The Salt Song

Now none but GodCan save my son:He's dying fast,My little one....

I give him bread---He looks at it,He cries to me,"Put salt on it."I have no salt--No tiny grain;"Take flour," God whispers,"Try again...."

He tastes it once,Once more he tries;"That's not enough,More salt!" he cries.

The flour again....My tears fall fastUpon the bread,--He eats at last!

The mother smilesIn pride and joy:Her tears so saltHave saved the boy.

Young Grisha rememberedThis song; he would sing itQuite low to himselfIn the clerical college.The college was cheerless,And singing this songHe would yearn for his mother,For home, for the peasants,His friends and protectors.And soon, with the loveWhich he bore to his mother,His love for the peopleGrew wider and stronger....At fifteen years oldHe was firmly decidedTo spend his whole lifeIn promoting their welfare,In striving to succourThe poor and afflicted.The demon of maliceToo long over RussiaHas scattered its hate;The shadow of serfdomHas hidden all pathsSave corruption and lying.Another song nowWill arise throughout Russia;The angel of freedomAnd mercy is flyingUnseen o'er our heads,And is calling strong spiritsTo follow the roadWhich is honest and clean.

Oh, tread not the roadSo shining and broad:Along it there speedWith feverish treadThe multitudes ledBy infamous greed.

There lives which are spentWith noble intentAre mocked at in scorn;There souls lie in chains,And bodies and brainsBy passions are torn,

By animal thirstFor pleasures accurstWhich pass in a breath.There hope is in vain,For there is the reignOf darkness and death.

In front of your eyesAnother road lies--'Tis honest and clean.Though steep it appearsAnd sorrow and tearsUpon it are seen:

It leads to the doorOf those who are poor,Who hunger and thirst,Who pant without air.Who die in despair--Oh, there be the first!

The song of the angelOf Mercy not vainlyWas sung to our Grisha.The years of his studyBeing passed, he developedIn thought and in feeling;A passionate singerOf Freedom became he,Of all who are grieving,Down-trodden, afflicted,In Russia so vast.

The bright sun was shining,The cool, fragrant morningWas filled with the sweetnessOf newly-mown hay.Young Grisha was thoughtful,He followed the first roadHe met--an old high-road,An avenue, shadedBy tall curling birch trees.The youth was now gloomy,Now gay; the effectOf the feast was still with him;His thoughts were at work,And in song he expressed them:

"I know that you suffer,O Motherland dear,The thought of it fills me with woe:And Fate has much sorrowIn store yet, I fear,But you will not perish, I know.

"How long since your childrenAs playthings were used,As slaves to base passions and lust;Were bartered like cattle,Were vilely abusedBy masters most cruel and unjust?

"How long since young maidensWere dragged to their shame,Since whistle of whips filled the land,Since 'Service' possessedA more terrible fameThan death by the torturer's hand?

"Enough! It is finished,This tale of the past;'Tis ended, the masters' long sway;The strength of the peopleIs stirring at last,To freedom 'twill point them the way.

"Your burden grows lighter,O Motherland dear,Your wounds less appalling to see.Your fathers were slaves,Smitten helpless by fear,But, Mother, your children are free!"

A small winding footpathNow tempted young Grisha,And guided his stepsTo a very broad hayfield.The peasants were cuttingThe hay, and were singingHis favourite song.Young Grisha was saddenedBy thoughts of his mother,And nearly in angerHe hurried awayFrom the field to the forest.Bright echoes are dartingAbout in the forest;Like quails in the wheatLittle children are romping(The elder ones workIn the hay fields already).He stopped awhile, seekingFor horse-chestnuts with them.The sun was now hot;To the river went GrishaTo bathe, and he hadA good view of the ruinsThat three days beforeHad been burnt. What a picture!No house is left standing;And only the prisonIs saved; just a few daysAgo it was whitewashed;It stands like a littleWhite cow in the pastures.The guards and officialsHave made it their refuge;But all the poor peasantsAre strewn by the riverLike soldiers in camp.Though they're mostly asleep now,A few are astir,And two under-officialsAre picking their wayTo the tent for some vodka'Mid tables and cupboardsAnd waggons and bundles.A tailor approachesThe vodka tent also;A shrivelled old fellow.His irons and his scissorsHe holds in his hands,Like a leaf he is shaking.The pope has arisenFrom sleep, full of prayers.He is combing his hair;Like a girl he is holdingHis long shining plait.Down the Volga comes floatingSome wood-laden rafts,And three ponderous bargesAre anchored beneathThe right bank of the river.The barge-tower yesterdayEvening had dragged themWith songs to their places,And there he is standing,The poor harassed man!He is looking quite gay though,As if on a holiday,Has a clean shirt on;Some farthings are jinglingAloud in his pocket.Young Grisha observes himFor long from the river,And, half to himself,Half aloud, begins singing: