Poetry

By the road the Kobzar sat And on his kobza played. Around him youths and maidens Like poppy flowers arrayed.

So the Kobzar played and sang Of many an old old story; Of wars with Russian, Pole and Tartar And the ancient Cossack glory.

He sang of the wars of Taras brave, Of battle fought in the morning early, Of the fallen Cossack’s grass-grown grave Till smiles and tears did mingle fairly.

“Once on a time the Hetmans ruled, It comes not back again; In olden days we masters were This never comes again. These glories of old Cossack lore Shall be forgotten nevermore.

Ukraine, Ukraine! Mother mine. Mother mine! When I remember thee How mournful should I be.

What has come of our Cossacks bold With coats of velvet red? What of freedom by fate foretold, And banners the Hetmans led?

Whither is it gone? In flames it went: O’er hills and tombs, The floods were sent. The hills are wrapt in silence grim, On boundless sea waves ever play; The tombs gleam forth with sadness dim; O’er all the land the foe holds sway.

Play on, oh sea, Hills silent be: Dance, mighty wind, O’er all the land. Weep, Cossack youth, Your fate withstand.

Now who shall our adviser be? Then out spake Naleweiko, A Cossack bold was he, After him Paulioha Like falcon swift did flee.

Out spake Taras Traselo With bitter words and true, “That they trampled on Ukraina For sure the Poles shall rue.” Out spake Taras Traselo, Out spake the eagle grey. Rescue for the faith he wrought, Well indeed the Poles he taught. “Let’s make an end of our woe. An end come now to your woe, Arise, my gentle comrades, all Upon the Poles with blows we’ll fall.”

Now the dirty Polish ruler Was feeling very jolly, Gathered all his lords together, For a time of feast and folly. Taras did his Cossacks gather To have a little talk together.

“Captains and comrades, My children and brothers, What are we now to do? Our hated foes are feasting, I want advice from you.”

“Let them feast away, It’s fine for their health.

When the sun descends, Old night her counsel lends; The Cossacks’ll catch them, and all of their wealth.”

The sun reclined beyond the hill The stars shone out in silence still, Around the Poles the Cossack host Was gathering like a cloud; So soon the moon stood in the sky When roared the cannon loud.

Woke up the Polish lordlings, To run they found no place. Woke up the Polish lordlings, The foe they could not face. The sun beheld the Polish lordlings, In heaps all o’er the place. With red serpent on the water, River Alta brings the word⁠— That black vultures after slaughter May feast on many a Polish lord.

And now the vultures hasten The mighty dead to waken. Together the Cossacks gather Praise to God to offer.

Topolia The Poplar

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.

Why has she a slim, tall trunk? Why are her broad leaves green? The field around is blue, And wide as the sea.⁠ ⁠… When the Tchumak passes He looks and bows his head.

Tchabàn, the shepherd, in the dawn, His pipe plays on the hill; He looks around. Sorrow is in his heart⁠—no shrub is near⁠— Only a poplar lone, Lone as an orphan stands, Fades in an alien land.

Who nurtured this slender and yielding body To languish on the steppes? Wait, maidens, I will tell ye! Listen:

With a Cossack A maiden fell in love, Loved him, but held him not. He departed and perished.

If she had known That he would leave her She would not have loved him:

If she had known That he would die She would not have let him go:

If she had known, She would not have gone for water late at even, She would not have lingered With her sweetheart Under the willow tree If she had known!⁠ ⁠…

But it is dangerous To know the future⁠— What misfortune will meet us, Maidens, seek not to know, Ask not of your fate. The heart knows whom to love. Let it wither, little by little, Until it is buried, Because Not for long are the bright eyes Of the black-browed girl.

“Oh breeze there is none, Nor do the waters run From our Ukraina’s land. Perhaps, in council there they stand, To march against the Turk demand. We hear not in this foreign land. Blow winds, blow across the sea, Bring tidings of our land so free, Come from Dnieper’s Delta low, Dry our tears and chase away our woe.

Roar in play thou sea so blue. In yon boats are Cossacks true, Their caps above are dimly seen. Rescue for us this may mean. Once more we’ll hear Ukraina’s story. Once more the ancient Cossack glory We’ll hear before we die.”

So in Skutari the Cossacks sang, Their tears rolled down, their wailing rang Bosphorus groaned at the Cossack cry. And then he raised his waves on high. And shivering like a great grey bull, His waters roaring far and full Into the Black Sea’s ribs were hurled. The sea sent on great Bosphorus’ cry, To where the sands of the Delta lie, And then the waters of Dnieper pale In turn took up the mournful tale.

The father Dnieper rears his crest, Shakes the foam from off his breast. With laughter now aloud he calls To spirits of the forest walls. “Hortessa sister river, deep, Time it is to wake from sleep. Brother forest, sister river, Come our children to deliver.” And now the Dnieper is clad with boats, The Cossack song o’er the water floats.

On a Sunday, very early, When fields were clad with mist A woman’s form was bending ’Mid graves by cloud wreaths kissed. Something to her heart she pressed, In accents low the clouds addressed.

“Oh, you mist and raindrops fine, Pity this ragged luck of mine. Hide me here in grassy meadows, Bury me beneath thy shadows. Why must I ’mid sorrows stray? Pray take them with my life away. In gloomy death would be relief, Where none might know or see my grief. Yet not alone my life was spent, A father and mother my sin lament. Nor yet alone is my course to run For in my arms is my little son. Shall I, then, give to him christian name, To poverty bind, with his mother’s shame? This, brother mist, I shall not do. I alone my fault must rue. Thee, sweet son, shall strangers christen, Thy mother’s eyes with teardrops glisten. Thy very name I may not know As on through life I lonely go. I, by my sin, rich fortune lost, With thee, my son, to ill fate, was tossed. Yet curse me not, for evils past. My prayers to heaven shall reach at last. The skies above to my tears shall bend, Another fortune to thee I’ll send.” Through the fields she sobbing went. The gentle mist its shelter lent. Her tears were falling the path along, As she softly sang the widows song: