Part 5

So quietly, so gently the loose hair drifts adown— “Float there!” she cries, “float onward through vale and busy town, But wait for me a moment, wait, ere I leap to drown!

“You know the veiling willow upon the river brim? Wait there—and my sore heart shall come to tell the tale of him— No end there is to Dunai; no eyes for me shall dim.

“The widow’s son was handsome, he loved me, as I thought, And look upon the misery his laughing eyes have wrought. Ah, Dunai! did’st thou know it then—know that he loved me not?

“O cruel is my lover, Ivan, the widow’s son, He rode away, and whispered, ‘Farewell, my little one— The day was bright and fair, my dear, but now the day is done.

“‘Oh, sit beside the river, or watch me from the wall— I’ll wear the wedding flower some day in banquet hall: And you can wear, all sombrely, a thick-enfolding shawl.’”

_So quietly, so gently the Dunai’s waters flow._

“I WAS BORN IN A FATED HOUR”

They say I am lucky, that cares I’ve none— Yet never was there so unlucky a one. ’Twill be always the same, while I draw my breath, From the hour of my birth to the day of my death. O Dame Misfortune, I’m in your power, Because I was born in a fated hour!

The spring so pretty, she presents brings, But not for me are her gracious things.

My days go on, and my years fly past, And I never was happy, from first to last. O Dame Misfortune, I’m in your power, Because I was born in a fated hour!

I do not count my earliest years, Though doubtless they had their fill of tears. O future days! If you wretched be, Come short of the span allotted to me.

Mother of mine, when you bathed[65] in flowers Your baby child, of a few short hours, The while the shower of blossoms broke Why did not you let the petals choke?

Mother of mine, did you kneel and pray In cloister dim, when a babe I lay, That all misfortune should depart From the little child held to your heart?

“I bore you there, and I knelt and prayed. Alas, that blessing has been stayed! Ill-luck has come, in spite of all— Then take from God what may befall.”

THE SONG OF THE VISITS

I liked a girl too much, too much. She asked me to come and see her sometime.

So I went to see her upon a Monday— I did not find my girl at home. She was in the garden weeding barwēnok. “Ah ha!” I thought, “she is not at home, My little sweetheart is not at home.”

When I went to see her upon the Tuesday I did not find my girl at home. She was clearing the pea-vines in the garden; “Ah ha!” I thought, “she is not at home! Naidorozcha Devchina[66] is not at home.”

When I came to see her upon the Wednesday I did not find my girl at home. She was out in the pastures herding cattle. “Ah ha!” I thought, “she is not at home, My sweet little rose is not at home!”

When I came to see her upon the Thursday I did not find my girl at home. So I thought I was lost—I would not get her.

When I came to see her upon the Friday She was weeding still in the garden bed. “Ah ha!” I thought, “she is not at home, My rosy cheeks is not at home.”

Saturday came and found me calling. When the door was opened they told me this: “She finishes all her work of cleaning.” And I thought, “May I never see her again!”

When I came to see her upon the Sunday I got her that time, you may be sure. She was sitting there at the dinner table. I said, “I have you, Naidorozcha Devchina, The first time for you, the last for me!”

“WASYLKI”[67]—SONG OF THE DANCE

O they said, the evil talkers, I, a maid, should never wed.... I saw Wasyl in the orchard, The green boughs above his head.

_Refrain._ They are mine, the blue wasylki, And Wasyl, he comes closer.... The reason why I like him so, The Devil’s Father knows, sir!

There’s a dam anear the river— My Wasylko’s gone from sight! I call him, he does not answer— May he spend in health the night.

_Refrain._

Kneading bread and bringing calves home.... Where, Wasylko, art thou? Where?... Laughing now above the oven My Wasylko’s lying there!

_Refrain._

Sleeveless shirt for my Wasylko I will sew while bread I bake. For my lad, my own Wasylko, See the lovely shirt I make!

_Refrain._ They are mine, the blue wasylki, My Wasyl, he comes closer. The reason why I like him so, The Devil’s Father knows, sir!

