Three grievous allotments had Fortune decreed:—
Allotment the first,—with a slave man to marry;
The second,—the mother to be of his seed;
The third,—until death his hard yoke e'er to carry.
And all these allotments so grievous did lie
On woman 'neath Russia's broad sky.
The ages have passed: all for pleasure has striven;
To manifold change all on earth has been given.
The poor peasant woman alone is forgot:
No change in her lot has God made.
Of feminine beauty and strength, we all wot,
The type, 'mong the Slavs, has decayed.
Fortuitous victim of fate!
Hast suffered unseen and unheard;
The world has not told of thy strait,
Of plaining hast uttered no word.
But me thou, my friend, wilt tell all;
From childhood together we 've plodded:—
Fatigue and dismay on thee fall,
All misery in thee is embodied.
No heart in his breast carrieth he
Who tears doth not shed over thee.
. . . . . . .
We 've thus of the serf woman spoken,
However, with purpose to say:—
The type of the stately Slavonian,
Perhaps, may be found e'en to-day.
In Russ hamlets women are dwelling,
Of countenance earnest, serene;
In all grace of movement excelling;
In bearing and look like a queen.
Perhaps they 'll escape the dim-sighted;
But one who can see says of them:—
“She passes—with sunshine all 's lighted!
And looks—'t is like giving a gem!”
The paths all our people are thronging
They follow,—the same burthens bring;
But mire, to their low lot belonging,
To them as it were does not cling.
See blooming,—a world's admiration,—
The beauty! tall, rosy, well-shaped;
Proficient in each occupation;
A beauty, however she 's draped;
Both hunger and cold calmly brooking;
Content, ever patient, discreet.
I oft as she moved have been looking:
One flourish—a haycock complete!
Her kerchief is o'er her ear slipping,
Her tresses are ready to fall.
And then some young fellow comes tripping—
The rascal! and up throws them all:
The flaxen, luxuriant tresses
O'erspread her tanned bosom, and wrap
Her little bare feet in caresses;
Her eyes, too, in darkness entrap:
She quickly her locks apart brushes,
And fiercely a glance at him throws;
Her tress-enframed, proud face with blushes
Of passion, of hot anger glows.
On work-days she likes full employment.
But strange will to you be her face
When from it the smile of enjoyment
The sigil of toil shall erase:
Such laughter, so hearty! such measure
In song and in dance! no such treats
With gold can be purchased. “What pleasure!”
Each peasant to each oft repeats.
The horseman she 'll vanquish in racing;
In danger, not flinching, she 'll save:
A galloping steed boldly facing;
To enter a burning hut, brave.
Her beautiful, regular teeth
Seem pearls, when to view them one chances;
But firmly the lips' rosy sheath
Conceals them from people's rude glances.
She rarely indulges in laughter,
For jesting she 's no time to spare;
Not oft dares her neighbour come after
Some item of her kitchen ware.
No pity has she for the tramp,—
Why country paths uselessly scour?
Of scrupulous fitness the stamp
She bears and of immanent power.
She knows, as 't were writ in her creed,
In labour is all their salvation;
And labour returns her the meed:—
Her household knows never privation;
They 've always a warm roof o'erhead,
Bread well-baked, and kvas of good savour;
The children are healthy, well-fed;
For high-days there 's some extra favour.
This woman goes forth Sunday morn
To mass, all her family guiding:
Is sitting a child, two years born,
Her bosom upon, and there riding:
The mother, well dressed, by the hand
Is leading her six-years-old boy.
This picture all friends of Russ land,
All friends of Russ folk will enjoy.
Allotment the first,—with a slave man to marry;
The second,—the mother to be of his seed;
The third,—until death his hard yoke e'er to carry.
And all these allotments so grievous did lie
On woman 'neath Russia's broad sky.
The ages have passed: all for pleasure has striven;
To manifold change all on earth has been given.
The poor peasant woman alone is forgot:
No change in her lot has God made.
Of feminine beauty and strength, we all wot,
The type, 'mong the Slavs, has decayed.
Fortuitous victim of fate!
Hast suffered unseen and unheard;
The world has not told of thy strait,
Of plaining hast uttered no word.
But me thou, my friend, wilt tell all;
From childhood together we 've plodded:—
Fatigue and dismay on thee fall,
All misery in thee is embodied.
No heart in his breast carrieth he
Who tears doth not shed over thee.
. . . . . . .
We 've thus of the serf woman spoken,
However, with purpose to say:—
The type of the stately Slavonian,
Perhaps, may be found e'en to-day.
In Russ hamlets women are dwelling,
Of countenance earnest, serene;
In all grace of movement excelling;
In bearing and look like a queen.
Perhaps they 'll escape the dim-sighted;
But one who can see says of them:—
“She passes—with sunshine all 's lighted!
And looks—'t is like giving a gem!”
The paths all our people are thronging
They follow,—the same burthens bring;
But mire, to their low lot belonging,
To them as it were does not cling.
See blooming,—a world's admiration,—
The beauty! tall, rosy, well-shaped;
Proficient in each occupation;
A beauty, however she 's draped;
Both hunger and cold calmly brooking;
Content, ever patient, discreet.
I oft as she moved have been looking:
One flourish—a haycock complete!
Her kerchief is o'er her ear slipping,
Her tresses are ready to fall.
And then some young fellow comes tripping—
The rascal! and up throws them all:
The flaxen, luxuriant tresses
O'erspread her tanned bosom, and wrap
Her little bare feet in caresses;
Her eyes, too, in darkness entrap:
She quickly her locks apart brushes,
And fiercely a glance at him throws;
Her tress-enframed, proud face with blushes
Of passion, of hot anger glows.
On work-days she likes full employment.
But strange will to you be her face
When from it the smile of enjoyment
The sigil of toil shall erase:
Such laughter, so hearty! such measure
In song and in dance! no such treats
With gold can be purchased. “What pleasure!”
Each peasant to each oft repeats.
The horseman she 'll vanquish in racing;
In danger, not flinching, she 'll save:
A galloping steed boldly facing;
To enter a burning hut, brave.
Her beautiful, regular teeth
Seem pearls, when to view them one chances;
But firmly the lips' rosy sheath
Conceals them from people's rude glances.
She rarely indulges in laughter,
For jesting she 's no time to spare;
Not oft dares her neighbour come after
Some item of her kitchen ware.
No pity has she for the tramp,—
Why country paths uselessly scour?
Of scrupulous fitness the stamp
She bears and of immanent power.
She knows, as 't were writ in her creed,
In labour is all their salvation;
And labour returns her the meed:—
Her household knows never privation;
They 've always a warm roof o'erhead,
Bread well-baked, and kvas of good savour;
The children are healthy, well-fed;
For high-days there 's some extra favour.
This woman goes forth Sunday morn
To mass, all her family guiding:
Is sitting a child, two years born,
Her bosom upon, and there riding:
The mother, well dressed, by the hand
Is leading her six-years-old boy.
This picture all friends of Russ land,
All friends of Russ folk will enjoy.