NEKRASSOW.

Written to a band of political exiles including some of the highest aristocracy.

FREEDOM

Oft through my native land I roved before,
But never such a cheerful spirit bore.

When on its mother’s breast a child I spy—­
Hope in my inmost heart doth secret cry,

“Boy, thou art born within a favoring time,
Thine eyes shall glad escape old sights of crime.

Free as a child, thou can’st prove all and be
The forger sole of thine own destiny.

Peasant remain,—­as to thy father given—­
Or like the eagle swing thyself to heaven!”

Castles in air I build!  Man’s spirit opes
To many ways to frustrate all my hopes.

Though serfdom’s sad conditions left behind,
Yet there be countless snares of varied kind!—­

Well!  Although the people soon may rend thee,
Let me, oh Freedom, a welcome send thee!

NEKRASSOW.

Written shortly after the freeing of the serfs.

A FAREWELL

Farewell!  Forget the days of trial,
Of grudge, ill humor, misery—­
Tempests of heart and floods of weeping,
And the revengeful jealousy. 
Ah, but the days whereon the sun rose
To light love’s wonder, and begot
In us the power of aspiration,—­
bless them and forget them not!

NEKRASSOW.

THE LOVE LETTER

Letter of love so strangely thrilling
With all your countless wonder yet,
Though Time our heart’s hot fires have mastered,
Bringing a pang of pained regret! 
The while your blest receiver holds you,
His banished passions still rebel,
No longer reason sacrifices
His sentiment,—­so then farewell! 
Destroyed be this love-token treasured! 
For if ’tis read when time has flown,
Deep in the buried soul ’twill waken
The torment vanished days have known. 
At first but a light scorn arousing
For silly childishness,—­at last
With fiery yearning overwhelming,
And jealousy for all the past.

O Thou, from whom a myriad letters
Speak with the breath of love to me,
Though my gaze rest on thee austerely,
Yet, yet,—­I cannot part with thee! 
Time has revealed with bitter clearness
How little thou with truth wert blessed,
How like a child my own behaviour—­
Yet, dear to me I still must save
This flower scentless, without colour,
From off my manhood’s early grave!

NEKRASSOW.

WHAT THE SLEEPLESS GRANDAM THINKS

All through the cold night, beating wings shadowy
  Sweep o’er the church-village poor,—­
Only one Grandam a hundred years hoary,
  Findeth her slumber no more.

Harkens, if cocks to the dawn be not crowing,
  Rolls on her oven and weeps,
Sees all her past rising up to confront her—­
  O’er her soul shameful it creeps!