'Neath cruel storms of Fate
With my crown of bay, A sad and lonely life I lead,
Waiting my latest day.
Thus, struck by latter cold
While howls the wintry wind, Trembles upon the naked bough
The last leaf left behind.
From the Russian of ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN.
Translation of JOHN POLLEN.
Here in the ditch my bones I'll lay; Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave. "He's drunk," the passing crowd will say 'T is well, for none will need to grieve. Some turn their scornful heads away, Some fling an alms in hurrying by;— Haste,—'t is the village holyday! The aged beggar needs no help to die.
Yes! here, alone, of sheer old age I die; for hunger slays not all. I hoped my misery's closing page To fold within some hospital; But crowded thick is each retreat, Such numbers now in misery lie. Alas! my cradle was the street! As he was born the aged wretch must die.
In youth, of workmen, o'er and o'er, I've asked, "Instruct me in your trade." "Begone!—our business is not more Than keeps ourselves,—go, beg!" they said. Ye rich, who bade me toil for bread, Of bones your tables gave me store, Your straw has often made my bed;— In death I lay no curses at your door.
Thus poor, I might have turned to theft;— No!—better still for alms to pray! At most, I've plucked some apple, left
To ripen near the public way, Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laid In the king's name, they let me pine; They stole the only wealth I had,— Though poor and old, the sun, at least, was mine.