before Thy pictured Presence - Crowds unwearied make obeisance; - For spoil, for war, for slaughter seek - Their brother’s blood to shed they pray, - And then before Thy form so meek - The loot of burning towns they lay. - - - - - - - - -AGAIN ADDRESSING THE CIRCASSIANS - - - The sun on us has shone so bright, - We wish to you to give the light. - That sun of truth we seek to show - To children blind, all in a row. - Wonders all to see we’ll let you - If in our hands we only get you. - Of building jails we’ll show the trick, - How pris’ners ’gainst their fetters kick. - There’s knotted whips for stubborn backs, - For saucy nations painful racks. - In change for your mountains grand and old, - With this instruction we you greet. - These are the last things, already we hold - The plains and seas beneath our feet. - - - - - - - - -TO JACQUES DE BALMONT - - - So they drove thee along, my dearest friend, - For Ukraina did’st thou shed - That good heart’s blood of thine so red. - Our country’s hangman, shame to think, - Muscovite poison gave thee to drink. - Oh, friend of mine, unforgotten friend, - Ukraine to thee doth welcome send. - Let thy spirit fly with Cossacks bold. - Along the shores of Dnieper old. - O’er ancient tombs hold watch and guard - And weep with us in labors hard. - - Till I return to meet thee, - My songs I send to greet thee. - Such songs they are of bitter woe. - Yet ever, always, these I sow. - - Thoughts and songs forever sowing, - To the care of winds bestowing. - Gentle winds of Ukraine - Shall bear them like the dew - To that dear land of mine - To greet my friends so true. - - - - - - - - -THE MEANING OF SERFDOM - - -Three or four days of every week the serfs—men and women alike—must -labor in their master’s fields for nought. What was left of the week, -they were granted to earn subsistence for themselves and their -families. - -But that was not the worst. More bitter than labor was the fact that -they were not their own, were chattels of their lord, who could sell -them at his pleasure or gamble them away at cards. - -He could beat them too, or kill them if he wished, without fear, for -what advocate would take up the case of a penniless serf against the -all-powerful aristocracy. - -Hideous, too, was the glaring fact that young daughters of the serfs -were regarded as the legitimate prey of the landlord and, his sons. - -In these later days the sins of the fathers have been visited in awful -fashion on the descendants of these landlords. But can we wonder that -in the writings of a poet whose childhood was poisoned by knowledge of -such injustice, we find evidence of the growing avenging fury that -later was to bring about such awe-inspiring convulsions in human -society. - -Through all of Shevchenko’s verse there sounds the great theme of that -contrast between the beauty of God’s world, and the horrors of human -cruelty. - -“An earthly heaven we had from Thee; Turned it into hell have we.” - - - - - - - - - TO THE DEAD - - And the Living, and the Unborn, Countrymen - of mine, in Ukraine, or out of it, - My Epistle of Friendship. - - -This is the national poem of the Ukrainians, recited at all their -gatherings. I have given the thought and something of the feeling. The -music of the original I could not give. It begins like a Highland dirge -with wailing amphibrachs, and there are other measures in it not used -in our language. Perhaps some future student may be moved to put this -poem in such English form as will give the true impression of the -original. - -The motive of the poem is, in part, to awaken the conscience of the -young educated Ukrainians who, for the sake of gain were allowing -themselves to be used as tools by foreign oppressors. - - - ’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 - 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 - 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. - 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. - - - - II. - - Did you but study as you should, - You would possess your own wisdom; - And you might creep up to heaven. - - But it is we— - Oh, no, not we; - It is I—no, no, not I. - I’ve seen it all, I know it. - There’s neither heaven nor hell, - Not even God— - Just I and the short, fat German, - Nothing more. - - Grand, my brother. - You ask me something, - “I don’t know, - Ask the German, - He’ll tell