FOOTNOTES:
[9] Lomonossoef—the first great Russian scholar—was the son of an Archangel fisherman.
[10] Ancient name of Russia.
PROPRIETY.
Ferdinand, the King, was courtly!
Pink of nice refinement he;
All the naked plasts of Venus,
Placed he under lock and key.
But the Herculean statues,
Left he in their places bare!
Men he did not mind offending;
Hurt the ladies? He’d not dare!
THE SINGER.
Beautiful I’m not, I know;
Useless I in fight;
How to men and maids am I,
Such a dear delight?
Songs, like sounds that ’mid strings stray,
Fill this breast of mine,
Smiling round my lips they play,
In my eyes they shine!
A LITTLE PICTURE.
AFTER THE PROCLAMATION OF THE 19TH FEB., 1861, FREEING THE SERFS.
See, in peasant’s cottage, flickering
Shines a little fire,
Where, around a little maiden,
Draws a circle nigher.
And from word to word her finger
Slowly pointing leads,
As, with effort, to the peasants
She a paper reads.
Deep in thought, intently listening,
They a silence keep;
Save when some one bids the women
Hush the babes to sleep.
Mothers soothe their crying infants
With the teething toy,
While they, too, to catch the reading
All their ears employ.
Seated in the chimney corner
Now for many years,
With bent head the grandsire gazes,
Though he nothing hears.
Is the maiden clever, that they
Thus to her give heed?
Nay! but simply in that household
She alone could read:
And her lot it was to read out,
To the peasants old,
The glad news of longed-for freedom,
Which the paper told.
The full meaning of the message
Knew not she nor they;
But all, darkly, felt the dawning
Of a better day.
Brothers! see, the day-dawn flushes!
Darkness yields its place,
Sons of yours, ere long, will look on
Daylight face to face.
More and more let darkness lighten!
Day arise in might!
Even now, in vision, see I
Rays of rising light.
They are shining on the forehead,
Gleaming in the look,
Of that thoughtful little maiden
With her little book.
Freedom, Brothers! This is only
First step on the way
To the kingdom, where, in knowledge,
Shines eternal day!
THE ALPINE GLACIER.
Dank the darkness on the cliff-side;
Faintly outlined from below,
In their modest maiden gladness,
Glaciers in the dawn’s blush glow.
What new life upon me blowing,
Breathes from yonder snowy height,
From that depth of limpid turquoise
Flashing in the morning light?
There, I know, dread Terror dwelleth,
Track of man there is not there;
Yet my heart in answer swelleth
To the challenge, “Come thou here!”
THE MOTHER.
Little sufferer—all on fire!
All’s to him so trying!
On my shoulder lean thy head,
On my bosom lying!
I will walk about with thee,
Sleep, my own sweet dearie.
Shall I tell a little tale?
“Once there lived a fairy”—
No? Thee likes not silly tales?
P’r’aps a song will take thee!
“Pine-wood rustling dark and dank,
Big fox, wee fox, wakes he.
In the dark pine-wood will I——”
Is my own pet sleeping?
“Gather blackberries for thee
Brimful baskets heaping.
In the dark pine-wood will I——”
Hush! he fast is sleeping.
Open wide his feverish lips,
Like a wee bird, keeping.
“In the dark pine-wood will I,”
Walks the mother, singing—
Till the long dark night declines,
Back the day-dawn bringing.
Singing—while her weary arms
With dull pain are tingling—
Walks the mother; with her sighs
Frequent tears are mingling;
And scarce stirs the restless child,
Tossing in its fever,
Ere again that song resounds,
Soft and low as ever.
With thy scythe depart, O Death,
Spare the tender blossom!
Fierce the fight ere she will yield
Baby from her bosom.
With her whole soul will she shield,
E’en though sore affrighted,
That mysterious flame of life
Which from her was lighted,
For scarce rose that little flame,
Ere to her revealed was
What of love,—of wondrous power,—
In her breast concealed was.
THE KISS REFUSED.
I would kiss you, lover true!
But I fear the moon may spy;
Little bright stars watch us too.
Little star might fall from sky
To the blue sea, telling all!
To the oars the sea will tell,
Oars, in turn, tell Fisher Eno—
Him whom Mary loveth well—
And, when Mary knows a thing,
All the neighbourhood will know,
How by moonlight, in the garden,
Where the fragrant flowers grow,
I caressed, and fondly kissed thee,
While the silver apple-tree
Shed its blooms on you and me!
THE SNOWDROP.
How pure and how sweet,
Little snowdrop, you blow!
While, by you peeped through,
Fade the last streaks of snow.
Thus our last tears stream
For a sorrow gone by,
While dawns the first dream
Of a joy drawing nigh.