It leads to the door
Of those who are poor,
Who hunger and thirst,
Who pant without air.
Who die in despair—
Oh, there be the first!
The song of the angel 220
Of Mercy not vainly
Was sung to our Grísha.
The years of his study
Being passed, he developed
In thought and in feeling;
A passionate singer
Of Freedom became he,
Of all who are grieving,
Down-trodden, afflicted,
In Russia so vast. 230
* * * * *
The bright sun was shining,
The cool, fragrant morning
Was filled with the sweetness
Of newly-mown hay.
Young Grísha was thoughtful,
He followed the first road
He met—an old high-road,
An avenue, shaded
By tall curling birch trees.
The youth was now gloomy, 240
Now gay; the effect
Of the feast was still with him;
His thoughts were at work,
And in song he expressed them:
"I know that you suffer,
O Motherland dear,
The thought of it fills me with woe:
And Fate has much sorrow
In store yet, I fear,
But you will not perish, I know. 250
"How long since your children
As playthings were used,
As slaves to base passions and lust;
Were bartered like cattle,
Were vilely abused
By masters most cruel and unjust?
"How long since young maidens
Were dragged to their shame,
Since whistle of whips filled the land,
Since 'Service' possessed 260
A more terrible fame
Than death by the torturer's hand?
"Enough! It is finished,
This tale of the past;
'Tis ended, the masters' long sway;
The strength of the people
Is stirring at last,
To freedom 'twill point them the way.
"Your burden grows lighter,
O Motherland dear, 270
Your wounds less appalling to see.
Your fathers were slaves,
Smitten helpless by fear,
But, Mother, your children are free!"
* * * * *