you.” - That’s the way you learn - in foreign lands. - The German says— - “You are Mongols. - Mongols, Mongols; - Naked children - of the golden Tamerlane.” - The German says— - “You are Slavs, - Slavs, Slavs; - Ugly offspring - of famous ancestors.” - You read the writings - of the great Slavophils, - Push in among them, - Get on so well - That you know all the tongues - of the Slavonic peoples - Except your own—God help it. - “Oh, as for that - Sometime we’ll speak - our own language - When the German - shows us how, - Our history too, - he will explain, - Then we’ll be alright!” - It came about finely - on the German advice. - They learned to speak so well - That even the mighty German - could not understand them, - Not to speak of common folks. - Oh what a noise and racket! - “There’s Harmony, and Force - And Music—and everything. - And as for History - The Epic of a free people! - What’s all this about the poor Romans, - Brutus, etcetera, and the Devil knows what? - Have we not our Brutuses - and our Cocles - Glorious and never to be forgotten? - Why freedom grew up with us - Bathed in the Dnieper - Rested her head on our hills, - The far-flung Steppes - are her garments.” - Alas! ’twas in blood she bathed - Pillowed her head on burial mounds - On bodies of Cossack freemen, - Corpses despoiled. - But look ye well - Read again of that glory! - Read it, word by word, - Miss not a jot nor tittle, - Grasp it all: - Then ask yourselves— - Who are we? Whose sons? - Of what fathers? - By whom and why enchained? - Then you shall see - Who your glorious Brutuses are. - Slaves, door-mats! - mud of Moscow - scum of Warsaw - are your lords; - Glorious heroes they are. - Why are you so proud - Sons of unhappy Ukraine. - That you go so well under the yoke? - Even better you go - than your fathers went. - Don’t brag so much, - they just skin you, - They rendered out your fathers’ bones - Perhaps you are proud - that your brotherhood - has defended the faith. - You cooked your dough-nuts - o’er the fires - of burning Turkish towns, - of Sinope and Trebizond. - True for you - And you ate them - And now they pain you, - And on your own fields - the wily German - plants potatoes. - You buy them from him, - eat them for the good of your health - and praise Cossackery. - But with whose blood - was the land sprinkled - that grew the potatoes? - Oh, that’s a trifle; - so long as it’s good for the garden. - Very proud you are - that we once destroyed Poland. - Very true indeed: - Poland fell, - but fell on top of us. - So your fathers shed their blood - for Moscow and for Warsaw, - And left to you, their sons - their fetters and their glory. - - - - 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, - 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. - 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. - - - - - - - - -FREEDOM AND FRIENDS - - -With his new freedom Shevchenko finds himself in a different world. Not -only does he meet the most brilliant people of the Russian -Capital—scientists, artists, generals, nobles are his intimates. Count -Tolstoi and Prince and Princess Repnin are his patrons. - -He is introduced, too, in Russian or Polish translations to the great -authors of other lands and times,—Greece and Rome, Germany and Britain -offer him their treasures. - -To us it is interesting to know that Byron, Walter Scott, and -Shakespeare profoundly influenced him. - -But a conflict of spirit now faces him. His worldly interests and his -judgment advise him to go on with his painting. But strange music seems -to ring in his ears. It is the music of his beautiful and suffering -Ukraine. Songs seem to come to him from the wind and he writes them -down. - -They are in the peasant language of the Ukraine. - -His ‘Kobzar’ appears in its first edition, with eight poems, in 1840. -It is like a lightning flash through Russia. - -Great Russian critics sneered at it, saying it was in the language of -the swineherds. But the whole Ukraine recognized it as the voice of -their suppressed nation. The down-trodden masses of all Russia knew -that they had found a spokesman. - -Shevchenko was now famous but he had chosen, without knowing it, ‘The -Way of the Cross.’ - - - - - - - - -A DREAM - - -This poem was written in 1847 in Siberia. Taken away suddenly from -Ukraine, Shevchenko could not forget his mother land. His beloved -Ukraine was very far from him, and he longed for her even in his -dreams. He describes in the poem a dream which he had about the -beauties of the Ukraine, which he had just left and which he never -hoped to see again. The old man of whom he speaks represents the poet -himself, who knew the miseries of his native land and who desired to -spend the last hours of his life there. - - - 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. - 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, - 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, - 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. - 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. - - - - - - - - -A TRIUMPHAL MARCH - - -In 1845 Shevchenko was graduated from the Imperial Academy of Arts at -Petersburg. Shortly after he travelled to the Ukraine, purposing to -devote his life to the service of his own people. - -His progress was a triumphal march, a succession of banquets and -popular welcomes and entertainments at the homes of the wealthy. - -At Kiev people still remember that the earliest Russian civilization -had its beginnings in the Ukraine. There Christianity first took root, -and there were the first Russian Princes. - -Before Shevchenko’s arrival there was organized at Kiev the Society of -Cyril and Methodius, called after the great apostles of Russia, and the -leading spirits of the Society were professors in the University of -Kiev. - -Into this brilliant company Shevchenko was welcomed. Its leaders became -his devoted friends. A chair of painting in the University was to be -established for him. - -Most remarkable were the relations between Shevchenko and Professor -Kulisch. Kulisch was to be married to a great lady, a daughter of one -of the nobles of the country. The poet was invited to the wedding and -the bride, in her enthusiasm, actually kissed his hand. This was an -astonishing act of condescension towards one who had been a serf, but -this lady, herself afterwards a famous authoress, cherished the memory -to her dying day. - -Shevchenko’s saddest experience in the Ukraine was when he visited his -native village and found his brothers and sisters in serfdom. His dream -was to earn enough money to purchase their freedom, and afterwards to -devote his life to the liberation of the peasantry. The poem—“The -Bondwoman’s Dream”—commemorates the poet’s meeting with his favorite -sister, Katherine, working as a slave. - -His friends thought he should go to Italy to perfect himself in -painting. Madame Kulisch purposed to sell her family jewels to raise -sufficient money to send Shevchenko to that country. Her husband who -was in the plot told Shevchenko that some wealthy person had -contributed the money but he must not ask for the donor’s name. - -But on returning to Kiev from the Kulisch home a policeman put his hand -on the shoulder of the poet painter. - -The bright dream was ended. - - - - - - - - -THE BONDWOMAN’S DREAM - - - The slave with sickle - reaped the wheat, - Then wearily limped - among the stooks; - But not to rest, - Her little son she sought - Who wakened crying - in cool nest - among the sheaves. - His swaddled limbs unwrapped - she nourished him, - Then, dandling him a moment - fell asleep. - In dreams she saw - her little son, - Her Johnny, grown to man, - handsome and rich. - No lonely bachelor - but a married man - In freedom it seemed, - no longer the landlord’s - but his own man. - And in their own joyous field - his wife and he - reaped their own wheat, - Their children brought their food. - The poor thing - laughed in her sleep, - Woke up— - a dream indeed it was. - She looked at Johnny, - picked him up and swaddled him, - And back to her allotted task; - Sixty stooks her stint. - Perhaps the last of the sixty it was: - God grant it. - And God grant - this dream of thine - may be fulfilled. - - - - - - - - -TO THE MAKERS OF SENTIMENTAL IDYLS. - - - Did you but know, fine dandy, - The people’s life of misery - You would not use such pretty phrases, - Nor give to God such empty praises. - At our tears you’re laughing, - And our sorrows chaffing, - Slave’s cot in a shady spot— - You call it heaven! Rot! - I lived once in such a shanty, - Of childhood’s tears I shed a plenty, - In bitter sorrows we were wise, - Home that you call paradise. - - No paradise I call thee, - Little cottage in the wood, - With