KALINA—THE CRANBERRY

SHEVCHENKO

“My Daughter! Why dost thou visit the grave-hill? Why weepest thou; where goest thou? Like a grey dove at night thou moanest.”

“It is nothing, my Mother, nothing....” And she went to the hill again, While, weeping, the mother waited. That is not Herb-o’-Dreams[68] Blooming at night on the grave; A betrothed maiden Kalina plants, Waters it with her tears, Beseeching Heaven:

“O God, send rain at night, Abundant dew, So that Kalina May bud forth. Perhaps my lover From the other world Will come. Lo, there I’ll make a nest And I myself Shall fly to it, And we shall sing together On the bough. Yea, we shall weep and sing And murmur low— Together we shall in the dawning wing Our flight to other worlds.”

And the Kalina grew, Spreading forth branches green.... Three years she visited the grave— The fourth year dawned.

That is not Herb-o’-Dreams That blooms at night. It is a weeping girl Who to Kalina speaks:

“O my Kalina, broad and tall, Watered before the sunset.... —Nay, but broad tear-rivers Drenched thy roots. And to these rivers coward-talk, Whisp’ring, would give ill-fame. My girl companions look askance at me And they neglect Kalina. Deck now my head, Wash it with dew. Cover me from the sun With thy broad branches Shielding. Then they will find me, bury me. Mocking at me; And thy broad branches Children will tear off.”

At sundown in Kalina’s leaves A bird was singing. Under the bush a young girl lies, She sleeps, she sleeps, nor will arise. Tired, the youthful one. She rests for ever.

The Sun rose over the hill; Rose the folk joyfully From happy slumbers. But all, all the long night through A mother slept not. Weeping, she could see The vacant place at table, Lone in the dusk, And she wept bitterly.

OTHER POEMS

THOUGHTS FROM A PRISON

TARAS SHEVCHENKO

The sun sets; mountains fade Into the darkness; the bird’s note is stilled. The fields grow silent, for the peasant now Rejoicing, dreams of rest.

And I look with desire, Longing desire—to an orchard dark, The Orchard of Ukraine. And I pour forth my thoughts As though my heart were resting.

Fields, forest, mountains, darkening still— And in the shadowy blue appears a star ... O Star! My Star!... And the tears fall ... Hast thou then also risen in Ukraine?

Not for the people and not for the praise These verses now are written. Nay, I write But for myself, my brothers, for heart’s ease. Lo, from beyond the Dnieper, as from far away The words flow in and spread the paper o’er; Laughing and crying as the children do They gladden my poor soul, uncomforted, Raw, inconsolable—I joy in them, With them would always stay. They are my own. As a rich father loves his little ones, So am I glad and merry with my own. Yea, I rejoice; and the good God I praise, That He lets not my children fall asleep In this so far-off land, but says, “Run home, And tell the others in the dear Ukraine How bitter ’twas to live in such a world!”

TOPOLIA—THE POPLAR

SHEVCHENKO

The wind blows through the oaks in the wood, It dances through the fields. Beside the high road it uproots Topolia, And fells her to the ground.

Why has she a slim, tall trunk? Why are her broad leaves green? The field around is blue, And wide as the sea.... When the Tchumak passes He looks and bows his head. Tchabàn, the shepherd, in the dawn, His pipe plays on the hill; He looks around. Sorrow is in his heart—no shrub is near— Only a poplar lone, Lone as an orphan stands, Fades in an alien land.

Who nurtured this slender and yielding body To languish on the steppes? Wait, maidens, I will tell ye! Listen:

With a Cossack A maiden fell in love, Loved him, but held him not. He departed and perished.

If she had known That he would leave her She would not have loved him:

If she had known That he would die She would not have let him go:

If she had known, She would not have gone for water late at even, She would not have lingered With her sweetheart Under the willow tree If she had known!...

But it is dangerous To know the future— What misfortune will meet us, Maidens, seek not to know, Ask not of your fate. The heart knows whom to love. Let it wither, little by little, Until it is buried, Because Not for long are the bright eyes Of the black-browed girl.

