"Liza, Liza, listen. Don't make a scandal like that here. Let's better harness our horses and get to the priest as fast as we can," shouted the excited guests, all following the couple. [signed]Ivan Narodny The Insane Priest A priest insane went many days without repose or sleep, "My visions are a shadow world but love is real and deep." He, like a prophet, staff in hand, sought out a distant shrine. "As sacred ash are all my dreams, and fateful love is mine." Long, long he knelt and prayed alone, his tears fell unrestrained. "My visions are the snow-crowned heights, my love the flood unchained." A sacrifice he laid upon that altar far away. "My visions are a dream of dawn, my love the radiant day." A knife he thrust into his heart, to seal the holy rite. "My visions all resplendent glow, my love is like the night." And on the altar falling prone, he then gave up his soul. "My visions are the lightning's flash, my love the thunder's roll." Upon the altar poured his blood, it formed a crimson pall. "As his deliriums are my dreams, as death my love my all." Sergey Makowsky Translation by Constance Purdy Note: To this poem Mr. Reinhold Gliere has composed a magnificent musical setting with piano and orchestra accompaniment and dedicated it to a prominent Russian revolutionist. Without a Country One thought awakes us early in the morning, One thought follows us the whole day long, One thought stabs at night our breast: Is my father suffering? One sorrow awakes us at dawn like an executioner, One sorrow is persecuting us ceaselessly, One sorrow is swelling our breast the whole night long: Is my mother alive? A longing awakes us at daybreak, A longing is continually hidden in our heart, A longing is burning at night in our breast; What of my wife? A fear awakes us early like a funeral mass, A fear persecutes us and darkens our eyes, A fear fills at night our breast with hatred: Our sisters are threatened with shame. A pain awakens us in the morning like a trumpet, With pain is filled every glass we drink With pain is secretly weeping our breast: Where are our children? ...Only one way will give an answer: Through a river of blood and over a bridge of dead! Woe! you will reach your home where the mother, who died of sorrow, Does not wait for her son any more. M. Boich Note: M. Boich is a young Serbian poet, now about twenty-six years old, who already has a recognized place in modern Serbian Literature. The poem "Without a Country" was written after the well-known Serbian tragedy of 1915, and was published last year (March 28) in the official Serbian journal "Srpske Novine," which now appears at Corfu. Indian Prayer to the Mountain Spirit Lord of the Mountain, Reared within the Mountain Young Man, Chieftain, Hear a young man's prayer!