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! Hark! What a silvery music is ringing! Hark! What a careless and jubilant singing! See on ethereal azure waves swinging, Now the glad lark to her South-land is winging! Silence, O Life full of doubting and fears, Hushed first of all be the songs of men's tears! NIKITIN. GOSSIP Though blameless thy living As Anchorite's fate, Yet Gossip will find thee Or early or late. Through keyhole he enters And stands at thy side, Doors of wood nor of stone Against him provide. He pulls the alarm bell At slightest excuse-- And down to thy grave Will pursue with abuse. Self defence nothing boots thee, Thy flight he will worst-- To earth he will tread thee, O Gossip be cursed! NIKITIN. IN A PEASANT HUT Sultry dampness--pine chips smoking, Off-scourings a span length, In the corners webs of spiders, Smut on dish and bench. Sooty black the bare wall, crock stained, Water--dry hard bread; Groanings, coughings, children's whimper, Wretched bitter need! And a beggar's death for years of Harshest drudgery-- Learn to put your trust in God here, And to patient be. NIKITIN.