"Myself from dissenters[12] (A source of pope's income) I never take money, I've never transgressed, For I never had need to; Because in my parish 350 Two-thirds of the people Are Orthodox churchmen. But districts there are Where the whole population Consists of dissenters-- Then how can the pope live? "But all in this world Is subjected to changes: The laws which in old days Applied to dissenters 360 Have now become milder; And that in itself Is a check to pope's income. I've said the Pomyeshchicks Are gone, and no longer They seek to return To the home of their childhood; And then of their ladies (Rich, pious old women), How many have left us 370 To live near the convents! And nobody now Gives the pope a new cassock Or church-work embroidered. He lives on the peasants, Collects their brass farthings, Their cakes on the feast-days, At Easter their eggs. The peasants are needy Or they would give freely-- 380 Themselves they have nothing; And who can take gladly The peasant's last farthing? "Their lands are so poor, They are sand, moss, or boggy, Their cattle half-famished, Their crops yield but twofold; And should Mother Earth Chance at times to be kinder, That too is misfortune: 390 The market is crowded, They sell for a trifle To pay off the taxes. Again comes a bad crop--- Then pay for your bread Three times higher than ever, And sell all your cattle! Now, pray to God, Christians, For this year again A great misery threatens: 400 We ought to have sown For a long time already; But look you--the fields Are all deluged and useless.... O God, have Thou pity And send a round[13] rainbow To shine in Thy heavens!" Then taking his hat off He crossed himself thrice, And the peasants did likewise. "Our village is poor 411 And the people are sickly, The women are sad And are scantily nourished, But pious and laborious; God give them courage! Like slaves do they toil; 'Tis hard to lay hands On the fruits of such labour. "At times you are sent for 420 To pray by the dying, But Death is not really The awful thing present, But rather the living-- The family losing Their only support. You pray by the dead. Words of comfort you utter, To calm the bereaved ones; And then the old mother 430 Comes tottering towards you, And stretching her bony And toil-blistered hand out; You feel your heart sicken, For there in the palm Lie the precious brass farthings! Of course it is only The price of your praying. You take it, because It is what you must live on; 440 Your words of condolence Are frozen, and blindly, Like one deep insulted, You make your way homeward. Amen...." * * * * *