The Comrades Poems Old & New: By William Canton |
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| Kozma the Smith
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 | The Comrades |  |
101
Kozma the Smith
All the fair maidens are out in the street,
Singing from dusk till the blush of the morn,—
Singing a welcome, in cadences sweet,
Unto the spring-rain, the flax, and the corn:
For the Gold Plough has passed over valley and hill,
With the Lord God holding the oxen in hand;
While St. Peter beside, with his goad, whistled shrill;
And the Mother of Christ cast the seed o'er the land.
Singing from dusk till the blush of the morn,—
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Unto the spring-rain, the flax, and the corn:
For the Gold Plough has passed over valley and hill,
With the Lord God holding the oxen in hand;
While St. Peter beside, with his goad, whistled shrill;
And the Mother of Christ cast the seed o'er the land.
And the marmot has crept from his winter sleep,
And the steppe is alive with his whistling cry;
And the rook has sailed from across the blue deep;
And the lark, from a little white cloud, fills the sky;
And the pike's sent his tail through the spongy ice;
And the swallows come flying from Paradise;
And the cricket's astir; and the bear in his den
Wakes, yawning, and feels it is Spring among men.
And the steppe is alive with his whistling cry;
And the rook has sailed from across the blue deep;
And the lark, from a little white cloud, fills the sky;
And the pike's sent his tail through the spongy ice;
And the swallows come flying from Paradise;
And the cricket's astir; and the bear in his den
Wakes, yawning, and feels it is Spring among men.
Beautiful Spring!—sing the girls in the street—
Sweet rain of the Spring! dear blue of the sky!
O rain, pour over the grandfather's wheat,
The maiden's flax, and the grandmother's rye!
O Spring, give the birch her silver chemise,
Give the noble horse-chestnut his gloves of red;
Bring safely all little birds over the seas—
All little winged souls of the babes that are dead!
Sweet rain of the Spring! dear blue of the sky!
O rain, pour over the grandfather's wheat,
The maiden's flax, and the grandmother's rye!
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Give the noble horse-chestnut his gloves of red;
Bring safely all little birds over the seas—
All little winged souls of the babes that are dead!
Oh, the village is glad 'mid the rustle of wings,
And the fragrance and murmur of growing things!
And all poor mothers with children dead
Spread the piece of white linen with crumbs of bread
Outside for their birds on the window-sill.
In the dim russet morning when all is still,
They can hear their little ones twitter and sing;
And they weep, and are solaced, and bless the Spring!
And the fragrance and murmur of growing things!
And all poor mothers with children dead
Spread the piece of white linen with crumbs of bread
Outside for their birds on the window-sill.
In the dim russet morning when all is still,
They can hear their little ones twitter and sing;
And they weep, and are solaced, and bless the Spring!
But Kozma the Smith is weary of life,
And heart-sick with thoughts of his dear dead wife,
And the little girl-babe who was born and died
On the mother's cold bosom last Whitsuntide.
Heart-sick is Kozma the Smith, as he stands
With a hammer and red-hot bar in his hands,
Gazing on vacancy—thinking he heard
His little one's cry in the cry of a bird.
And heart-sick with thoughts of his dear dead wife,
And the little girl-babe who was born and died
On the mother's cold bosom last Whitsuntide.
Heart-sick is Kozma the Smith, as he stands
With a hammer and red-hot bar in his hands,
Gazing on vacancy—thinking he heard
His little one's cry in the cry of a bird.
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And the throat of him aches, and his eyes are red,
As he spreads the linen and crumbles the bread
On the ledge of the window—then lies awake
Listening till day for his little girl's sake.
As he spreads the linen and crumbles the bread
On the ledge of the window—then lies awake
Listening till day for his little girl's sake.
But his crumbs lie untouched: day slips after day,
And never a little bird takes one away;
And never at morning, when all is still,
Does he hear a chirp on the window-sill!
And never a little bird takes one away;
And never at morning, when all is still,
Does he hear a chirp on the window-sill!
Then Kozma the Smith lifts his tear-blinded eyes,
With a cry: “What to me are the green of the grass,
The flowers and the birds, and the laugh of the skies,
If the Spring has not brought me my own little lass?”
With a cry: “What to me are the green of the grass,
The flowers and the birds, and the laugh of the skies,
If the Spring has not brought me my own little lass?”
And Kozma the Smith casts him down with a groan:
“Dear wife, dost thou lie in the dark ground alone?
Is the little one stolen? . . . It lay in its place,
All covered with flowers to its sweet waxen face,
When they beat down the nails of the coffin-lid.
