Far away hast thou, Throughout lands untold, In thy glory fair, Russia, been enrolled!

Art thou not in s.p.a.ce E'en o'er well supplied?

Where a spirit bold Freely wanders wide!

Hast thou not alway Gold and grain rich stored?

For thy friend a feast?

For thy foe a sword?

Guards and shields thee not With a sacred might, Holy altar forms, Deeds of glory bright?

To whom hast thou e'er Bent an humble knee?

Or before whom bowed Seeking charity?

In the Kurgan deep, Met in open fight, Thou hast e'en subdued The fierce Tartar's might.

Fought to b.l.o.o.d.y death The Lithuanian horde, The defiant Pole Scattered with a sword.

And how long ago, Black clouds, rising out Of the distant West, Compa.s.sed thee about?

'Neath the lightning flash Sank the woods away, Trembled the earth's breast, Pierced with dismay.

And the inky smoke Ruinous did rise From the village burnt To the cloudy skies.

Loudly to the fight Then the Tsar did call-- Russia swift replied, Coming one and all.

Women, children came-- Men from age to youth, Gave their evil guest b.l.o.o.d.y feast in truth!

And in lonely fields Under ice and snow, To his endless sleep Laid the victim low.

Where the snowstorms wild Raised o'er him a tomb, While the North wind sang Dirges in the gloom.

Town and village too Over all our land, Now like ant hills swarm With this Christian band.

Now from distant sh.o.r.es O'er the cruel sea, Ship on ship draws near Homage paying thee.

Blooming are thy fields, Soft thy forests sigh, Hid in earth's dark breast Golden treasures lie.

And to East and West, To the South and North-- Flies thy louder fame Through the wide world forth!

Holy Russia, thou Dost deserve to be "Mother" called by all, In our love to thee!

For thy glory fair We should face the foe, And thy freedom guarding Glad our lives bestow!

NIKITIN.

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.

GOSSIP

Though blameless thy living As Anchorite's fate, Yet Gossip will find thee Or early or late.

Through keyhole he enters And stands at thy side, Doors of wood nor of stone Against him provide.

He pulls the alarm bell At slightest excuse-- And down to thy grave Will pursue with abuse.