She dreamt of it, sang of it, Sleeping and waking, 120 While washing, while spinning, At work in the fields, While rocking her darling Her favourite, Grisha.

And many years after The death of his mother, His heart would grow heavy And sad, when the peasants Remembered one song, And would sing it together 130 As Dyomna had sung it; They called it "The Salt Song."

_The Salt Song_

Now none but G.o.d Can save my son: He's dying fast, My little one....

I give him bread--- He looks at it, He cries to me, "Put salt on it." 140 I have no salt-- No tiny grain; "Take flour," G.o.d whispers, "Try again...."

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 Grisha 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 mult.i.tudes led By infamous greed.

There lives which are spent With n.o.ble intent Are mocked at in scorn; There souls lie in chains, And bodies and brains 200 By pa.s.sions are torn,

By animal thirst For pleasures accurst Which pa.s.s 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:

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 Grisha.

The years of his study Being pa.s.sed, he developed In thought and in feeling; A pa.s.sionate 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 Grisha 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 pa.s.sions and l.u.s.t; 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!"

A small winding footpath Now tempted young Grisha, And guided his steps To a very broad hayfield.

The peasants were cutting The hay, and were singing 280 His favourite song.

Young Grisha was saddened By thoughts of his mother, And nearly in anger He hurried away From the field to the forest.

Bright echoes are darting About in the forest; Like quails in the wheat Little children are romping 290 (The elder ones work In the hay fields already).

He stopped awhile, seeking For horse-chestnuts with them.

The sun was now hot; To the river went Grisha To bathe, and he had A good view of the ruins That three days before Had been burnt. What a picture!

No house is left standing; 301 And only the prison Is saved; just a few days Ago it was whitewashed; It stands like a little White cow in the pastures.

The guards and officials Have made it their refuge; But all the poor peasants Are strewn by the river 310 Like soldiers in camp.

Though they're mostly asleep now, A few are astir, And two under-officials Are picking their way To the tent for some vodka 'Mid tables and cupboards And waggons and bundles.

A tailor approaches The vodka tent also; 320 A shrivelled old fellow.

His irons and his scissors He holds in his hands, Like a leaf he is shaking.

The pope has arisen From sleep, full of prayers.

He is combing his hair; Like a girl he is holding His long shining plait.

Down the Volga comes floating 330 Some wood-laden rafts, And three ponderous barges Are anch.o.r.ed beneath The right bank of the river.

The barge-tower yesterday Evening had dragged them With songs to their places, And there he is standing, The poor hara.s.sed man!

He is looking quite gay though, 340 As if on a holiday, Has a clean shirt on; Some farthings are jingling Aloud in his pocket.

Young Grisha observes him For long from the river, And, half to himself, Half aloud, begins singing:

_The Barge-Tower_

With shoulders back and breast astrain, And bathed in sweat which falls like rain, Through midday heat with gasping song, He drags the heavy barge along. 352 He falls and rises with a groan, His song becomes a husky moan....

But now the barge at anchor lies, A giant's sleep has sealed his eyes; And in the bath at break of day He drives the clinging sweat away.

Then leisurely along the quay He strolls refreshed, and roubles three 360 Are sewn into his girdle wide; Some coppers jingle at his side.

He thinks awhile, and then he goes Towards the tavern. There he throws Some hard-earned farthings on the seat; He drinks, and revels in the treat, The sense of perfect ease and rest.

Soon with the cross he signs his breast: The journey home begins to-day.

And cheerfully he goes away; 370 On presents spends a coin or so: For wife some scarlet calico, A scarf for sister, tinsel toys For eager little girls and boys.

G.o.d guide him home--'tis many a mile-- And let him rest a little while....

The barge-tower's fate Lead the thoughts of young Grisha To dwell on the whole Of mysterious Russia-- 380 The fate of her people.

For long he was roving About on the bank, Feeling hot and excited, His brain overflowing With new and new verses.

_Russia_

"The Tsar was in mood To dabble in blood: To wage a great war.