Have the water-sprites found where my darling was hid
In the darkness, dear wife,—in the flowers, at thy side?”
And he thinks in dumb pain how the little one died—
Unbaptized, unanointed, an outcast from grace!
And Kozma goes forth with a haggard face,
And the light in his eyes is unearthly and wild—
For he fears the Rusálkas have taken the child.
“Dear wife, dost thou lie in the dark ground alone?
Is the little one stolen? . . . It lay in its place,
All covered with flowers to its sweet waxen face,
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Have the water-sprites found where my darling was hid
In the darkness, dear wife,—in the flowers, at thy side?”
And he thinks in dumb pain how the little one died—
Unbaptized, unanointed, an outcast from grace!
And Kozma goes forth with a haggard face,
And the light in his eyes is unearthly and wild—
For he fears the Rusálkas have taken the child.
In the dead of the night, when the pines on the hill
Stand asleep in the mist, and the valley is still;
When the pulses of being so peacefully beat,
One almost can hear the grass grow in the street;
When the hearthstone is black, and the cricket asleep,
And the dew hangs in drops on the fleece of the sheep;
When the great ruddy moon is just sinking, and shines
Through the white misty ridge of the topmost pines—
In the dead of the night Kozma wakes with a start,
And springs to the window with beating heart;
Flings it wide—gazes wildly at forest and sky—
And hears—oh, listen!—his little one's cry.
Stand asleep in the mist, and the valley is still;
When the pulses of being so peacefully beat,
One almost can hear the grass grow in the street;
When the hearthstone is black, and the cricket asleep,
And the dew hangs in drops on the fleece of the sheep;
When the great ruddy moon is just sinking, and shines
Through the white misty ridge of the topmost pines—
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And springs to the window with beating heart;
Flings it wide—gazes wildly at forest and sky—
And hears—oh, listen!—his little one's cry.
Through the forest the great setting moon smoulders red,
And the pine-branches lean dusky crimson o'erhead;
The cold stars glimmer through,—and a long leafy sigh
Runs before him as Kozma the Smith hurries by.
On the boughs hang the thread and the fluttering rags
Which the villagers leave for the water-sprite.
With his wild gleaming eyes and blown hair Kozma speeds,
Till he hears the weird sough of the water-flags,
And sees the marsh-mist trailing ghostly and white,
And catches among the black pools in the reeds
The glint of a marsh-lamp, the light of a star.
Then he pauses and listens. The wind murmurs by;
The water-flags moan; and how faint and how far—
Oh, hearken once more!—comes the little one's cry!
The spongy marsh-mosses spirt up from his tread;
The moon has gone down in the mist, round and red;
The great stars dilate, and the blue sky grows dark,
And the weird whispering swamp glooms before him—when, hark!
From the black reedy water a bird, out of sight,
Sends a bright silvery tinkle of song through the night;
And for leagues o'er the marshes, beneath the dark sky,
From each bulrush a bird trills a silvery reply.
And the pine-branches lean dusky crimson o'erhead;
The cold stars glimmer through,—and a long leafy sigh
Runs before him as Kozma the Smith hurries by.
On the boughs hang the thread and the fluttering rags
Which the villagers leave for the water-sprite.
With his wild gleaming eyes and blown hair Kozma speeds,
Till he hears the weird sough of the water-flags,
And sees the marsh-mist trailing ghostly and white,
And catches among the black pools in the reeds
The glint of a marsh-lamp, the light of a star.
Then he pauses and listens. The wind murmurs by;
The water-flags moan; and how faint and how far—
Oh, hearken once more!—comes the little one's cry!
107
The moon has gone down in the mist, round and red;
The great stars dilate, and the blue sky grows dark,
And the weird whispering swamp glooms before him—when, hark!
From the black reedy water a bird, out of sight,
Sends a bright silvery tinkle of song through the night;
And for leagues o'er the marshes, beneath the dark sky,
From each bulrush a bird trills a silvery reply.
Then the dusk air is fluttered with flurries of wings,
And jangles of music; and now—oh, behold!—
The morass is on fire with strange stars, floating rings,
Flaming ribbons of sapphire and scarlet and gold;
And the water-flag trembles with blossoms of fire;
And the bulrush is tufted with clusters of pearls;
And the bird-charm is changed to a fairy choir—
To prattle of children and laughter of girls;
And Kozma the Smith breathes the Holy Name,
As he sees in the circles of flowers and flame
The glittering limbs and the green waving curls,
The blue eyes and white breasts, of the water-girls.
