THE SONG OP THE SPENDTHRIFT
To seven kopek the heir,
Nor house nor land have I--
Live I--hey! I live then!
Die I--hey! I die!
In many realms the Fool
Can sleep no wink for care,
While yet the spendthrift snores
When dawns the morning fair.
Free as the wind he blows,
Door nor gate to balk him,
Riches, hey! Now give place!
Poverty goes walking!
Before me bends the rye
When through the fields I stray
And glad the forest hears
My pipe and song alway.
If one must bitter weep--
No man will see his tears,
If sadly bowed his head--
None save the partridge jeers.
If weary one, or not,
What matters anything?
Let him toss back his locks
And playful laugh and sing!
And if one die,--the grave
Will warm his hands and feet!
Dost to my song respond?
Nay? Then it is complete.
NIKITIN.
THE SPADE IS DEEP DIGGING A GRAVE IN THE MOULD
The spade is deep digging a grave in the mould....
O Life,--so o'erflowing with sorrows untold,
My life, so homeless and lonely and weary,
Life, as an Autumn night silent and dreary--
Bitter in truth is thy fate 'neath the sky,
And as a fire of the field wilt thou die!
Die then--no sad falling tear will recall thee,
Fast will the roof of thy pine coffin wall thee,
Heavy the earth falls upon the sad hearted--
Only one more from humanity parted;
One whose home-going no fond heart is tearing--
One for whom no soul will sorrow despairing!
Hark! What a silvery music is ringing!
Hark! What a careless and jubilant singing!
See on ethereal azure waves swinging,
Now the glad lark to her South-land is winging!
Silence, O Life full of doubting and fears,
Hushed first of all be the songs of men's tears!
NIKITIN.
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