III. 149

God grant I grow not insane:No, better the stick and beggar's bag:No, better toil and hunger bear.

Not that I upon my reasonSuch value place; not that IWould fain not lose it.

If freedom to me they would leaveHow I would lasciviouslyFor the gloomy forest rush!

In hot delirium I would singAnd unconscious would remainWith ravings wondrous and chaotic.

And listen would I to the wavesAnd gaze I would full of blissInto the empty heavens.

And free and strong then would I beLike a storm the fields updigging,Forest-trees uprooting.

But here's the trouble: if crazy once,A fright thou art like pestilence,And locked up now shalt thou be.

To a chain thee, fool, they 'll fastenAnd through the gate, a circus beast,Thee to nettle the people come.

And at night not hear shall IClear the voice of nightingaleNor the forest's hollow sound,

But cries alone of companions mineAnd the scolding guards of nightAnd a whizzing, of chains a ringing.

Whether I roam along the noisy streetsWhether I enter the peopled temple,Whether I sit by thoughtless youth,Haunt my thoughts me everywhere.

I say, Swiftly go the years by:However great our number now,Must all descend the eternal vaults,--Already struck has some one's hour.

And if I gaze upon the lonely oakI think: the patriarch of the woodsWill survive my passing ageAs he survived my father's age.

And if a tender babe I fondleAlready I mutter, Fare thee well!I yield my place to thee. For me'T is time to decay, to bloom for thee

Every year thus, every dayWith death my thought I joinOf coming death the dayI seek among them to divine.

Where will Fortune send me death?In battle? In wanderings, or on the wavesOr shall the valley neighboringReceive my chilled dust?

But tho' the unfeeling bodyCan everywhere alike decay,Still I, my birthland nighWould have my body lie.

Let near the entrance to my graveCheerful youth be in play engaged,And let indifferent creationWith beauty shine there eternally.

Not dear I prize high-sounding rightsBy which is turned more head than one;Not murmur I that not granted the Gods to meThe blessed lot of discussing fates,Of hindering kings from fighting one another;And little care I whether free the press is.

All this you see are words, words, words!Other, better rights, dear to me are;Other, better freedom is my need....To depend on rulers, or the mob--Is not all the same it? God be with them!To give account to none; to thyself aloneTo serve and please; for power, for a liveryNor soul, nor mind, nor neck to bend:Now here, now there to roam in freedomNature's beauties divine admiring,And before creations of art and inspirationMelt silently in tender ecstasy--This is bliss, these are rights!....

Over the wooded banks,In the hour of evening quiet,Under the tents are song and bustleAnd the fires are scattered.

Thee I greet, O happy race!I recognize thy blazes,I myself at other timesThese tents would have followed.

With the early rays to-morrowShall disappear your freedom's trace,Go you will--but not with youLonger go shall the bard of you.

He alas, the changing lodgings,And the pranks of days of yoreHas forgot for rural comfortsAnd for the quiet of a home.

Cross-firing behind the hills:Both camps watch, theirs and ours;In front of Cossaks on the hillDashes 'long brave Delibash

O Delibash, not to the line come nigh,Do have mercy on thy life;Quick 't is over with thy frolic bold,Pierced thou by the spear shalt be

Hey, Cossak, not to battle rushThe Delibash is swift as wind;Cut he will with crooked sabreFrom thy shoulders thy fearless head.

They rush with yell: are hand to hand;And behold now what each befalls:Already speared the Delibash isAlready headless the Cossak is!