Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

“So be it, Daughter. Tarry a while,
But do my will. Long ago I, too,
Was a marriageable maiden—
I know that woe, but it has passed,
And I have learned to help.
I knew thy fortune, my dear daughter,
Two years ago. Then I prepared for thee
That zilie on the shelf.
Now take the magic herb,
And to the clear spring go.
Ere cock-crow wash thy face,
Then drink this draught. Sorrow shall pass.
Run to the grave, nor look thou back—
Some one behind may cry, but give no heed.
Run to that spot where once thou saidst farewell;
Stay there until the moon
Is crescent in mid-sky,
Then drink again.
If he come not,
Then drink once more.
After the first draught thou wilt look
The maid thou wast:
After the second, a horse will stamp its foot.
If then thy Cossack lives
Be sure he’ll come;
But after the third draught,
O daughter mine,
Ask not what shall befall!
But hearken!
Cross not thyself
Else naught of this will be.
Now go! And look upon
Thy beauty of last year!”

· · · · ·

“To go or not to go?
No, I will not go home!”
She went and bathed herself,
And drank the zilie wine,
And she was changed;
Second and third time drank,
And drowsiness was hers.
She sang on the wide steppes:
“Float, float, O Swan,
Upon the bluish sea!
Grow tall, Topolia,
Reach higher, higher!
Slender and tall, aspire
Up to the clouds.
Ask God: Will waiting then
At all avail?
Waiting for him, my mate?

“Grow, grow tall!
Look out o’er the blue sea.
Good luck and bad luck lie
On either side.
And there, somewhere,
My lover roams the fields.
I weep, my years pass by
Waiting for him.
Say to him, O my heart, Topolia!
That people laugh at me.
Tell him that I shall die
If he do not come soon.
Mother herself
Wishes to bury me....
Look far, Topolia, and, if he is not,
Weep with the dew at sundown,
Though none may know—
Taller and taller grow,
Higher and higher.
Float, float, O Swan,
Upon the bluish sea.”

Such a song Tchornobriva
Sang on the steppes.
O Zilie Miracle!—she is Topolia!
She did not return home;
She did not wait for him.
There slim and tall
She beckons to the clouds.
The wind blows through the oaks in the wood,
It dances through the fields.
Beside the high road it uproots Topolia,
And fells her to the ground.

SONG FROM EXILE

RUDANSKY

Blow, O Wind, unto my Ukraine!
For I left there a sweet maiden.
Yea, two dark-brown eyes I left there—
Blow, thou wind, from midnight onward.

There in Ukraine lies a valley,
In the valley there’s a Khuta;
In the hut there dwells a maiden—
Little maiden, wild she-pigeon.

There, O Wind, Hush and be silent!
Rest above her face in quiet;
Bow above her rosy face, thou;
Look: is she, my sweetheart, sleeping?

Or is she awake, my pigeon?
If she sleeps not, set her dreaming
Of the one she loved, her dearest,
Whom she swore she would forget not.

But, O Wind, if she forget me,
If she have another wooer....
Die away in Ukraina—
Come not back to me in exile!

· · · · ·

And the wind blows on through Ukraine ...
My heart weeps: ’tis full of sorrows ...
And the wind fled into Ukraine,
And it never turnèd backward.

THE RING

VOROBKIEVICH

It is about a month since my loved one bade me good-bye,
Since he went away, and wept, and gave me the ring;
“If I do not return from war, but there lay my head,
This ring shall remind you aye of your true love.”

Early this morning the ring on my finger broke.
Doubtless the raven croaks, perching upon his head!
I will to the fortune-teller—“Young am I, but sad;
Read me the sign of the ring. I fear that some evil comes.”

· · · · ·

“There is no good news here; this that you see means blood!”

· · · · ·

“O mother, my heart burns up! My heart burns like a fire.”
The world in her eyes turned black, and she fainted as quietly
As a flower under a leaf droops in a blazing sun.

In a village graveyard old there stands a cross of oak.
Under it dreams a girl; she has dreamt this many a year.
And her loved one from the war has never, never returned.
In a far-off land, somewhere, he fell into dreamless sleep.

POEMS BY FEDKOVICH[72]

WHERE LUCK LIES

You, my brother, stayed at home,
Threshing out the beans—
I hied me to Germany,
Seeking where my Luck might be,
League on league to roam.

Under Bukowina’s sky,
Even there I went,
Passed the flinty Tyrol’s bar,
Wandered till I reached a star—
Wandering still am I!

Ah, my brother, you did well—
Threshing all the while.
Luck that would not come to me,
Luck I went so far to see,
In your beans it fell!

THE FLUTE

The midnight fire flickers,
The embers slowly dying;
The father sits at the table,
Heavily, sadly thinking.
The mother, too, sits quiet,
Sending swift prayers to Heaven.
Her heart is filled with grief,
But she knows not words to tell it.
The sisters finish their sewing
By the light of the Kahanetz.

The brother has sought a corner
To pipe sad tunes on a flute.
He plays on the flute of Ivan,
Ivan who the Emperor serves.
Suddenly, with a heart-cry,
He stops his sad, sweet playing:
“Ivan, Ivan! It sounds not,
Thy famous tunes are silent!
Where, O where art thou living,
And how doth my brother fare?”

Brushing away his tears
He placed his flute near the rafters.
Quietly leaving the room
He went to sleep in the stable,
That he might talk with the bay
Concerning Ivan, his brother.

And on the hot sands of Italy,
On the green grass lies a soldier,
Shot, awaiting death, alone, alone,
As a leaf in desert lands.
Only the moon is shining—
Above him proud Cheremshina[73]
Her buds flings outward.

And he lies thinking, thinking,
Dreaming of his home,
Bidding good-bye to father,
To mother, brother, and sisters:
“Adieu, adieu, Kateryna,
With thine undying love,
With thy so sweet affection.
Adieu, my golden weapons,
Adieu, my bay in the stable
That carried me to dances,
That knew my heart’s deep secrets.”

Then, low and faint in the distance
There reached his ears, uncertain,
The sound of sweet flute piping.
It drifted into silence....
The soldier’s head has fallen,
The stars have faded away.

On Sunday in the village
Gather Ivan’s companions.
“Brothers, come, let us play it,
The famous flute of Ivan’s!”
How vain were all their efforts;
’Twas dumb, as dumb as ever.

And on the hot sands of Italy,
Under the boughs of Cheremshina,
What does he dream, Ivan?
Does he dream of the bay,
Or of Kateryna?

TWO ETCHINGS