I dreamt that, standing on a height, I wished to plunge me in the sea, When, lo! a spirit of peace and light, This wondrous song sang unto me: ‘Await the spring! I’ll soon be here;’ I’ll say, ‘Again let manhood rise!’ The mist from clouded brows I’ll clear, And dreary dreams from heavy eyes. Back to your Muse her voice I’ll give, And once again you’ll find the days All blessed--as you bind the sheaf-- Reaping your unmown upland ways. _A SICK MAN’S JEALOUSY._ A heavy cross, the lot Fate laid upon her-- “Suffer! be silent! weep not! feign the smile!” And he, to whom her love, her youth, her will, Her all, she’d given, her torturer proved the while. For years no greeting with a friend knew she; Subdued, in sadness, and in trembling fear, Bitter, unreasoning, sarcastic jeers, Without a murmur, ’twas her lot to hear. “Hush! tell me not you’ve lost your youth for me-- That you’re distracted by my jealousy; Nay, tell me not! My grave is close at hand, While you are fresher than spring’s blossoms be. “That day, the day when you at first loved me, And heard from me, ‘I love,’ in whispered breath, Curse not that day! The grave is near for me! I will right all, redeem all, by my death. “Cease! Tell me not the days for you are sad; This invalid a jailor cease to name. For me remains the cold gloom of the grave; For thee the embraces of another flame. “Full well I know thou dost another love. To spare, to wait, this seemed a tedious plan. Oh, wait awhile! my grave is very near! Let Fate end that which Fate in me began!” Such cruel, torturing, insulting words-- Lovely, yet pale as chiselled marble--she In silence heard, and only wrung her hands. What could she answer to such jealousy? _THE LANDLORD OF OLD TIMES._ (_Loquitur._) BEFORE THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SERFS. To whom I like I mercy show, And whom I like I kill; My fist--my only constable, My only law--my will. A blow from which the sparkle flits, A blow that knocks the teeth to bits, A blow that breaks the jaw! _After the Emancipation of the Serfs._ The mighty chain is snapped in twain, Is snapped and bounds asunder. The landlords clutch one broken end; At t’other peasants blunder. * * * * * The fields remain unploughed and bare; The seed is left unsown; No trace of order anywhere, O mother-land, our own! Not for ourselves thus sorrow we; We grieve, O native land, for thee! * * * * * Oh, true-believing peasantry! Russia’s your mother small; The Tsar’s your little father. And that for you is all! _THE RUSSIAN SOLDIER._