And again the rye failed, for again was the early ear frosted. I had men and maid servants no longer. I could not pay land-dues. So passed the time; and as long as the milch-kine were spared us, Thus came and went Christmas; and still we lived on, although famished. I was met on the threshold by strangers-and thus one accosts me : Amazed, I made answer: "Good sir, yet awhile have thou patience, Again they turned into the house, no answer vouchsafing, Then hastily stripped from the walls our poor store of household utensils, Seized all that remained of our clothing, and carried them off to their sledge. Weeping, my wife lay, my excellent wife, on her straw bed, Watching in silence the men, and all the while soothing the baby, Which lay on her bosom new-born, and kept up a wailing of sorrow. I followed them out as they bore thence the last of our chattels, As stern in my mood as the pine when his axe at its roots lays the wood man. They cast up the worth of their plunder, and said that it reached not The half of the sum that they needed. Again spake the bailiff: "Friend," said he, this doth not suffice, but thou hast much kine in the cow-shed." Thus saying, with no more ado, they went on to the straw-yard, Still forcing them on by compulsion, unwilling to leave their old homestead. In this way six cows were secured; the seventh, a starveling, Dead rather than living, they left me. Thus all that I had was dis trained on. I spake not; in dreary despondence re-crossing my threshold, Thus spake she; a darkness came over my eyesight, and sorrowing And blood flowed, a crimson stream, staining the pail of the milker. As fierce as the mother-bear, struck by the spear of the hunter, Rushed I indoors, and took up a loaf, which I sundered By the stroke of the axe, and black flew the bark-fragments round me. I buckled the skates on my feet, and sped in all haste to the neighbor Again I sped back with a pailful of milk on my shoulder; But on reaching my threshold a cry of sad sorrow assailed me; Spread over her face, and the blackness of night her eyes vailing. This was the crown of our sorrow-bereaved was the beautiful Kangas. And ere long, as if Heaven-abandoned, I left it forever, And, taking my staff in my hand went forth, drawing my children But Time doth lighten most sorrows; and now amid strangers Can sit 'neath the trees in the sunshine, and sing like a cricket. Translation of M. HOWITT. * JOHANN LUDWIG RUNEBERG, a Finlander. ELEGY. RUSSIAN. O thou field! thou clean and level field! O thou plain! so far and wide around! For in thy very middle stands a broom, On the broom a young gray eagle sits, Ah, black raven, youth so good and brave, Not a swallow 'tis, that hovering clings, When the sun shines it dries up the dew! Translated by TALVI. TAKE THY OLD CLOAKE ABOUT THEE.* This winter weather-itt waxeth cold, And Boreas blows his blastes so cold Shee sayd unto me quietlye, Rise up, and save cowe Crumbocke's life- He. O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne? Itt is soe bare and overworne A cricke he thereon can not renn; For Ile have a new cloake about mee. She. Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe, She ha beene alwayes true to the payle, And other things she will not fayle, I wold be loth to see her pine, Good husbande, council take of mee, It is not for us to goe so fine Man, take thy old cloake about thee. He. My cloake, it was a very good cloake, *See Othello, Act ii., Scene 3. |