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. God 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.
"The Tsar was in mood To dabble in blood: To wage a great war. Shall we have gold enough? 390 Shall we have strength enough? Questioned the Tsar.
"(Thou art so pitiful, Poor, and so sorrowful, Yet thou art powerful, Thy wealth is plentiful, Russia, my Mother!)
"By misery chastened, By serfdom of old, The heart of thy people, 400 O Tsar, is of gold.
"And strong were the nation, Unyielding its might, If standing for conscience, For justice and right.
"But summon the country To valueless strife, And no man will hasten To offer his life.
"So Russia lies sleeping 410 In obstinate rest;-- But should the spark kindle That's hid in her breast--
"She'll rise without summons, Go forth without call, With sacrifice boundless, Each giving his all!
"A host she will gather Of strength unsurpassed, With infinite courage 420 Will fight to the last.
"(Thou art so pitiful, Poor, and so sorrowful, Yet of great treasure full, Mighty, all-powerful, Russia, my Mother!)"
Young Grísha was pleased With his song; and he murmured. "Its message is true; I will sing it to-morrow 430 Aloud to the peasants. Their songs are so mournful, It's well they should hear Something joyful,--God help them! For just as with running The cheeks begin burning, So acts a good song On the spirit despairing, Brings comfort and strength." But first to his brother 440 He sang the new song, And his brother said, "Splendid!"