Knowest thou the land of fragrance ardent glowing? Where night sublimely sparkles on the flowing Of the sea? Murmuring in starlight gleam-- Weaving about the heart a wonder dream? Refulgent in the silvering moonbeams white, In soft half darkness, gardens slumbering light; Only the fountain's iridescent foam Upon the grass falls splashing down-- And images of Gods with lips of silence Sunk in deep musing gaze on every side-- While, eloquent of fallen majesty, Ruins entwined with ivy tendrils be? Soft pictured on the valley's verdant meadows Dark cypress trees reflect their slender shadows; Earth's bosom blooming in fecundity-- And freedom here man's joyful destiny. Yet more than tropic's soft abundance thralling, My stormy North-land wilderness is calling! Her snowflake flocks, her gleaming midnight frosts, The glory of grim forests on her coasts, Green tinted Steppes with distant bluish rim-- The trooping clouds in heaven's spaces dim. Unto the heart how the familiar cries! The village mean that in the valley lies, The wealthy cities' towering majesty, The empty snow-fields' endless boundary,-- The changeful moods that all unbridled throng; Spirit of Russia and of Russian song! With joy now gushing forth,--with pain now ringing-- Unto the hearer's heart resistless singing. Thou fairest picture! my breast with rapture sighs, My spirits free, victorious arise! A song breaks forth to Russia's praise and glory, And tears of joy, the while I muse, are flowing. And jubilant the kindling heart must cry-- Hail Russia, Hail! Thy loyal son am I! NIKITIN. HUNGER Hark! Who knocks with bony fingers On the hut's small window latch? Hark! Who pulls away the stubble Rustling, from the roofing thatch? From the fields it is not Vintage, Drunk and weary wavers home-- 'Tis a spectre, meagre, gloomy, As a nightmare dread become. All subduing, all destroying, In his ragged garment poor, Drags he,--on his crutches limping-- Noiseless reeling through the door. Like the usurer hard hearted, For his last kopek in quest, Coffer, cupboard both he opens, Breaks the lock of case and chest. Lordly rules he, late and early-- In the granary; when gone Every kernel of provision, The last cattle he will pawn. From the land unto the cellar, Clean the peasant's hut he keeps, With a coarse and clumsy besom Every tiny crumb he sweeps. On the village highway also Works and wins he over all, From the threshing floor to stable-- From the sheepfold to the stall. His approaching, sorrow follows-- On his coming, follows need, On his greeting, follows sickness, On his hand-shake Death succeeds! So he seeks in all directions, East and West and South and North-- And in empty field embraces Thankfully his friend the Frost! FOFANOW. FADED THE FOOTSTEP OF SPRING FROM OUR GARDEN