III. 14

Once at midnight hour,Darkness thro' and fog,Quiet by the riverRode a Cossak brave.

Black his cap upon his ear,Dust-covered is his coat,By his knee the pistols hangAnd nigh the ground his sword.

The faithful steed, rein not feelingIs walking slowly on,(Long its mane is, and is waving)Ever further it keeps on.

Now before him two--three huts:Broken is the fence;To the village here the road,To the forest there.

"Not in forest maid is found,"Dennis thinks, the brave."To their chambers went the maids;Are gone for the night."

The son of Don he pulls the reinAnd the spur he strikes:Like an arrow rushed the steed--To the huts he turned.

In the clouds the distant skyWas silvering the moon;A Beauty-Maid in melancholyBy the window sits.

Espies the brave the Beauty-Maid,Beats his heart within:Gently steed to left, to left--Under the window now is he.

"Darker growing is the nightAnd hidden is the moon;Quick, my darling, do come out,Water give my steed."

"No, not unto a man so young;Right fearful't is to go;Fearful't is my house to leave,And water give thy steed."

"Have no fear, O Beauty-Maid,And friendship close with me"--"Brings danger night to Beauty-Maids,""Fear me not, O joy of mine!

"Trust me, dear, thy fear is vain,Away with terror groundless!Time thou losest precious,Fear not, O my darling!

Mount my steed; with thee I willTo distant regions gallop;Blest with me be thou shalt,Heaven with mate is everywhere."

And the maid? Over she bends,Her fear is overcome,Bashfully to ride consents,And the Cossak happy is.

Off they dart, away they fly;Are loving one another.Faithful he for two brief weeks,Forsook her on the third.

Into the hut the children run,In haste they called their father:"Papa, papa, oh, our netsOut a corpse have dragged.""Ye lie, ye lie, ye little devils"Upon them father grumbled."I declare, those wicked brats!Corpse now too have they must!

"Down will come the court, 'Give answer!'And for an age no rest from it.But what to do? Heigh, wife, there,My coat give me, must get there somehow....Now where's the corpse?"--"Here, papa, here!"And in truth along the river,Where is spread the moistened net,Upon the sand is seen the corpse.

Disfigured terribly the corpse is,Is blue, and all is swollen.Is it a hapless sorrower,Who ruined has his sinful soul,Or by the waves a fisher taken,Or some fellow, drunkard,Or by robbers stripped, perchance,Trader some, unbusinesslike?

To the peasant, what is this?About he looks and hastens....Seizes he the body drowned,By the feet to water drags it,And from the shore the windingOff he pushes it with oarDownward 'gain floats the corpse,And grave, and cross still is seeking.

And long the dead among the waves,As if living, swinging, floated;With his eyes the peasant himHomeward going, followed."Ye little dogs, now follow me,Each of you a cake shall have;But look ye out, and hold your tongues!Else a thrashing shall ye have."

At night the wind to blow beganFull of waves became the river;Out the light was already goingIn the peasant's smoky hut.The children sleep; the mother slumbers.On the oven husband lies.Howls the storm; a sudden knockingHe hears of some one at the window.

"Who's there?"--"Ope the door I say!""Time eno'; what is the matter?Wherefore comes tramp at night?By the devil art hither brought!Wherefore with you should I bother?Crowded my house and dark is."So saying, he with lazy handOpen throws the window.

Rolls the moon from behind the clouds--And now? A naked man before him stands;From his beard a stream is flowingHis glance is fixed, and is open.All about him is frightful dumbnessAnd his hands are dropped down;And to the puffed-out, swollen bodyBlack crabs are fastened.

The peasant quickly shuts the window;He recognized his naked guest,Is terror-struck. "May you burst!"Out he whispered and trembled.In great confusion now his thoughts are,And all night he shakes in fever;And till the morrow still the knocking'S heard on the window and at the gates.

Report there was among the people:Saying, since then every yearWaiting is the hapless peasantFor his guest on the appointed day.In the morning the weather changesAnd at night the storm arrives,And the dead man is ever knockingBy the window, and at the gates.

God's birdlet knowsNor care, nor toil;Nor weaves it painfullyAn everlasting nest.Thro' the long night on the twig it slumbers;When rises the red sunBirdie listens to the voice of GodAnd it starts, and it sings.When Spring, Nature's Beauty,And the burning summer have passed,And the fog, and the rain,By the late fall are brought,Men are wearied, men are grieved,But birdie flies into distant lands,Into warm climes, beyond the blue sea:Flies away until the spring.