the water pure beside thee - Close by the village rude! - There my mother bore me, - Singing she tended me; - My child’s heart drank in her pain. - - Cottage in the shady dell, - Heaven outside, inside hell; - But slavery there, - with labor weary, - Nor time for prayer - in life so dreary. - - My mother good to her early grave - Was hurled by sorrows wave on wave. - - The father weeping o’er his young, - (little and naked were we), - Sank ’neath the weight of fated wrong - And died in slavery. - The children, we, of home bereft - Like little mice ’mong neighbors crept. - - Water drawer was I at school, - My brothers toiled ’neath landlord’s rule. - - For my sisters an evil fate must be, - Though little doves they seemed to me; - Into life as serfs they’re born, - And die they must in that lot forlorn. - - I shudder yet, where’er I roam, - When I think of life in that village home. - - Evil-doers, Oh God, are we, - An earthly heaven we had from Thee, - Turned it into hell have we, - And a second heaven is now our plea. - - Gently we live with our brothers now, - With their lives our fields we plough; - Fields that with their tears are wet, - And yet— - What do we know? - yet it seems as if Thou! - (For without Thy will - Should we suffer ill?) - Dost Thou, Oh Father in heaven holy - Laugh at us the poor and lowly? - Advise with them of noble birth - How so cleverly to rule the earth? - - For see the woods their branches waving, - And there beyond, the white pool gleaming - And willows o’er the water bending, - Garden of Eden it is in sooth, - But of its deeds enquire the truth. - - This wondrous earth should tell a story - Of endless joy, and praise, and glory - To Thee, Oh God, unique and holy. - Unhallowed spot, - Whence praise comes not! - A world of tears where curses rise, - To heaven above the hopeless skies. - - - - - - - - -AUTOCRAT VERSUS POET - - -Nicholas I was brought up in the traditions of autocracy and believed -in them with all his heart. He hated liberal thought and detested the -idea of educating the masses. - -Tens of thousands of copies of the New Testament and the Psalter were -burned by his orders. He said such books were for the priests, not for -the common people. Incidentally it may be remarked that the priests had -to teach what he wanted or lose their jobs. - -To speak against his government, or even to criticize czars who reigned -hundreds of years before him was a crime. - -The little band of dreamers who formed the Society of Cyril and -Methodius actually hoped to convert this autocrat, and secure his -assistance in freeing the people. They had visions of a free -Confederation of Slavonic states, after the pattern of the United -States of America, but with the czar as head. But they sadly misjudged -their man. - -Shevchenko had actually spoken impertinently of the Autocrat in his -poems. He refused to retract. - -The government really wished to he lenient, if he would only be good -and confess that he had done wrong. But Shevchenko was not of those who -are willing to admit that black is white. - -The gloomy autocracy now pronounces his doom—a sort of living death in -Siberian barracks. The czar added to the sentence, with his own hand, -the proviso that he should not be allowed either to write or to paint. - - - - - - - - -A POEM OF EXILE - - - I count in prison the days and nights - And then forget the count. - How heavily, Oh Lord, - Do these days pass! - And the years flow after them, - Quietly they flow, - Bearing with them - Good and ill. - Everything do they gather - Never do they return. - You need not plead, - Your prayers unanswered fall. - Mid oozy swamps - among the weeds - Year after weary year - has sadly flowed. - Much of something have they taken - From dark store-house of my heart; - Borne it quietly to the sea, - As quietly the sea swallowed it. - Not gold and silver - Did they take from me, - But good years of mine - Freighted with loneliness, - Sorrows written on the heart - With unseen pen. - And a fourth year passes - So gently, so slowly, - The fourth book - of my imprisonment - I start to stitch up, - Embroidering it with tears - Of homesickness - in a foreign land. - Yet such woe - tells itself not in words. - Never, never - in the wide world. - In far away captivity - There are no words - Not even tears, - Just nothingness; - Not even God above thee, - Nothing