TOLSTOY.

THE WOLVES

When the church-village slumbers
  And the last songs are sung,
When the grey mist arising,
  Is o’er the marshes hung,
’Tis then the woods forsaking,
Their way cross country taking,
Nine howling wolves come hungering for food.

Behind the first,—­the grey one,—­
  Trot seven more of black,
Close on their hoary leader;
  As rearguard of the pack
The red wolf limps, all bloody,
His paws with gore still ruddy
As after his companions grim he pants.

When through the village lurking
  Nought gives them check or fright,
No watch dog dares to bellow,
  The peasant ghastly white,
His breath can scarce be taking,
His limbs withhold from shaking—­
While prayers of terror freeze upon his lips!

About the church they circle
  And softly slink away
To prowl about the priest’s farm,
  Then of a sudden they
Are round the drink shop turning,
Fain some bad word be learning—­
From peasants drinking noisily within.

With fully thirteen bullets
  Thy weapon must be armed,
And with a wad of goat’s hair;
  Then thou wilt fight unharmed. 
Fire calmly,—­and before all
Will the leader, the grey, fall,
The rest will surely follow one by one.

When the cock wakes the village
  From out its morning dream,
Thou wilt behold the corpses—­
  Nine she-wolves by the stream! 
On the right lies the grey one,
To left in frost the lame one—­
All bloody,—­God pardon us sinners!

TOLSTOY.

AUTUMN

Autumn ’tis!  Our garden stands
  Flowerless and bare,
Dizzy whirling yellow leaves
  Fill the wind swept air. 
Yet the distant mountain ash
  In the vale below,
With our favorite berries red
  Now begins to glow. 
While with rapture and with pain
  Throbbing in my breast,
Pressing hot thy hands in mine,
  Silent, unexpressed—­
Fondly gazing in thine eyes,
  Through my tears I see—­
That I can never tell thee
  How dear thou art to me!

TOLSTOY.

BURNT OUT IS NOW MY MISERY

Burnt out is now my misery—­
                            love’s yearning
No more unspeakably torments my heart,
Yet bearable alone through thee, my being—­
All thou art not is idle, stale and dying,
Colourless, withered, dead,—­save where thou art!

If I no more through false suspicion trouble
Thy happiness,—­nor more my blood inflames my veins,
It is not turned to ice ’neath snowy cover,
But free from jealousy, to thee thy lover
Always with soul of ardour true remains.

So in their rapid fury mountain torrents
That hurl them off their moss-grown altars steep,
Seeking the flood with tossing, foaming riot—­
Here in the vale are bound in the old currents,
To stream in future calm and clear and deep!