Girls, O Girls! Not for long the rosy cheeks! Only till noon— Then they will fade, will shrivel, The black brows will grow pale.... Girls! Love ye or like as your heart says.

The nightingale is trilling In the wood, on the cranberry. Walking in the meadow The Cossack sings— He sings until Tchornobriva[69] Comes out of the hut, And he asks her: “Did your mother hurt you?” Close together they stand, they embrace, The nightingale sings, And, hearing it, they depart, Joyful at heart. Nobody sees them, none will ask her, “Where wast thou, what didst thou do?” She herself knows. She loved, But her heart was sad with foreboding, All unspoken, untold.... Abandoned, Day and night she called, Cooing like a mournful dove, But no one heard.

The nightingale does not sing In the wood over the water: The black-browed girl sang of old Under a willow tree— Now she does not sing. As an orphan, she hates the white world. Without her sweetheart, Like an alien, her mother, Like a stranger, her father. Without her sweetheart The sun shines As an enemy loves. Without her lover All is—a grave. And her heart beats on. One year passed, and another, The Cossack did not return.

· · · · ·

“I will not marry him, Mother! I do not wish to ‘live like a lady,’ Lower me in a grave with those Towels![70] Better to lie in a coffin than to see his face.”

· · · · ·

“O fortune-teller, how long will I live in this world Without my sweetheart? Granny-Pigeon, My Heart, Nenka, tell me the truth, Is my lover alive and in health? Does he love me, Or forget and abandon me? Tell me, where is my lover? Art thou ready to fly to the end of the world, Granny-Pigeon? Tell, if thou knowest, For my Mother marries me to an old, rich man.... But, O Grey One, Never will my heart cease loving that other! I would drown myself But so I might lose my soul. O my ‘Ptashka!’[71] Do something—let me not go home. It is hard, hard for me— There, at home, the Old One waits With the marriage brokers. Tell me my fortune.”

“So be it, Daughter. Tarry a while, But do my will. Long ago I, too, Was a marriageable maiden— I know that woe, but it has passed, And I have learned to help. I knew thy fortune, my dear daughter, Two years ago. Then I prepared for thee That zilie on the shelf. Now take the magic herb, And to the clear spring go. Ere cock-crow wash thy face, Then drink this draught. Sorrow shall pass. Run to the grave, nor look thou back— Some one behind may cry, but give no heed. Run to that spot where once thou saidst farewell; Stay there until the moon Is crescent in mid-sky, Then drink again. If he come not, Then drink once more. After the first draught thou wilt look The maid thou wast: After the second, a horse will stamp its foot. If then thy Cossack lives Be sure he’ll come; But after the third draught, O daughter mine, Ask not what shall befall! But hearken! Cross not thyself Else naught of this will be. Now go! And look upon Thy beauty of last year!”

· · · · ·

“To go or not to go? No, I will not go home!” She went and bathed herself, And drank the zilie wine, And she was changed; Second and third time drank, And drowsiness was hers. She sang on the wide steppes: “Float, float, O Swan, Upon the bluish sea! Grow tall, Topolia, Reach higher, higher! Slender and tall, aspire Up to the clouds. Ask God: Will waiting then At all avail? Waiting for him, my mate?

“Grow, grow tall! Look out o’er the blue sea. Good luck and bad luck lie On either side. And there, somewhere, My lover roams the fields. I weep, my years pass by Waiting for him. Say to him, O my heart, Topolia! That people laugh at me. Tell him that I shall die If he do not come soon. Mother herself Wishes to bury me.... Look far, Topolia, and, if he is not, Weep with the dew at sundown, Though none may know— Taller and taller grow, Higher and higher. Float, float, O Swan, Upon the bluish sea.”

Such a song Tchornobriva Sang on the steppes. O Zilie Miracle!—she is Topolia! She did not return home; She did not wait for him. There slim and tall She beckons to the clouds. The wind blows through the oaks in the wood, It dances through the fields. Beside the high road it uproots Topolia, And fells her to the ground.

SONG FROM EXILE

RUDANSKY

Blow, O Wind, unto my Ukraine! For I left there a sweet maiden. Yea, two dark-brown eyes I left there— Blow, thou wind, from midnight onward.

