thy glory fair
We should face the foe,
And thy freedom guarding
Glad our lives bestow!

NIKITIN.

THE SONG OP THE SPENDTHRIFT

To seven kopek the heir,
Nor house nor land have I--
Live I--hey! I live then!
Die I--hey! I die!

In many realms the Fool
Can sleep no wink for care,
While yet the spendthrift snores
When dawns the morning fair.

Free as the wind he blows,
Door nor gate to balk him,
Riches, hey! Now give place!
Poverty goes walking!

Before me bends the rye
When through the fields I stray
And glad the forest hears
My pipe and song alway.

If one must bitter weep--
No man will see his tears,
If sadly bowed his head--
None save the partridge jeers.

If weary one, or not,
What matters anything?
Let him toss back his locks
And playful laugh and sing!

And if one die,--the grave
Will warm his hands and feet!
Dost to my song respond?
Nay? Then it is complete.

NIKITIN.

THE SPADE IS DEEP DIGGING A GRAVE IN THE MOULD

The spade is deep digging a grave in the mould....
O Life,--so o'erflowing with sorrows untold,
My life, so homeless and lonely and weary,
Life, as an Autumn night silent and dreary--
Bitter in truth is thy fate 'neath the sky,
And as a fire of the field wilt thou die!
Die then--no sad falling tear will recall thee,
Fast will the roof of thy pine coffin wall thee,
Heavy the earth falls upon the sad hearted--
Only one more from humanity parted;
One whose home-going no fond heart is tearing--
One for whom no soul will sorrow despairing!

Hark! What a silvery music is ringing!
Hark! What a careless and jubilant singing!
See on ethereal azure waves swinging,
Now the glad lark to her South-land is winging!
Silence, O Life full of doubting and fears,
Hushed first of all be the songs of men's tears!

NIKITIN.

GOSSIP

Though blameless thy living
As Anchorite's fate,
Yet Gossip will find thee
Or early or late.

Through keyhole he enters
And stands at thy side,
Doors of wood nor of stone
Against him provide.

He pulls the alarm bell
At slightest excuse--
And down to thy grave
Will pursue with abuse.

Self defence nothing boots thee,
Thy flight he will worst--
To earth he will tread thee,
O Gossip be cursed!

NIKITIN.

IN A PEASANT HUT

Sultry dampness--pine chips smoking,
Off-scourings a span length,
In the corners webs of spiders,
Smut on dish and bench.

Sooty black the bare wall,