pour on a hero bold,
On brave Prometheus, he who strove
The fire of heaven to seize for men.
On mountain side, in vulture’s den
He suffered what no mortal pen
May well indite. The savage beak
Of his hearts’ blood doth daily reek.
Yet the torn heart again revives,
To triumph o’er its tortures strives.
Our souls yield not to grievous ills,
To freedom march our stubborn wills.
Though waves of trouble o’er us roll
The waves move not the steadfast soul.
Our living spirit is not in chains,
The word of God in glory reigns.
’Tis not for us to challenge Thee,
Though life rolls on in toil and tears;
Though we Thy purpose cannot see
We cling to hope ’mid doubts and fears.
Our cause lies sunk in drunken sleep
When will it awaken, Lord?
Oppressors gloat and patriots weep,
When wilt strength to us afford?
So weary, then art Thou, Oh God,
Can’st life to us no longer give?
Thy Truth we trust beneath the rod,
Believing in Thy strength we live.
Our cause shall rise,
Our freedom rise
Though tyrants rage:
To Thee alone,
All nations bow
Through age on age
And yet meantime
the streams do flow
And ever tinged with blood
they go.
Beyond the hills are mightier hills,
Cloud mountains o’er them rise.
Red, red have flowed their streams and rills,
They’re sown with human woes and sighs.
Look at us in tender heartedness,
All in hunger dire and nakedness,
Forging freedom in unhappiness,
Toiling ever without blessedness.
The bones of soldiers bleaching lie,
In blood and tears must many die.
In faith, there’s widows’ tears, I think,
To all the Czars to give to drink.
Then there’s tears of many a maiden
Falling so soft in the lonely night.
Hot tears of mothers, sorrow-laden,
Dry tears of fathers, in grievous plight.
Not rivers, but a sea has flowed,
A burning sea.
To all the Czars who in triumph rode,
With their hounds and gamekeepers,
Their dogs and their beaters,
May glory be!
To you be glory, hills of blue,
All clad in monstrous chains of frost.
Glory to you, ye heroes true,
With God your labors are not lost.
Fear not to fight, you’ll win at length,
For you, God’s ruth,
For you is freedom, for you is strength,
And Holy Truth.
To the Circassians
“Our bread and home,” in your own tongue,
In Tartar words you dare to say.
Nobody gave it you, your world is young,
So far no one has ta’en it away.
Nobody yet has led you in fetters,
But we have wisdom in such matters.
In God’s good word we daily read,
But from dungeons where the pris’ners moan,
To Caesar’s high-exalted throne
’Tis gilt without, while the soul’s in need.
To us for wisdom should you come,
We’ll teach you all the tricks of trade.
Good Christians we, with church and Icon;
All goods, even God, our own we’ve made.
But that house of yours
Still hurts our eyes;
If we didn’t give it,
Why should you have it?
These ways of yours
cause much surprise.
We never granted
The corn you planted.
The sunlight, you
Should pay for, too.
Oh, quite uneducated you!
Good Christians we, no pagans needy,
Sound in the faith, not a bit greedy.
If you in peace from us would learn
Store of wisdom you would earn.
With us what great illumination,
A cont’nent ’neath our domination;
Siberia great, for illustration.
There’s jails and folks ’yond computation.
From Moldavia to Finlandia
Many tongues but nothing said,
Except for blessings on your head.
A holy monk here reads the Bible,
Tells the story, ’tis no libel,
Of king who stole his neighbour’s wife,
And then the neighbour he robbed of life.
The king now dwells in paradise.
Such folks ’mong us to heaven rise.
Oh, you creatures unenlightened,
Be ye not of our dogmas frightened!
Our gentle art of “grab” we’ll teach;
A coin to the church and heaven you’ll reach.
Whatever is there we can’t do?
The stars we count and crops we sow;
The foreigner curse,
Then fill our purse,
The people selling,
’Tis truth I’m telling.
No niggers we sell, I’m not making jokes,
Just common ord’nary Christian folks.
No Spaniards we, may God forbid!
Nor Jews that stolen goods have hid.
So don’t you think you’d like to be
Such law-abiding folks as we?
To the Rich and Great
Is it by the apostle’s law
That ye your brother love?
Hypocrites and chatterers,
Ye’re cursed of God above.
Not for your brother’s soul you care.
It’s only for his skin.
The skin from off his back you’d tear,
Some trifling prize to win.
There’s furs for your daughter,
Slippers for your wife,
And things that you don’t utter
About your private life.
To the Master
Oh, wherefore wert Thou crucified,
Thou Christ, the Son of God?
That the word of Truth be glorified?
Or that we good folks should ’scape the rod
Of avenging wrath, by faith confest?
Meanwhile of Thee we make a jest,
Mocking Thy love in our conduct’s test.
Cathedrals and chapels with Icons grand!
’Mid smoke of incense lavers stand.
There before Thy pictured Presence
Crowds unwearied make obeisance;
For spoil, for war, for slaughter seek
Their brother’s blood to shed they pray,
And then before Thy form so meek
The loot of burning towns they lay.
Again Addressing the Circassians
The sun on us has shone so bright,
We wish to you to give the light.
That sun of truth we seek to show
To children blind, all in a row.
Wonders all to see we’ll let you
If in our hands we only get you.
Of building jails we’ll show the trick,
How pris’ners ’gainst their fetters kick.
There’s knotted whips for stubborn backs,
For saucy nations painful racks.
In change for your mountains grand and old,
With this instruction we you greet.
These are the last things, already we hold
The plains and seas beneath our feet.
To Jacques de Balmont
So they drove thee along, my dearest friend,
For Ukraina did’st thou shed
That good heart’s blood of thine so red.
Our country’s hangman, shame to think,
Muscovite poison gave thee to drink.
Oh, friend of mine, unforgotten friend,
Ukraine to thee doth welcome send.
Let thy spirit fly with Cossacks bold.
Along the shores of Dnieper old.
O’er ancient tombs hold watch and guard
And weep with us in labors hard.
Till I return to meet thee,
My songs I send to greet thee.
Such songs they are of bitter woe.
Yet ever, always, these I sow.
Thoughts and songs forever sowing,
To the care of winds bestowing.
Gentle winds of Ukraine
Shall bear them like the dew
To that dear land of mine
To greet my friends so true.
To the Dead9
And the Living, and the Unborn, Countrymen
