POEMS BY FEDKOVICH[72]

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!

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.

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!

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!

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 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 sewingBy the light of the Kahanetz.The brother has sought a cornerTo 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 tearsHe placed his flute near the rafters.Quietly leaving the roomHe went to sleep in the stable,That he might talk with the bayConcerning 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 stableThat carried me to dances,That knew my heart’s deep secrets.”Then, low and faint in the distanceThere 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 villageGather 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?

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 cornerTo 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?”

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 tearsHe placed his flute near the rafters.Quietly leaving the roomHe went to sleep in the stable,That he might talk with the bayConcerning Ivan, his brother.

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 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 stableThat carried me to dances,That knew my heart’s deep secrets.”

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 distanceThere 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.

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 villageGather 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.

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?

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

The bell rings, rings, rings!The whole city is ablaze with light,Light dazzling as the heavens.Even in the barracks the echoes ring,Although it is all dark and quiet within.One soldier alone stands in a ray of light;He leans against a pillar sadly,As if it were indeed his coffin.He raises tearful eyes to Heaven,As though he would entreat the stars:The stars for him shine very brightly,Gleam houses beautiful and merry.Why then a heart so faint and wearyIf there is naught to cause it anguish?How can I know?... I dare not ask him ...See how his brows are frowning ever—Who knows the trouble of the soldier?

The bell rings, rings, rings!

The whole city is ablaze with light,

Light dazzling as the heavens.

Even in the barracks the echoes ring,

Although it is all dark and quiet within.

One soldier alone stands in a ray of light;

He leans against a pillar sadly,

As if it were indeed his coffin.

He raises tearful eyes to Heaven,

As though he would entreat the stars:

The stars for him shine very brightly,

Gleam houses beautiful and merry.

Why then a heart so faint and weary

If there is naught to cause it anguish?

How can I know?... I dare not ask him ...

See how his brows are frowning ever—

Who knows the trouble of the soldier?

Sad and quiet is the House of God,Stillness holds all and is held there.Only the old priest reads prayers from a book;A lonely candle is dying fast.From the walls the statues of goldLook down with a wondering stare.And on the stones, on the cold pavement,What do I see?A young, dead soldier resting in a coffin,No sister lamenting, nor mother fainting with grief;Just a candle, dropping its wax-like tears,And the stare of the statues,And the priest saying prayers for the dead,A last kiss beseeching for the dead orphan;But none goes to kiss him. And no one will.The black cover is nailed on; the candle, melting, falls.(No sister lamenting, nor mother fainting with grief!)This is a soldier, an orphan—then who should mourn?

Sad and quiet is the House of God,

Stillness holds all and is held there.

Only the old priest reads prayers from a book;

A lonely candle is dying fast.

From the walls the statues of gold

Look down with a wondering stare.

And on the stones, on the cold pavement,What do I see?A young, dead soldier resting in a coffin,No sister lamenting, nor mother fainting with grief;Just a candle, dropping its wax-like tears,And the stare of the statues,And the priest saying prayers for the dead,A last kiss beseeching for the dead orphan;But none goes to kiss him. And no one will.The black cover is nailed on; the candle, melting, falls.(No sister lamenting, nor mother fainting with grief!)This is a soldier, an orphan—then who should mourn?

And on the stones, on the cold pavement,

What do I see?

A young, dead soldier resting in a coffin,

No sister lamenting, nor mother fainting with grief;

Just a candle, dropping its wax-like tears,

And the stare of the statues,

And the priest saying prayers for the dead,

A last kiss beseeching for the dead orphan;

But none goes to kiss him. And no one will.

The black cover is nailed on; the candle, melting, falls.

(No sister lamenting, nor mother fainting with grief!)

This is a soldier, an orphan—then who should mourn?

In the great Emperor’s courtyardHe stood at his post on the pavement.He washed his face and dried itAs the duck her wings in water.He washed his face with his tears—None saw or heard in the silence.He leaned his head on the bayonetAnd slept for a precious moment.In the great Emperor’s courtyardHe slept on his sharp-tipped bayonet.He dreamt that he walked on a mountain—O blue was the dream-like mountain!—Brushing his hair in ringlets.He walked on thinking, thinking:Why does my mother write not,Or can she still be living?He heard her answer softly:“I would like, my son, to write you,But they made me a tomb so loftyThat I may not rise from beneath it.Oh rise I cannot, my Eagle!For deep below, on the bottom,They have covered my hands with earth-clods,With earth that is lying heavy.”· · · · ·In the great Emperor’s courtyardHe would have dreamt still longer,But the bell on high St. Stephen’sRang with a sudden clamour....He wiped his face from the misting,His bayonet wiped he dully—Blood flows on the courtyard pavementFrom the soldier lying dead there.

In the great Emperor’s courtyard

He stood at his post on the pavement.

He washed his face and dried it

As the duck her wings in water.

He washed his face with his tears—

None saw or heard in the silence.