is there to see, - None with whom to speak, - Not even desire for life. - Yet thou must live! - I must! I must! - But for what? - That I may not lose my soul? - My soul is not worth - such suffering! - Then why must I live on - in the world, - Drag these fetters - in my jail? - Because, perchance, - my own Ukraine - I shall see again. - Again I shall pour out - my words of sorrow - To the green groves - and rich meadows. - No family have I of my own - in all Ukraine, - Yet the people there - are different from these foreigners - I would walk again - among the bright villages - On the Dnieper’s banks - and sing my thoughts - gentle and sad. - Grant me, - Oh God of mercy - That I may live - to see again - Those green meadows, - those ancestral tombs. - If Thou wilt not grant this, - Yet bear my tears - To my Ukraine. - Because, God, - I die for her. - It may be that I shall lie - more lightly in foreign soil - When sometimes in Ukraine - they speak of my memory. - Carry my tears then - Oh God of loving kindness, - Or at least - send hope into my soul. - I can think no more - with my poor head, - For coldness of death - comes on me - When I think that they may - bury me in foreign soil - And bury my thoughts with me - And none tell about me - in the Ukraine. - - And yet it may be - that gently through the years - My tear-embroidered songs - shall fly sometime - And fall - as dew upon the ground - On the tender heart of youth, - And youth shall nod assent. - And weep for me - Making mention of me in its prayers. - Well, as it will be - so it will be. - Perhaps ’twill swim - Perhaps ’twill wade - Yet even if they crucify me for it - I’ll still write my verses. - - - - - - - - -SIBERIAN EXILE - - -Now-a-days we have many discussions and searchings of heart over the -question of prisons and the purpose of punishment. I doubt if the -autocracy suffered many qualms of conscience in such matters. It was -simply an affair of silencing a dangerous voice and disciplining an -unruly subject. - -They were too humane to put him to death, they merely sought to crush -his spirit. But the Slav spirit is hard to crush. It may brood and -smoulder long, but sometime or other it will burst out in flames. - -In the case of Shevchenko another influence may be seen at work. In his -ragged youth, when acting as assistant to a drunken church singer he -gained at least one thing. That was a familiarity with the Psalter and -the Hebrew prophets. The deep religious fire of the Hebrew seems fused -with his own irrepressible native genius to form a spirit that could -not be subdued. - -They tried to make a soldier of him but he could not or would not learn -the tricks of the soldier’s trade. - -They forbade him to write but he wrote verses secretly and concealed -them. - -Occasionally a humane commander would relax the severity of the rules. -One governor allowed him as a hidden favor the reading of the Bible and -Shakespeare. - -At another time he was taken with a scientific expedition to the Sea of -Aral, and employed in the congenial task of painting the wild scenery -of that part. - -At other times again the severity would be redoubled and pen, ink and -paper would be forbidden. Through it all his love and sorrow for his -native land increased. Only the remembrance of Ukraine kept him alive. - -Ten years of Siberia changed the gay young artist of bright eyes and -abundant locks to a gray-bearded, bald-headed old man on whom Death had -set his seal. - -But his spirit was still unconquered. At the end of his imprisonment he -wrote the “Goddess of Fame” and the “Hymn of the Nuns” to show it. - - - - - - - - -MEMORIES OF FREEDOM - - - Memories of Freedom - Bring sweet sadness to the exile’s heart - And so lost liberty of mine - I dream of thee. - Never hast thou seemed to me - So fresh and young - And so surpassing fair - As now in this foreign land. - Alas! Alas! - Freedom that I sang away - Look at me from o’er the Dnieper, - Smile at me from there. - And thou my only love - Risest o’er the sea so far. - In the mist thy face appears - Like the evening star. - With thee, my only one - Thou bring’st my youthful years. - Before me like a sea— - Hamlets fair in broad array, - Cherry orchards, joyous crowds. - This the village, This the people - Who once as brothers - Welcomed me. - Mother! Dear old mother! - Home of memories fond! - Happy