He tastes it once,
Once more he tries;
"That's not enough,
More salt!" he cries.
The flour again….
My tears fall fast 150
Upon the bread,—
He eats at last!
The mother smiles
In pride and joy:
Her tears so salt
Have saved the boy.
* * * * *
Young Grísha remembered
This song; he would sing it
Quite low to himself
In the clerical college. 160
The college was cheerless,
And singing this song
He would yearn for his mother,
For home, for the peasants,
His friends and protectors.
And soon, with the love
Which he bore to his mother,
His love for the people
Grew wider and stronger….
At fifteen years old 170
He was firmly decided
To spend his whole life
In promoting their welfare,
In striving to succour
The poor and afflicted.
The demon of malice
Too long over Russia
Has scattered its hate;
The shadow of serfdom
Has hidden all paths 180
Save corruption and lying.
Another song now
Will arise throughout Russia;
The angel of freedom
And mercy is flying
Unseen o'er our heads,
And is calling strong spirits
To follow the road
Which is honest and clean.
Oh, tread not the road 190
So shining and broad:
Along it there speed
With feverish tread
The multitudes led
By infamous greed.
There lives which are spent
With noble intent
Are mocked at in scorn;
There souls lie in chains,
And bodies and brains 200
By passions are torn,
By animal thirst
For pleasures accurst
Which pass in a breath.
There hope is in vain,
For there is the reign
Of darkness and death.
* * * * *
In front of your eyes
Another road lies—
'Tis honest and clean. 210
Though steep it appears
And sorrow and tears
Upon it are seen: