Shoot up two lean and withered trees to glad the eye;

Just two, no more; and one of them, you will observe,

By autumn rains has long been bared of its last leaf;

The scanty leaves upon the other only wait

I'he first loud breeze, to fall and foul the pond below.

No other sign of life, no dog to watch the yard.

But stay, Ivan I see, and two old women near;

With head unbared, the coffin of his child he bears,

And from afar to drowsy sexton loudly shouts,

And bids him call the priest, and church-door to unlock:

"Look sharp!The brat we should have buried long ago!"

TO THE CALUMNIATORS OF RUSSIA.

What mean these angry cries, haranguers of the mob?

And wherefore hurl your curses at poor Russia's head?

And what has stirred your rage? Our Lietva's discontent?

Your wrangling cease, and let the Slavs arrange their feud:

It is an old domestic strife, the legacy

Of ages past, a quarrel you can ne'er decide.

Already long among themselves

These tribes have fought and weaved intrigues;

And more than once, as fate has willed,

We, or they, have bent before the storm.

But who shall victor end the feud,

The haughty Pole, or Russian true?

Shall streams Slavonic with Russian sea commingle,

Or leave it dry? That is the question.

Leave us in peace! You have not read

These sacred oracles of blood;

This fierce, domestic quarrel-feud

Seems to you both strange and senseless!

Kremlin, Praga, mean naught to you!

You mock and scorn as childish whim

The combat fierce we wage for life;

And more.... 'tis nothing new.... you hate us!