They are combing their hair with a jewelled comb,
They are plucking the brightest lilies in blow,
They are splashing each other with shiny foam,
They are tossing the water-babes to and fro;
They are laughing and singing and drifting by—
When he hears through their frolic the little one's cry.
Then Kozma the Smith, in a voice hoarse and wild—
“In the name of the Holy One, give me the child!”
And jangles of music; and now—oh, behold!—
The morass is on fire with strange stars, floating rings,
Flaming ribbons of sapphire and scarlet and gold;
And the water-flag trembles with blossoms of fire;
And the bulrush is tufted with clusters of pearls;
And the bird-charm is changed to a fairy choir—
To prattle of children and laughter of girls;
And Kozma the Smith breathes the Holy Name,
As he sees in the circles of flowers and flame
The glittering limbs and the green waving curls,
The blue eyes and white breasts, of the water-girls.
They are combing their hair with a jewelled comb,
They are plucking the brightest lilies in blow,
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They are tossing the water-babes to and fro;
They are laughing and singing and drifting by—
When he hears through their frolic the little one's cry.
Then Kozma the Smith, in a voice hoarse and wild—
“In the name of the Holy One, give me the child!”
Lo! a great silence follows that cry of despair.
The revel is hushed! Not a living thing
Draws a breath in the stillness; but Kozma's aware
That a garland of rosebuds, a tremulous ring
Of blossomy splendour, is woven and blown
O'er the lit glassy marsh by the water-girls.
And there, with the roses about her strown,
With her tiny head pillowed on emerald curls,
Floats the sweet girl-babe who was born and died
On his wife's cold bosom last Whitsuntide.
Oh, spring through the water-flags, clasp and redeem
Thy little one, Smith, if this be not a dream!
He has sprung: she is saved! With a low laughing moan,
“My darling!” he sobs—draws her face to his own—
When round him rings laughter, derisive and harsh,
And then,—in a flash,—all is black on the marsh!
The revel is hushed! Not a living thing
Draws a breath in the stillness; but Kozma's aware
That a garland of rosebuds, a tremulous ring
Of blossomy splendour, is woven and blown
O'er the lit glassy marsh by the water-girls.
And there, with the roses about her strown,
With her tiny head pillowed on emerald curls,
Floats the sweet girl-babe who was born and died
On his wife's cold bosom last Whitsuntide.
Oh, spring through the water-flags, clasp and redeem
Thy little one, Smith, if this be not a dream!
He has sprung: she is saved! With a low laughing moan,
“My darling!” he sobs—draws her face to his own—
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And then,—in a flash,—all is black on the marsh!
“Hilliho, hilliho!”—How the clear echoes go
Through the pine-woods, and bring back the shout, “Hilliho!”
Through the pine-woods, and bring back the shout, “Hilliho!”
'Tis the hunter halloos, and he clutches his gun
Where the swamp's eerie waters have shrunk in the sun.
Where the swamp's eerie waters have shrunk in the sun.
“Ho, comrades! be speedy, and come to me here!”—
What is it he sees that a hunter should fear?
What is it he sees that a hunter should fear?
The water-flags flutter their ribbons of green
Round the black peaty marge where the waters have been.
Round the black peaty marge where the waters have been.
What is it that lies in the flags—on its face—
And rivets the hunter's fixed gaze to the place?
And rivets the hunter's fixed gaze to the place?
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“God be thanked, you have come, friends!—The man!—he is dead!”
The water-flags flutter. With slow fearful tread
They trample the reeds where the dark horror lies—
Touch the corpse—and then turn the dead face to the skies.
The water-flags flutter. With slow fearful tread
They trample the reeds where the dark horror lies—
Touch the corpse—and then turn the dead face to the skies.
“God have mercy! 'tis Kozma the Smith! He was missed
In the Spring.—How he clutches those weeds in his fist!”
In the Spring.—How he clutches those weeds in his fist!”
“The Rusálkas are female water-spirits ------ They are generally represented under the form of beauteous maidens, with full and snow-white bosoms, and with long and slender limbs ------ Their hair is long and thick and wavy, and green as is the grass ------ Besides the full-grown Rusálkas there are little ones, having the appearance of seven-year-old girls. These are supposed, by the Russian peasants, to be the ghosts of still-born children, or such as have died before there was time to baptize them ------ If any person who hears one of them lamenting will exclaim, ‘I baptize thee in the name of the Father,’ &c., the soul of that child will be saved, and will go straight to heaven. Dead children are supposed to come back in the spring to their native village under the semblance of swallows and other small birds, and to seek by soft twittering or song to console their sorrowing parents.” See Ralston's “Songs of the Russian People,” pp. 118, 144, 213, et passim.
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