FROM NEKRASOF.
TE DEUM.
In our village there’s cold and there’s hunger;
Through the mist the sad morn rises chill;
Tolls the bell—the parishioners calling
From afar to the church on the hill;
Austere and severe and commanding
Pealed that dull tone thro’ the air.
I spent in the church that wet morning;
I can never forget the scene there.
For there knelt the village hamlet,
Young and old in a weeping crowd;
To be saved from the grievous famine
The people prayed aloud.
Such woe I had seldom witnessed,
Such agony of prayer,
And unconsciously I murmured,
“O God, the people spare!”
“Spare their friends, too, in Thy mercy!
Oh, hear our heartfelt cry!
For those who strove to free the serf
We lift the prayer on high;
For those who bore the battle’s brunt
And lived to win the day,
For those who’ve heard the serf’s last song,
To Thee, O God, we pray.”
THE PROPHET.
Ah! tell me not he prudence quite forgot;
That he himself for his own fate’s to blame.
Clearer than we, he saw that man cannot
Both serve the good and save himself from flame.
But men he loved with higher, broader glow;
His soul for worldly honours did not sigh;
For self alone he could not live below,
But for the sake of others he could die.
Thus thought he—and to die, for him, was gain.
He will not say that “life to him was dear;”
He will not say that “death was useless pain;”
To him, long since, his destiny was clear.