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 shore,
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.

NEKRASSOW.

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
God 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!

NEKRASSOW.

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

FREEDOM

Oft through my native land I roved before,
But never such a cheerful spirit bore.

When on its mother's breast a child I spy--
Hope in my inmost heart doth secret cry,

"Boy, thou art born within a favoring time,
Thine eyes shall glad escape old sights of crime.

Free as a child, thou can'st prove all and be
The forger sole of thine own destiny.

Peasant remain,--as to thy father given--
Or like the eagle swing thyself to heaven!"

Castles in air I build! Man's spirit opes
To many ways to frustrate all my hopes.

Though serfdom's sad conditions left behind,
Yet there be countless snares of varied kind!--

Well! Although the people soon may rend thee,
Let me, oh Freedom, a welcome send thee!

NEKRASSOW.

_Written shortly after the freeing of the serfs_.

A FAREWELL

Farewell! Forget the days of trial,
Of grudge, ill humor, misery--
Tempests of heart and floods of weeping,
And the revengeful jealousy.
Ah, but the days whereon the sun rose
To light love's wonder, and begot
In us the power of aspiration,--
bless them and forget them not!

NEKRASSOW.

THE LOVE LE