O last cloud of the scattered storm,Alone thou sailest along the azure clear;Alone thou bringest the shadow sombre,Alone thou marrest the joyful day.

Thou but recently had'st encircled the skyWhen sternly the lightning was winding about thee;Thou gavest forth mysterious thunder,With rain hast watered the parched earth.

Enough! Hie thyself: thy time hath passed:Earth is refreshed; the storm hath fled;And the breeze, fondling the trees' leavesForth thee chases from the quieted heavens!

Why, O wrathful north wind, thouThe marshy shrub dost downward bend?Why thus in the distant sky-vaultWrathfully the cloud dost chase?

The black clouds but recentlyHad spread the whole heavens o'er,The oak on hill top but recentlyIn beauty wondrous itself was priding.

Thou hast risen, and up hast played,With terror resounded, and with splendor--And away are driven the stormy clouds;Down is hurled the mighty oak.

Let now then the sun's clear faceWith joy henceforth ever shine,With the clouds now the zephyr play,And the bush in quiet sway.

Frost and sun--the day is wondrous!Thou still art slumbering, charming friend.'Tis time, O Beauty, to awaken:Ope thine eyes, now in sweetness closed,To meet the Northern Dawn of MorningThyself a north-star do thou appear!

Last night, remember, the storm scolded,And darkness floated in the clouded sky;Like a yellow, clouded spotThro' the clouds the moon was gleaming,--And melancholy thou wert sitting--But now ... thro' the window cast a look:

Stretched beneath the heavens blueCarpet-like magnificent,In the sun the snow is sparkling;Dark alone is the wood transparent,And thro' the hoar gleams green the fir,And under the ice the rivulet sparkles.

Entire is lighted with diamond splendorThy chamber ... with merry crackleThe wood is crackling in the oven.To meditation invites the sofa.But know you? In the sleigh not order whyThe brownish mare to harness?

Over the morning snow we glidingTrust we shall, my friend, ourselvesTo the speed of impatient steed;Visit we shall the fields forsaken,The woods, dense but recently,And the banks so dear to me.

The storm the sky with darkness covers,The snowy whirlings twisting;Like a beast wild now is howling,Like an infant now is crying;Over the aged roof now suddenIn the straw it rustling is;Like a traveller now belatedFor entrance at our window knocking.

With melancholy and with darknessOur little, aged hut is filledWhy in silence then thou sittestBy the window, wife old mine?Or by the howling storms artWearied thou, O companion mine?Or perchance art slumbering,By the rustling spindle soothed?

Let us drink, O kindly friendOf my poverty and youth,Away with grief,--where is the cup?Joy it shall bring to our heart.

A song now sing me, how the birdBeyond the sea in quiet lived;A song now sing me, how the maidenIn the morning for water went.

The storm the sky with darkness covers,The snowy whirlings twisting;Like a beast wild now is howling,Like an infant now is crying.Let us drink, O kindly friendOf my poverty and youth,Away with grief,--where is the cupJoy it shall bring to our heart!

Breaking thro' the waving fogsForth the moon is coming,And on the gloomy acresShe gloomy light is shedding.

Along the wintry, cheerless roadFlies the rapid troikaThe little bell monotonousWearily is tinkling.

A certain homefulness is heardIn the driver's lengthy lays:Now light-hearted carelessness,Now low-spirited sadness.

Neither light, nor a dark hut ...Only snow and silence....Striped mileposts are aloneThe travellers who meet us.

Sad I feel and weary.... On the morrow, Nina,To my beloved I returningForget myself shall by the fireAnd scarce eno' at her shall gaze.

Loudly of my watch the springIts measured circle is completingAnd us the parter of the wearied,Midnight, not shall separate.

Sad I'm, Nina; my journey's weary;Slumbering now, my driver is quietThe little bell is monotonousAnd darkened now is the moon's face.

Hast thou seen on the rock the maid,In robe of white above the waves,When seething in the storm darkPlayed the sea with its shores,--When the glare of lightning hourlyWith rosy glimmer her lighted up,And the wind beating and flappingStruggled with her flying robe?

Beautiful's the sea in the storm dark,Glorious is the sky even without its blueBut trust me: on the rock the maidExcels both wave, and sky, and storm.