197
VYACHESLAV IVANOV
The world is lit by Slavdom's pyre,
Which scarce enkindled, blinds the sight.
'Mid Slavdom's calm a festive fire
Of coming strength flings out its light.
Where it bursts forth,—the Pole is there;
The Russian,—where in depths it strays;
But by one lightning-flash they bear
Into the gloom an age-long blaze.
Thou, Poland, Slavdom's arrow art;
I see the bow-string tensely spanned;
Quiver, where dearth has ne'er a part,
And wrath of God's extended hand.
Poland, to thee I am akin!
The fire of headstrong dreams, the trust
In fiery destiny shall win
Its all,—or sink amid the dust!
THE MAENAD.
Wildly sped the Maenad onward,
Like a doe,
Like a doe,—
With heart bursting from her bosom,
Like a doe,
Like a doe,—