He leaned his head on the bayonetAnd slept for a precious moment.In the great Emperor’s courtyardHe slept on his sharp-tipped bayonet.

He leaned his head on the bayonet

And slept for a precious moment.

In the great Emperor’s courtyard

He slept on his sharp-tipped bayonet.

He dreamt that he walked on a mountain—O blue was the dream-like mountain!—Brushing his hair in ringlets.He walked on thinking, thinking:Why does my mother write not,Or can she still be living?

He dreamt that he walked on a mountain—

O blue was the dream-like mountain!—

Brushing his hair in ringlets.

He walked on thinking, thinking:

Why does my mother write not,

Or can she still be living?

He heard her answer softly:“I would like, my son, to write you,But they made me a tomb so loftyThat I may not rise from beneath it.Oh rise I cannot, my Eagle!For deep below, on the bottom,They have covered my hands with earth-clods,With earth that is lying heavy.”

He heard her answer softly:

“I would like, my son, to write you,

But they made me a tomb so lofty

That I may not rise from beneath it.

Oh rise I cannot, my Eagle!

For deep below, on the bottom,

They have covered my hands with earth-clods,

With earth that is lying heavy.”

· · · · ·

In the great Emperor’s courtyardHe would have dreamt still longer,But the bell on high St. Stephen’sRang with a sudden clamour....He wiped his face from the misting,His bayonet wiped he dully—Blood flows on the courtyard pavementFrom the soldier lying dead there.

In the great Emperor’s courtyard

He would have dreamt still longer,

But the bell on high St. Stephen’s

Rang with a sudden clamour....

He wiped his face from the misting,

His bayonet wiped he dully—

Blood flows on the courtyard pavement

From the soldier lying dead there.

The sun was drowning in the ocean’s brimRed, red as blood;And in the crimson floodA young girl sewed a handkerchief with gold,Embroidering in gold with stitches fine—(Like lilies whiteHer cheeks will look to-night,Like pure-white lilies washed with tears).And as she sewed she pressed it to her heart.Then, weeping sore,She opened wide the door:“Strong wind, my Eagle, take this on your wings!“Strong as the Dunai ever onward flows,O wind so free,Deliver this for meWhere now he serves, yea, where the heart well knows.“He in the Uhlans’ ranks is fighting now—Go, Golden One,From sun to sun,Float on the wind until that place you find!“And, Golden One, when you shall hear one callEven as a dove,Rest, for my love,My loved one will be waiting here below.“He has a bay horse, and his weapons areShining as gold.Wind, free and bold,Fall to his heart, as the rose petals fall.“If sleeping, wake him not—and, O my God!If slain he lie,For your good-bye,O Golden One, cover his sweet dead face.”

The sun was drowning in the ocean’s brimRed, red as blood;And in the crimson floodA young girl sewed a handkerchief with gold,

The sun was drowning in the ocean’s brim

Red, red as blood;

And in the crimson flood

A young girl sewed a handkerchief with gold,

Embroidering in gold with stitches fine—(Like lilies whiteHer cheeks will look to-night,Like pure-white lilies washed with tears).

Embroidering in gold with stitches fine—

(Like lilies white

Her cheeks will look to-night,

Like pure-white lilies washed with tears).

And as she sewed she pressed it to her heart.Then, weeping sore,She opened wide the door:“Strong wind, my Eagle, take this on your wings!

And as she sewed she pressed it to her heart.

Then, weeping sore,

She opened wide the door:

“Strong wind, my Eagle, take this on your wings!

“Strong as the Dunai ever onward flows,O wind so free,Deliver this for meWhere now he serves, yea, where the heart well knows.

“Strong as the Dunai ever onward flows,

O wind so free,

Deliver this for me

Where now he serves, yea, where the heart well knows.

“He in the Uhlans’ ranks is fighting now—Go, Golden One,From sun to sun,Float on the wind until that place you find!

“He in the Uhlans’ ranks is fighting now—

Go, Golden One,

From sun to sun,

Float on the wind until that place you find!

“And, Golden One, when you shall hear one callEven as a dove,Rest, for my love,My loved one will be waiting here below.

“And, Golden One, when you shall hear one call

Even as a dove,

Rest, for my love,

My loved one will be waiting here below.

“He has a bay horse, and his weapons areShining as gold.Wind, free and bold,Fall to his heart, as the rose petals fall.

“He has a bay horse, and his weapons are

Shining as gold.

Wind, free and bold,

Fall to his heart, as the rose petals fall.

“If sleeping, wake him not—and, O my God!If slain he lie,For your good-bye,O Golden One, cover his sweet dead face.”

“If sleeping, wake him not—and, O my God!

If slain he lie,

For your good-bye,

O Golden One, cover his sweet dead face.”