There in Ukraine lies a valley, In the valley there’s a Khuta; In the hut there dwells a maiden— Little maiden, wild she-pigeon.

There, O Wind, Hush and be silent! Rest above her face in quiet; Bow above her rosy face, thou; Look: is she, my sweetheart, sleeping?

Or is she awake, my pigeon? If she sleeps not, set her dreaming Of the one she loved, her dearest, Whom she swore she would forget not.

But, O Wind, if she forget me, If she have another wooer.... Die away in Ukraina— Come not back to me in exile!

· · · · ·

And the wind blows on through Ukraine ... My heart weeps: ’tis full of sorrows ... And the wind fled into Ukraine, And it never turnèd backward.

THE RING

VOROBKIEVICH

It is about a month since my loved one bade me good-bye, Since he went away, and wept, and gave me the ring; “If I do not return from war, but there lay my head, This ring shall remind you aye of your true love.”

Early this morning the ring on my finger broke. Doubtless the raven croaks, perching upon his head! I will to the fortune-teller—“Young am I, but sad; Read me the sign of the ring. I fear that some evil comes.”

· · · · ·

“There is no good news here; this that you see means blood!”

· · · · ·

“O mother, my heart burns up! My heart burns like a fire.” The world in her eyes turned black, and she fainted as quietly As a flower under a leaf droops in a blazing sun.

In a village graveyard old there stands a cross of oak. Under it dreams a girl; she has dreamt this many a year. And her loved one from the war has never, never returned. In a far-off land, somewhere, he fell into dreamless sleep.

POEMS BY FEDKOVICH[72]

WHERE LUCK LIES

You, my brother, stayed at home, Threshing out the beans— I hied me to Germany, Seeking where my Luck might be, League on league to roam.

Under Bukowina’s sky, Even there I went, Passed the flinty Tyrol’s bar, Wandered till I reached a star— Wandering still am I!

Ah, my brother, you did well— Threshing all the while. Luck that would not come to me, Luck I went so far to see, In your beans it fell!

THE FLUTE

The midnight fire flickers, The embers slowly dying; The father sits at the table, Heavily, sadly thinking. The mother, too, sits quiet, Sending swift prayers to Heaven. Her heart is filled with grief, But she knows not words to tell it. The sisters finish their sewing By the light of the Kahanetz.

The brother has sought a corner To pipe sad tunes on a flute. He plays on the flute of Ivan, Ivan who the Emperor serves. Suddenly, with a heart-cry, He stops his sad, sweet playing: “Ivan, Ivan! It sounds not, Thy famous tunes are silent! Where, O where art thou living, And how doth my brother fare?”

Brushing away his tears He placed his flute near the rafters. Quietly leaving the room He went to sleep in the stable, That he might talk with the bay Concerning Ivan, his brother.

And on the hot sands of Italy, On the green grass lies a soldier, Shot, awaiting death, alone, alone, As a leaf in desert lands. Only the moon is shining— Above him proud Cheremshina[73] Her buds flings outward.

And he lies thinking, thinking, Dreaming of his home, Bidding good-bye to father, To mother, brother, and sisters: “Adieu, adieu, Kateryna, With thine undying love, With thy so sweet affection. Adieu, my golden weapons, Adieu, my bay in the stable That carried me to dances, That knew my heart’s deep secrets.”

Then, low and faint in the distance There reached his ears, uncertain, The sound of sweet flute piping. It drifted into silence.... The soldier’s head has fallen, The stars have faded away.

On Sunday in the village Gather Ivan’s companions. “Brothers, come, let us play it, The famous flute of Ivan’s!” How vain were all their efforts; ’Twas dumb, as dumb as ever.

And on the hot sands of Italy, Under the boughs of Cheremshina, What does he dream, Ivan? Does he dream of the bay, Or of Kateryna?

