The song of the angel 220 Of Mercy not vainly Was sung to our Grisha. The years of his study Being passed, he developed In thought and in feeling; A passionate singer Of Freedom became he, Of all who are grieving, Down-trodden, afflicted, In Russia so vast. 230 * * * * * The bright sun was shining, The cool, fragrant morning Was filled with the sweetness Of newly-mown hay. Young Grisha was thoughtful, He followed the first road He met--an old high-road, An avenue, shaded By tall curling birch trees. The youth was now gloomy, 240 Now gay; the effect Of the feast was still with him; His thoughts were at work, And in song he expressed them: "I know that you suffer, O Motherland dear, The thought of it fills me with woe: And Fate has much sorrow In store yet, I fear, But you will not perish, I know. 250 "How long since your children As playthings were used, As slaves to base passions and lust; Were bartered like cattle, Were vilely abused By masters most cruel and unjust? "How long since young maidens Were dragged to their shame, Since whistle of whips filled the land, Since 'Service' possessed 260 A more terrible fame Than death by the torturer's hand? "Enough! It is finished, This tale of the past; 'Tis ended, the masters' long sway; The strength of the people Is stirring at last, To freedom 'twill point them the way. "Your burden grows lighter, O Motherland dear, 270 Your wounds less appalling to see. Your fathers were slaves, Smitten helpless by fear, But, Mother, your children are free!" * * * * *