A small winding footpath Now tempted young Grisha, And guided his steps To a very broad hayfield. The peasants were cutting The hay, and were singing 280 His favourite song. Young Grisha was saddened By thoughts of his mother, And nearly in anger He hurried away From the field to the forest. Bright echoes are darting About in the forest; Like quails in the wheat Little children are romping 290 (The elder ones work In the hay fields already). He stopped awhile, seeking For horse-chestnuts with them. The sun was now hot; To the river went Grisha To bathe, and he had A good view of the ruins That three days before Had been burnt. What a picture! No house is left standing; 301 And only the prison Is saved; just a few days Ago it was whitewashed; It stands like a little White cow in the pastures. The guards and officials Have made it their refuge; But all the poor peasants Are strewn by the river 310 Like soldiers in camp. Though they're mostly asleep now, A few are astir, And two under-officials Are picking their way To the tent for some vodka 'Mid tables and cupboards And waggons and bundles. A tailor approaches The vodka tent also; 320 A shrivelled old fellow. His irons and his scissors He holds in his hands, Like a leaf he is shaking. The pope has arisen From sleep, full of prayers. He is combing his hair; Like a girl he is holding His long shining plait. Down the Volga comes floating 330 Some wood-laden rafts, And three ponderous barges Are anchored beneath The right bank of the river. The barge-tower yesterday Evening had dragged them With songs to their places, And there he is standing, The poor harassed man! He is looking quite gay though, 340 As if on a holiday, Has a clean shirt on; Some farthings are jingling Aloud in his pocket. Young Grisha observes him For long from the river, And, half to himself, Half aloud, begins singing: _The Barge-Tower_