"I did not like to see it now; I did not spend one single piece. I travelled, travelled without cease As far as Russian ship could plow. "And when my own scant hoard was gone, And I had reached the far North-land, I took my two stout bags in hand As one pursued, and journeyed on. "Ah, I was weary! I grew gray; I felt the fast years slip and reel As slip black beads when maidens kneel At altars when out-door is gay. "At last I fell prone in the road,-- Fell fainting with my cursed load. A skin-clad cossack helped me bear My bags, nor would one shilling share. "He looked at me with proud disdain,-- He looked at me as if he knew; His black eyes burned me thro' and thro'; His scorn pierced like a deadly pain. "He frightened me with honesty; He made me feel so small, so base, I fled, as if the fiend kept chase,-- The fiend that claims my company! "I bore my load alone; I crept Far up the steep and icy way; And there, before a cross there lay A barefoot priest, who bowed and wept. "I threw my gold right down and sped Straight on. And oh my heart was light! A spring-time bird in spring-time flight Flies not so happy as I fled. "I felt somehow this monk would take My gold, my load from off my back; Would turn the fiend from off my track, Would take my gold for sweet Christ's sake! "I fled; I did not look behind; I fled, fled with the mountain wind. At last; far down the mountain's base I found a pleasant resting-place. "I rested there so long, so well, More grateful than all tongues can tell. It was such pleasant thing to hear That valley's voices calm and clear: "That valley veiled in mountain air, With white goats on the hills at morn; That valley green with seas of corn, With cottage islands here and there. "I watched the mountain girls. The hay They mowed was not more sweet than they; They laid brown hands in my white hair; They marvelled at my face of care. "I tried to laugh; I could but weep. I made these peasants one request,-- That I with them might toil or rest, And with them sleep the long, last sleep. "I begged that I might battle there, For that fair valley-land, for those Who gave me cheer when girt with foes, And have a country, loved and fair. "Where is that spot that poets name Our country? name the hallowed land? Where is that spot where man must stand Or fall when girt with sword and flame? "Where is that one permitted spot? Where is the one place man must fight? Where rests the one God-given right To fight, as ever patriots fought? "I say 'tis in that holy house Where God first set us down on earth: Where mother welcomed us at birth, And bared her breasts, a happy spouse.