TO MY COUNTRY

With love of my own race I cling unto my country,
Whatever dubious reason may protesting cry;
The shame alone of all her blood bought glory,
Her haughty self-assurance, conscious pride,
And the ancestral faith’s traditions dark,
With woe have penetrated all my heart.

And yet I love it!  Why, I cannot say;
The endless snowy Steppes so silent brooding,
In the pine forests Autumn winds pursuing—­
The flood’s high water on all sides in May. 
By peasant cart I fain would haste in nightly darkness,
Through the lone wilderness and village desolate,
How hospitable shines the sole beam sparkling
To me from each poor hut!  Filled with content so great,
The smell of stubble burnt, delights.  Piled high
The wagons silent standing take their nightly rest,
On distant hills the silver birches I descry,
Framed gold by fertile fields the sacred picture blest. 
Then with a joy unshared save by the vagrant,
I see the threshing floor well filled and fragrant,
The sloping straw-thatched cottage roofs again,
The window panels carved, of varied stain.

Nightly could I, till morning grey arrested,
Gaze on the dancing, stamping, whistling crowd,
Watching the villager,—­young, happy, festive—­
And hearing drunken peasants glad carouse!

LERMONTOFF.

TO KASBEK

With winged footsteps now I hasten
Unto the far cold North away,
Kasbek,—­thou watchman of the East,
To thee, my farewell greetings say!

Since all eternity, a turban
Snow white, thy glorious brow has veiled,
The peace sublime about thy glacier
The strife of man has ne’er assailed.

Accept my humble supplication,
Hear thy submissive faithful son,
To starry heights lift his entreaty
To Allah’s everlasting throne.

I do implore—­spice breathing coolness
Through sultry sun-glow in the vale,
A stone for rest unto the pilgrim
In whirling dust of desert gale.

Turn, I implore, the storm’s hot hatred,
The deadly thunderous lightning’s course—­
In Dariel’s wild pass protect me
And my distracted, trembling horse.

Yet one prayer more my heart audacious,
Weeping, lifts up in bodeful stress,
What if my native land forget me
In my sad exile’s loneliness?

Will, greeting me by name familiar,
My friend then open wide his arms? 
Will e’en my brothers recognise me,
So changed by many griefs and harms?

Perchance my foot will fall profaning
Dust of those loved in youth’s far day,
The pure and noble, deeply trusted—­
Withered as Autumn leaves in May.

O Kasbek, then with earth o’erwhelm me! 
Snow o’er thy weary wanderer back,
And blow away my dust and scatter
Along thy rock-ridged clefts lone track!