“Look at the soldier’s kabaty,[74]Mother, mother mine!Is it not red—like blood—to see,Or is it like the cranberry?Knowest thou me?”“I know thee, I would always knowMy only son.Young as the cranberries that grow,Bright as the reddest one!”“The cranberry in that deep wood,Mother, mother mine!For me, for me it does not bloom.High has my flower risen—a tombBuilt for thy son.“O mother, there it stands—my mate!...To-morrow, mother mine,In silken grass and on green lawnSo very early, in the dawn,I will bow low.“To Hetman young myself I’ll bow:‘Young Hetman! Sir!Wilt bless me, me, the young Cossack?’”“I’ll bless thee, where the cannons blackFull loudly roar!There will I bless thee, O my son!”“My Hetman, Hetman mine!I follow, and I die, with thee;I follow, dying—let me be ...Mother, don’t cry!”

“Look at the soldier’s kabaty,[74]Mother, mother mine!Is it not red—like blood—to see,Or is it like the cranberry?Knowest thou me?”

“Look at the soldier’s kabaty,[74]

Mother, mother mine!

Is it not red—like blood—to see,

Or is it like the cranberry?

Knowest thou me?”

“I know thee, I would always knowMy only son.Young as the cranberries that grow,Bright as the reddest one!”

“I know thee, I would always know

My only son.

Young as the cranberries that grow,

Bright as the reddest one!”

“The cranberry in that deep wood,Mother, mother mine!For me, for me it does not bloom.High has my flower risen—a tombBuilt for thy son.

“The cranberry in that deep wood,

Mother, mother mine!

For me, for me it does not bloom.

High has my flower risen—a tomb

Built for thy son.

“O mother, there it stands—my mate!...To-morrow, mother mine,In silken grass and on green lawnSo very early, in the dawn,I will bow low.

“O mother, there it stands—my mate!...

To-morrow, mother mine,

In silken grass and on green lawn

So very early, in the dawn,

I will bow low.

“To Hetman young myself I’ll bow:‘Young Hetman! Sir!Wilt bless me, me, the young Cossack?’”

“To Hetman young myself I’ll bow:

‘Young Hetman! Sir!

Wilt bless me, me, the young Cossack?’”

“I’ll bless thee, where the cannons blackFull loudly roar!There will I bless thee, O my son!”

“I’ll bless thee, where the cannons black

Full loudly roar!

There will I bless thee, O my son!”

“My Hetman, Hetman mine!I follow, and I die, with thee;I follow, dying—let me be ...Mother, don’t cry!”

“My Hetman, Hetman mine!

I follow, and I die, with thee;

I follow, dying—let me be ...

Mother, don’t cry!”

TO M. D.

You are a Hutzul,[75]And I am a Hutzul—The serdak[76]both of us wear;Both born in the forest,Both christened in the Cheremsh,[77]Played hide-and-seek with the Bear.We knew not where luck would lead—If this road meant good luck,If that road meant bad luck,Naught did we ever heed.To both good fortune came.She did not forget us;Her bounty she gave us,To both of us just the same.Great lords she would have us be,To dwell in a palace,But ah, she was drunken!Our Luck was fuddled, you see.You are a Hutzul,And I am a Hutzul—She placed her sheep ’neath the Shears!That’s how Luck has served us,And pray who shall tell usJust where the blame appears?

You are a Hutzul,[75]And I am a Hutzul—The serdak[76]both of us wear;Both born in the forest,Both christened in the Cheremsh,[77]Played hide-and-seek with the Bear.

You are a Hutzul,[75]

And I am a Hutzul—

The serdak[76]both of us wear;

Both born in the forest,

Both christened in the Cheremsh,[77]

Played hide-and-seek with the Bear.

We knew not where luck would lead—If this road meant good luck,If that road meant bad luck,Naught did we ever heed.

We knew not where luck would lead—

If this road meant good luck,

If that road meant bad luck,

Naught did we ever heed.

To both good fortune came.She did not forget us;Her bounty she gave us,To both of us just the same.

To both good fortune came.

She did not forget us;

Her bounty she gave us,

To both of us just the same.

Great lords she would have us be,To dwell in a palace,But ah, she was drunken!Our Luck was fuddled, you see.

Great lords she would have us be,

To dwell in a palace,

But ah, she was drunken!

Our Luck was fuddled, you see.

You are a Hutzul,And I am a Hutzul—She placed her sheep ’neath the Shears!That’s how Luck has served us,And pray who shall tell usJust where the blame appears?

You are a Hutzul,

And I am a Hutzul—

She placed her sheep ’neath the Shears!

That’s how Luck has served us,

And pray who shall tell us

Just where the blame appears?

ЩЕ НЕ ВМЕРЛА УКРАЇНАЩе не вмерла Україна і слава і воля,Ще нам, братя молодії усьміхнеть ся доля!Згинуть наші вороженьки, як роса на сонці,Запануєм і ми, братя, у своїй сторонцї.Душу, тїло ми положим за нашу свободу,І покажем, що ми, братя, козацького роду!

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