Unto the heart how the familiar cries!
The village mean that in the valley lies,
The wealthy cities' towering majesty,
The empty snow-fields' endless boundary,--
The changeful moods that all unbridled throng;
Spirit of Russia and of Russian song!
With joy now gushing forth,--with pain now ringing--
Unto the hearer's heart resistless singing.
Thou fairest picture! my breast with rapture sighs,
My spirits free, victorious arise!
A song breaks forth to Russia's praise and glory,
And tears of joy, the while I muse, are flowing.
And jubilant the kindling heart must cry--
Hail Russia, Hail! Thy loyal son am I!
NIKITIN.
HUNGER
Hark! Who knocks with bony fingers
On the hut's small window latch?
Hark! Who pulls away the stubble
Rustling, from the roofing thatch?
From the fields it is not Vintage,
Drunk and weary wavers home--
'Tis a spectre, meagre, gloomy,
As a nightmare dread become.
All subduing, all destroying,
In his ragged garment poor,
Drags he,--on his crutches limping--
Noiseless reeling through the door.
Like the usurer hard hearted,
For his last kopek in quest,
Coffer, cupboard both he opens,
Breaks the lock of case and chest.
Lordly rules he, late and early--
In the granary; when gone
Every kernel of provision,
The last cattle he will pawn.
From the land unto the cellar,
Clean the peasant's hut he keeps,
With a coarse and clumsy besom
Every tiny crumb he sweeps.
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