’Neath the lightning flash
Sank the woods away,
Trembled the earth’s breast,
Pierced with dismay.

And the inky smoke
Ruinous did rise
From the village burnt
To the cloudy skies.

Loudly to the fight
Then the Tsar did call—­
Russia swift replied,
Coming one and all.

Women, children came—­
Men from age to youth,
Gave their evil guest
Bloody feast in truth!

And in lonely fields
Under ice and snow,
To his endless sleep
Laid the victim low.

Where the snowstorms wild
Raised o’er him a tomb,
While the North wind sang
Dirges in the gloom.

Town and village too
Over all our land,
Now like ant hills swarm
With this Christian band.

Now from distant shores
O’er the cruel sea,
Ship on ship draws near
Homage paying thee.

Blooming are thy fields,
Soft thy forests sigh,
Hid in earth’s dark breast
Golden treasures lie.

And to East and West,
To the South and North—­
Flies thy louder fame
Through the wide world forth!

Holy Russia, thou
Dost deserve to be
“Mother” called by all,
In our love to thee!

For thy glory fair
We should face the foe,
And thy freedom guarding
Glad our lives bestow!

NIKITIN.

THE SONG OP THE SPENDTHRIFT

To seven kopek the heir,
  Nor house nor land have I—­
Live I—­hey!  I live then! 
  Die I—­hey!  I die!

In many realms the Fool
  Can sleep no wink for care,
While yet the spendthrift snores
  When dawns the morning fair.

Free as the wind he blows,
  Door nor gate to balk him,
Riches, hey!  Now give place! 
  Poverty goes walking!

Before me bends the rye
  When through the fields I stray
And glad the forest hears
  My pipe and song alway.

If one must bitter weep—­
  No man will see his tears,
If sadly bowed his head—­
  None save the partridge jeers.

If weary one, or not,
  What matters anything? 
Let him toss back his locks
  And playful laugh and sing!

And if one die,—­the grave
  Will warm his hands and feet! 
Dost to my song respond? 
  Nay?  Then it is complete.

NIKITIN.

THE SPADE IS DEEP DIGGING A GRAVE IN THE MOULD

The spade is deep digging a grave in the mould.... 
O Life,—­so o’erflowing with sorrows untold,
My life, so homeless and lonely and weary,
Life, as an Autumn night silent and dreary—­
Bitter in truth is thy fate ’neath the sky,
And as a fire of the field wilt thou die! 
Die then—­no sad falling tear will recall thee,
Fast will the roof of thy pine coffin wall thee,
Heavy the earth falls upon the sad hearted—­
Only one more from humanity parted;
One whose home-going no fond heart is tearing—­
One for whom no soul will sorrow despairing!