AN EASTER GREETING

The lark at sunrise trills it high-- The greeting Christ is risen!

And through the wood the black-bird pipes The greeting Christ is risen!

Beneath the eaves the swallows cry The greeting Christ is risen!

Throughout the world man's heart proclaims The greeting Christ is risen!

And echo answers from the grave In truth, yes, He is risen!

MAIKOW.

AT EASTER

Drawing near the Easter Sunday With the Easter-greeting kiss; When I come, remember Dora-- Not alone we suffer this!

Then, as were it for the first time-- Kiss thou me and I kiss thee; Thou with modest eyelids downcast, I with but ill stifled glee!

MAIKOW.

_The religious custom of the Easter-greeting kiss prevails throughout Russia_.

O MOUNTAINS OF MY NATIVE COUNTRY!

"O mountains of my native country! O valleys of my home!

On you gleam Winter's snowflakes white and twinkle lambs of Summer-- On you the rosy sunlight glows, you know no deathly shudder!"

So, 'neath the earth did wistful yearn three homesick youths in Hades, Who fain from out that under world to worlds above would hasten.

The first declared "We'll go in Spring!" The second "No, in Summer!"

"No," cried the third, "at harvesting, in time the grapes to gather!"

A listening maiden fair, o'erheard with heart resistless throbbing; Upon her breast her arms she crossed and begged of them imploring-- "O take me to the upper world!" Alone the youths made answer, "That cannot be, you fairest maid, that you with us be taken!

Your heels would clatter as you speed, your dress would rustle silken, Your rattling ornaments warn death to hear us all escaping."

"My rustling dress I will unlace,--my ornaments forsaking, Barefooted up the stairway steep will mute and cautious follow!

Ah, but too gladly would I gaze again on earthly living!

I fain my mother would console, sad for her daughter grieving-- would my brothers twain behold, who for their sister sorrow!"

"O do not yearn, thou wretched child, for those thou lovest, ever!

Thy brothers in the village street now joyful lead the wrestling-- And with the neighbors on the street thy mother gossips zestful!"

MAIKOW.

THE AEOLIAN HARP

The land lies parched in sun,--to heaven the air is still, Hushed now upon the harp the golden strings' lost thrill; Aeolian harps our native singers are,--and numb Must be their heart, their dying life blood cease to flow, Forever silent be their voice, if longer dumb Their breath be suffocated in this sultry glow!

O if a Genius on tempest-pinions winging, Stormed through our native land,--Spirit with freedom rife!

How jubilant would our Aeolian harps be ringing To greet the G.o.dly power that promises new life!

MAIKOW.

YE SONGS OF MINE!

Ye songs of mine! Of universal sorrows A living witness ye; Born of the pa.s.sion of the soul, bewailing Tempestuous and free, The hard heart of humanity a.s.sailing As doth her cliffs the sea!

NEKRa.s.sOW.

IN WAR

Hearing the terrors of the war, sore troubled, By each new victim of the combat torn-- Nor friend, nor wife I give my utmost pity, Nor do I for the fallen hero mourn.

Alas! the wife will find a consolation.

The friend by friend is soon forgot in turn.

But somewhere is the one soul that remembers-- That will remember unto death's dark sh.o.r.e, Nor can the tears of a heart-stricken mother Forget the sons gone down on fields of gore.

One soul there is that like the weeping willow Can never raise its drooping branches more.

NEKRa.s.sOW.

THE SONGS OF SIBERIAN EXILES

We stand unbroken in our places, Our shovels dare to take no rest, For not in vain his golden treasure G.o.d buried deep in earth's dark breast.

Then shovel on and do not falter, Humble and hopeful, clear we see-- When Russia has grown rich and mighty, Our grandchildren will grateful be!

Though streams the sweat in rivers downward, Our arms from shoveling grown weak, Our bodies frozen to an ice crust While we new strength in slumber seek--

Sweating or freezing, we will bear it!

Thirst-pain and hunger will withstand, For each stone is of use to Russia, And each is given by our own hand!

NEKRa.s.sOW.

_Written to a band of political exiles including some of the highest aristocracy_.