There, from the Maker Omnipotent,
Grace day and night did he crave:
"Lord, though my body thou castigate,
Grant that my soul I may save!"
Pity had God on the penitent, 320
Showed him the pathway to take,
Sent His own messenger unto him
During his prayers, who thus spake:
"Know, for this oak sprang thy preference,
Not without promptings divine;
Lo! take the knife thou hast slaughtered with,
Fell it, and grace shall be thine.
"Yea, though the task prove laborious,
Great shall the recompense be,
Let but the tree fall, and verily 330
Thou from thy load shalt be free."
Vast was the giant's circumference;
Praying, his task he begins,
Works with the tool of atrociousness,
Offers amends for his sins.
Glory he sang to the Trinity,
Scraped the hard wood with his blade.
Years passed away. Though he tarried not,
Slow was the progress he made.
'Gainst such a mighty antagonist 340
How could he hope to prevail?
Only a Samson could vanquish it,
Not an old man, spent and frail.
Doubt, as he worked, began plaguing him:
Once of a voice came the sound,
"Heh, old man, say what thy purpose is?"
Crossing himself he looked round.
There, Pan[58] Glukhóvsky was watching him
On his brave Arab astride,
Rich was the Pan, of high family, 350
Known in the whole countryside.
Many cruel deeds were ascribed to him,
Filled were his subjects with hate,
So the old hermit to caution him
Told him his own sorry fate.