Mute evermore the magic echoes, That ne'er shall wonders more reveal, The Poet's home is dark and narrow-- Upon the Singer's lips a seal.
But ye, sons insolent and shameless-- Defamers, faithless fathers, ye! Who trod the pure soul of another Beneath your feet, who zealously Press to the Tsar's throne with your driveling For fame and freedom, hatred steeled! Well may you sneer at truth and justice, The law provides you screen and shield, Only a higher law shall sentence! A mighty Judge beyond assail Avenge the Poet's death on his slayers, The Highest Judge who does not fail! So then calumniate with brazen courage, Your hatred's fury nought restrains-- Since your dark blood could ne'er atone for One drop within the Poet's pure veins.
LERMONTOFF. [1] _These four lines are from Pushkin's own romantic poem, "Onegin."_
Russia, O my Russia, hail! Steeds as tempests flying, Howling of the distant wolves, Eagles high, shrill crying! Hail, my Russia, hail! Hail high! Hail thy green forests proud, Hail thy silvery nightingales, Hail Steppes and wind and cloud!
When the church-village slumbers And the last songs are sung, When the grey mist arising, Is o'er the marshes hung, 'Tis then the woods forsaking, Their way cross country taking, Nine howling wolves come hungering for food.
Behind the first,--the grey one,-- Trot seven more of black, Close on their hoary leader; As rearguard of the pack The red wolf limps, all bloody, His paws with gore still ruddy As after his companions grim he pants.
When through the village lurking Nought gives them check or fright, No watch dog dares to bellow, The peasant ghastly white, His breath can scarce be taking, His limbs withhold from shaking-- While prayers of terror freeze upon his lips!
About the church they circle And softly slink away To prowl about the priest's farm, Then of a sudden they Are round the drink shop turning, Fain some bad word be learning-- From peasants drinking noisily within.
With fully thirteen bullets Thy weapon must be armed, And with a wad of goat's hair; Then thou wilt fight unharmed. Fire calmly,--and before all Will the leader, the grey, fall, The rest will surely follow one by one.
When the cock wakes the village From out its morning dream, Thou wilt behold the corpses-- Nine she-wolves by the stream! On the right lies the grey one, To left in frost the lame one-- All bloody,--God pardon us sinners!