“My rustling dress I will unlace,—­my ornaments forsaking, Barefooted up the stairway steep will mute and cautious follow!  Ah, but too gladly would I gaze again on earthly living!  I fain my mother would console, sad for her daughter grieving—­ would my brothers twain behold, who for their sister sorrow!”
  “O do not yearn, thou wretched child, for those thou lovest, ever! 
Thy brothers in the village street now joyful lead the wrestling—­ And with the neighbors on the street thy mother gossips zestful!”

MAIKOW.

THE AEOLIAN HARP

The land lies parched in sun,—­to heaven the air is still,
Hushed now upon the harp the golden strings’ lost thrill;
Aeolian harps our native singers are,—­and numb
Must be their heart, their dying life blood cease to flow,
Forever silent be their voice, if longer dumb
Their breath be suffocated in this sultry glow! 
O if a Genius on tempest-pinions winging,
Stormed through our native land,—­Spirit with freedom rife! 
How jubilant would our Aeolian harps be ringing
To greet the Godly power that promises new life!

MAIKOW.

YE SONGS OF MINE!

Ye songs of mine!  Of universal sorrows
  A living witness ye;
Born of the passion of the soul, bewailing
  Tempestuous and free,
The hard heart of humanity assailing
  As doth her cliffs the sea!

NEKRASSOW.

IN WAR

Hearing the terrors of the war, sore troubled,
  By each new victim of the combat torn—­
Nor friend, nor wife I give my utmost pity,
  Nor do I for the fallen hero mourn. 
Alas! the wife will find a consolation. 
  The friend by friend is soon forgot in turn.

But somewhere is the one soul that remembers—­
  That will remember unto death’s dark shore,
Nor can the tears of a heart-stricken mother
  Forget the sons gone down on fields of gore. 
One soul there is that like the weeping willow
  Can never raise its drooping branches more.

NEKRASSOW.

THE SONGS OF SIBERIAN EXILES

We stand unbroken in our places,
Our shovels dare to take no rest,
For not in vain his golden treasure
God buried deep in earth’s dark breast.

Then shovel on and do not falter,
Humble and hopeful, clear we see—­
When Russia has grown rich and mighty,
Our grandchildren will grateful be!

* * * * *

Though streams the sweat in rivers downward,
Our arms from shoveling grown weak,
Our bodies frozen to an ice crust
While we new strength in slumber seek—­

Sweating or freezing, we will bear it! 
Thirst-pain and hunger will withstand,
For each stone is of use to Russia,
And each is given by our own hand!