TWO ETCHINGS

I. HOLY EVE

The bell rings, rings, rings! The whole city is ablaze with light, Light dazzling as the heavens. Even in the barracks the echoes ring, Although it is all dark and quiet within. One soldier alone stands in a ray of light; He leans against a pillar sadly, As if it were indeed his coffin. He raises tearful eyes to Heaven, As though he would entreat the stars: The stars for him shine very brightly, Gleam houses beautiful and merry. Why then a heart so faint and weary If there is naught to cause it anguish? How can I know?... I dare not ask him ... See how his brows are frowning ever— Who knows the trouble of the soldier?

II. IN CHURCH

Sad and quiet is the House of God, Stillness holds all and is held there. Only the old priest reads prayers from a book; A lonely candle is dying fast. From the walls the statues of gold Look down with a wondering stare.

And on the stones, on the cold pavement, What do I see? A young, dead soldier resting in a coffin, No sister lamenting, nor mother fainting with grief; Just a candle, dropping its wax-like tears, And the stare of the statues, And the priest saying prayers for the dead, A last kiss beseeching for the dead orphan; But none goes to kiss him. And no one will. The black cover is nailed on; the candle, melting, falls. (No sister lamenting, nor mother fainting with grief!) This is a soldier, an orphan—then who should mourn?

THE RECRUIT

In the great Emperor’s courtyard He stood at his post on the pavement. He washed his face and dried it As the duck her wings in water. He washed his face with his tears— None saw or heard in the silence.

He leaned his head on the bayonet And slept for a precious moment. In the great Emperor’s courtyard He slept on his sharp-tipped bayonet.

He dreamt that he walked on a mountain— O blue was the dream-like mountain!— Brushing his hair in ringlets. He walked on thinking, thinking: Why does my mother write not, Or can she still be living?

He heard her answer softly: “I would like, my son, to write you, But they made me a tomb so lofty That I may not rise from beneath it. Oh rise I cannot, my Eagle! For deep below, on the bottom, They have covered my hands with earth-clods, With earth that is lying heavy.”

· · · · ·

In the great Emperor’s courtyard He would have dreamt still longer, But the bell on high St. Stephen’s Rang with a sudden clamour.... He wiped his face from the misting, His bayonet wiped he dully— Blood flows on the courtyard pavement From the soldier lying dead there.

THE HANDKERCHIEF

The sun was drowning in the ocean’s brim Red, red as blood; And in the crimson flood A young girl sewed a handkerchief with gold,

Embroidering in gold with stitches fine— (Like lilies white Her cheeks will look to-night, Like pure-white lilies washed with tears).

And as she sewed she pressed it to her heart. Then, weeping sore, She opened wide the door: “Strong wind, my Eagle, take this on your wings!

“Strong as the Dunai ever onward flows, O wind so free, Deliver this for me Where now he serves, yea, where the heart well knows.

“He in the Uhlans’ ranks is fighting now— Go, Golden One, From sun to sun, Float on the wind until that place you find!

“And, Golden One, when you shall hear one call Even as a dove, Rest, for my love, My loved one will be waiting here below.

“He has a bay horse, and his weapons are Shining as gold. Wind, free and bold, Fall to his heart, as the rose petals fall.

“If sleeping, wake him not—and, O my God! If slain he lie, For your good-bye, O Golden One, cover his sweet dead face.”

BEFORE KASTENEDOLA

“Look at the soldier’s kabaty,[74] Mother, mother mine! Is it not red—like blood—to see, Or is it like the cranberry? Knowest thou me?”

“I know thee, I would always know My only son. Young as the cranberries that grow, Bright as the reddest one!”

“The cranberry in that deep wood, Mother, mother mine! For me, for me it does not bloom. High has my flower risen—a tomb Built for thy son.

“O mother, there it stands—my mate!... To-morrow, mother mine, In silken grass and on green lawn So very early, in the dawn, I will bow low.

“To Hetman young myself I’ll bow: ‘Young Hetman! Sir! Wilt bless me, me, the young Cossack?’”

“I’ll bless thee, where the cannons black Full loudly roar! There will I bless thee, O my son!”

“My Hetman, Hetman mine! I follow, and I die, with thee; I follow, dying—let me be ... Mother, don’t cry!”

TO M. D.