guests of days gone by! - Who gathered there in days gone by - Simply to dance in the good old way - From evening light till dawn. - Do sun-burned youth - And happy maidenhood - Still dance in the dear old home? - And thou, sweetheart of mine, - Thou heartsease of mine, - My sacred, dark-eyed one! - Still amongst them dost thou walk - Silent and proud? - And with those blue-black eyes - Still dost bewitch - the peoples’ souls? - Still as of old - Do they admire in vain - Thy supple form? - Goddess mine! fate of mine! - How wee maidens - Gather round thee, - Chirping and prattling - In the good old way. - - Perchance, unwittingly, - The children remember me, - One makes a little jest of me. - Smile, my heart! - Just a little, little smile - That no one sees. - That’s all. I, worse luck! - Must pray to God in jail. - - - - - - - - -MEMORIES OF AN EXILE - - - Memories of mine, - Memories of home, - Sole wealth of mine, - Where’er I roam. - When sorrows lower - In evil hour - And griefs o’ertake me - You’ll not forsake me - From the land of my early loves - You will fly like grey-winged doves - From broad Dnieper’s shore - O’er the steppes to soar. - Here the Kirghiz Tartars - Dwell naked in poverty. - They’re wretched as martyrs - Yet this is their liberty; - To God they may pray - And none say them nay. - Will you but fly to meet me, - With gentle words - I’ll greet ye. - Of my heart - ye children dear - O’er past loves - we’ll shed a tear. - - - - - - - - -DEATH OF THE SOUL - - - As the nights pass, so pass the days, - The year itself passes. - Again I hear the rustling - of autumn leaves. - The light of the eyes is fading, - Memory is in the heart asleep. - Everything sleeps, - and I know not - If I live or am already dead. - For so, aimless - I wander in the world - No longer weep nor laugh. - - Fate, where art thou? - Fate, where art thou? - There’s none of any sort! - Dost grudge me good fate, - Oh God, - Then send it bad, as bad. - Leave me not - to a walking sleep. - With heart like bears’ - in wintry den, - Nor yet like rotten log - on earth to lie; - But give me to live, - with the heart to live, - And love the people. - If you won’t - Let me curse them - and burn up the world. - - Terrible it is to fall - into dungeons - Yet much worse—to sleep - And sleep and sleep - in freedom; - To slumber for an eternity - And leave not a footprint behind. - All alike— - whether one lives or dies. - - Fate where art thou? - Fate where art thou? - There’s none of any sort! - Dost grudge me good fate, Oh God, - Then give me bad, as bad. - - - - - - - - -HYMN OF EXILE - - - The sun goes down beyond the hill, - The shadows darken, birds are still; - From fields no more come toiler’s voices - In blissful rest the world rejoices. - With lifted heart I, gazing stand, - Seek shady grove in Ukraine’s land. - Uplifted thus, ’mid memories fond - My heart finds rest, o’er the hills beyond. - On fields and woods the darkness falls - From heaven blue a bright star calls, - The tears fall down. Oh, evening star! - Hast thou appeared in Ukraine far? - In that fair land do sweet eyes seek thee - Dear eyes that once were wont to greet me? - Have eyes forgotten their tryst to keep? - Oh then, in slumber let them sleep - No longer o’er my fate to weep. - - - - - - - - -RETURNING HOME - - -After a while a new Caesar came to the throne, a man who was thought to -have liberal tendencies. - -Shevchenko’s friends at once busied themselves with efforts for his -release. Finally amnesty was granted. Count Tolstoi, on receiving the -news late at night, hastened to waken his household and there was a -family jubilation. - -But the new autocrat, though somewhat benevolently inclined, was also a -little bit suspicious. The banished poet was a pretty dangerous -character. He had even disturbed the conscience of autocracy itself, -hence he was only allowed to approach his home country by degrees. -Finally he was allowed to reside in Petrograd and later even in -Ukraine, welcomed everywhere by loving and pitying friends. - -His wish for his old age was to inhabit a little cottage on the -Dnieper’s banks. For this purpose he purchased a piece of land on one -of those hills so often referred to in his poems. - -Death came too soon, however, but the property served as the site of -his last resting place. He died at Petrograd but in the spring his -remains were carried the long distance to his old home. A mourning -people lined the way. - -Only a couple of days after the poet’s death, appeared the ukase of the -czar proclaiming the abolition of serfdom. To the common people it -seemed that their peasant poet, by his songs and his sufferings, had -been the prime cause of their new freedom. - -No speeches were allowed at the interment on the hill above the Dnieper -but there were many people and many wreaths of flowers. - -One wreath, deposited by a lady, expressed more than anything else the -common feeling. That wreath was a crown of thorns. - - - - - - - - -ON THE ELEVENTH PSALM - - - Merciful God, how few - Good folk remain on earth. - Behold, each one in heart - Is setting snares for another. - But with fine words, - And lips honey-sweet - They kiss—and wait - To see how soon - Their brother to his grave - Will find his way. - - But Thou who art Lord alone - Shuttest up the evil lips, - That great-speaking tongue - That says:— - “No trifling thing are we, - How glorious shall we show - In intellect and speech. - Who is that Lord - that will forbid - Our thoughts and words?” - - Yea, the Lord shall say to Thee - “I shall arise, this day - On their behalf— - People of mine in chains, - The poor and humble ones - These will I glorify. - Little, dumb and slaves are they, - Yet on guard about them - Will I set my Word.” - - Like trampled grass - Shall perish your thoughts - And words alike. - - Like silver, hammered, beaten, - Seven times melted o’er the fire, - Are thy words, Oh Lord. - Scatter these holy words of Thine, - O’er all the earth, - That Thy children - little and poor - May believe in miracles on earth. - - - - - - - - -PRAYER I. - - - 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. - - - - - - - - -PRAYER II. - - - 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. - - - - - - - - -PRAYER III. - - - 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. - - - - - - - - -PRAYER IV. - - - 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, 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. - 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. - - - - - - - - -THE WATER FAIRY - - - 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. - 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. - - - - - - - - -HYMN OF THE NUNS - - -Shevchenko had heard a story of nuns in a convent conveying messages to -one another interspersed in the words of the religious service. The -messages were to the effect that company was coming that night and -there would be music and dancing. Hence this sardonically humorous -poem. - - - 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. - - - - - - - - -TO THE GODDESS OF FAME - - - 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; - 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. - - - - - - - - -ICONOCLASM - - - Bright light, peaceful light, - Free light, light unbound! - What is this, brother light? - In thy warm home thou’rt found - By censers smoked, - By priests’ robes choked, - Fettered and fooled - And by Icons ruled. - Yield thee not in the fight, - Waken up, brother light! - Shed thy pure rays - On mankind’s ways. - All priestly robes in rags we’ll tear - And light our pipes from censers rare, - With Icons now the flames will roar, - With holy brooms we’ll sweep the floor. - - - - - - - - -MY TESTAMENT - - - When I die, remember, lay me - Lowly in the silent tomb, - Where the prairie stretches free, - Sweet Ukraine, my cherished home. - - There, ’mid meadows’ grassy sward, - Dnieper’s waters pouring - May be seen and may be heard, - Mighty in their roaring. - - When from Ukraine waters bear - Rolling to the sea so far - Foeman’s blood, no longer there - Stay I where my ashes are. - - Grass and hills I’ll leave and fly. - Unto throne of God I’ll go, - There in heaven to pray on high, - But, till then, no God I know. - - Standing then about my grave, - Make ye haste, your fetters tear! - Sprinkled with the foeman’s blood - Then shall rise your freedom fair. - - Then shall spring a kinship great, - This a family new and free. - Sometimes in your glorious state, - Gently, kindly, speak of me. - - - - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KOBZAR OF THE UKRAINE *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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