“I did not like to see it now;
I did not spend one single piece.
I travelled, travelled without cease
As far as Russian ship could plow.
“And when my own scant hoard was gone,
And I had reached the far North-land,
I took my two stout bags in hand
As one pursued, and journeyed on.
“Ah, I was weary! I grew gray;
I felt the fast years slip and reel
As slip black beads when maidens kneel
At altars when out-door is gay.
“At last I fell prone in the road,—
Fell fainting with my cursèd load.
A skin-clad cossack helped me bear
My bags, nor would one shilling share.
“He looked at me with proud disdain,—
He looked at me as if he knew;
His black eyes burned me thro’ and thro’;
His scorn pierced like a deadly pain.
“He frightened me with honesty;
He made me feel so small, so base,
I fled, as if the fiend kept chase,—
The fiend that claims my company!
“I bore my load alone; I crept
Far up the steep and icy way;
And there, before a cross there lay
A barefoot priest, who bowed and wept.
“I threw my gold right down and sped
Straight on. And oh my heart was light!
A spring-time bird in spring-time flight
Flies not so happy as I fled.
“I felt somehow this monk would take
My gold, my load from off my back;
Would turn the fiend from off my track,
Would take my gold for sweet Christ’s sake!
“I fled; I did not look behind;
I fled, fled with the mountain wind.
At last; far down the mountain’s base
I found a pleasant resting-place.