To the Dead
And the Living, and the Unborn, Countrymen
of mine, in Ukraine, or out of it,
My Epistle of Friendship.
This is the national poem of the Ukrainians, recited at all their gatherings. I have given the thought and something of the feeling. The music of the original I could not give. It begins like a Highland dirge with wailing amphibrachs, and there are other measures in it not used in our language. Perhaps some future student may be moved to put this poem in such English form as will give the true impression of the original.
The motive of the poem is, in part, to awaken the conscience of the young educated Ukrainians who, for the sake of gain were allowing themselves to be used as tools by foreign oppressors.
’Twas dawn, ’tis evening light,
So passes Day divine.
Again the weary folk
And all things earthly
Take their rest.
I alone, remorseful
For my country’s woes,
Weep day and night,
By the thronged cross-roads,
Unheeded by all.
They see not, they know not;
Deaf ears, they hear not.
They trade old fetters for new
And barter righteousness,
Make nothing of their God.
They harness the people
With heavy yokes.
Evil they plough,
With evil they sow.
What crops will spring?
What harvest will you see?
Arouse ye, unnatural ones.
Children of Herod!
Look on this calm Eden,
Your own Ukraine,
Bestow on her tender love,
Mighty in her ruins.
Break your fetters,
Join in brotherhood,
Seek not in foreign lands
Things that are not.
Nor yet in Heaven,
Nor in stranger’s fields,
But in your own house
Lies your righteousness,
Your strength and your liberty.
In the world is but one Ukraine,
Dnieper—there is only one.
But you must off to foreign lands
To look for something grand and good.
Wealth of goodness and liberty,
Fraternity and so forth, you found.
And back you brought to Ukraine
From places far away
A wondrous force
of lofty sounding words,
And nothing more.
Shout aloud
That God created you for this,
To bow the knee to lies,
To bend and bend again
Your spineless backs
And skin again
Your brothers—
These ignorant buckwheat farmers.
Try again
to ripen crops of truth and light
In Germany
or some other foreign place.
If one should add
all our present misery
To the wealth
Our fathers stole
Orphaned, indeed, would Dnieper be
with all his holy hills.
Faugh! if it should happen
that you would never come back,
Or get snuffed out
just where you were spawned
No children would weep
nor mothers lament,
Nor in God’s house be heard
the story of your shame.
The sun would not shine
on the stench of your filth
O’er the clean, broad, free land,
Nor would the people know
what eagles you were
Nor turn their heads to gaze.
Arouse ye, be men!
For evil days come.
Quickly a people enchained
Shall tear off their fetters;
Judgment will come,
Dnieper and the hills will speak.
A hundred rivers
flow to the sea
with your children’s blood,
Nor will there be any to help.
Smoke clouds hide the sun
Through the ages
Your sons shall curse you.
Wash yourselves—
The divine likeness in you
defile not with slime.
Befool not your children
that they were born to the world
to be lordlings.
The eyes of men untaught
see deep, deep
into your soul.
Poor things they may he,
yet they know the ass
in the lion’s skin.
And they will judge you,
the foolish will pronounce the doom
of the wise.
II.
Did you but study as you should,
You would possess your own wisdom;
And you might creep up to heaven.
But it is we—
Oh, no, not we;
It is I—no, no, not I.
I’ve seen it all, I know it.
There’s neither heaven nor hell,
Not even God—
Just I and the short, fat German,
Nothing more.
Grand, my brother.
You ask me something,
“I don’t know,
Ask the German,
He’ll tell you.”
That’s the way you learn
in foreign lands.
The German says—
“You are Mongols.
Mongols, Mongols;
Naked children
of the golden Tamerlane.”
The German says—
“You are Slavs,
Slavs, Slavs;
Ugly offspring
of famous ancestors.”
You read the writings
of the great Slavophils,
Push in among them,
Get on so well
That you know all the tongues
of the Slavonic peoples
Except your own—God help it.
“Oh, as for that
Sometime we’ll speak
our own language
When the German
shows us how,
Our history too,
he will explain,
Then we’ll be alright!”
It came about finely
on the German advice.
They learned to speak so well
That even the mighty German
could not understand them,
Not to speak of common folks.
Oh what a noise and racket!
“There’s Harmony, and Force
And Music—and everything.
And as for History
The Epic of a free people!
What’s all this about the poor Romans,
Brutus, etcetera, and the Devil knows what?
Have we not our Brutuses
and our Cocles
Glorious and never to be forgotten?
Why freedom grew up with us
Bathed in the Dnieper
Rested her head on our hills,
The far-flung Steppes
are her garments.”
Alas! ’twas in blood she bathed
Pillowed her head on burial mounds
On bodies of Cossack freemen,
Corpses despoiled.
But look ye well
Read again of that glory!
Read it, word by word,
Miss not a jot nor tittle,
Grasp it all:
Then ask yourselves—
Who are we? Whose sons?
Of what fathers?
By whom and why enchained?
Then you shall see
Who your glorious Brutuses are.
Slaves, door-mats!
mud of Moscow
scum of Warsaw
are your lords;
Glorious heroes they are.
Why are you so proud
Sons of unhappy Ukraine.
That you go so well under the yoke?
Even better you go
than your fathers went.
Don’t brag so much,
they just skin you,
They rendered out your fathers’ bones
Perhaps you are proud
that your brotherhood
has defended the faith.
You cooked your dough-nuts
o’er the fires
of burning Turkish towns,
of Sinope and Trebizond.
True for you
And you ate them
And now they pain you,
And on your own fields
the wily German
plants potatoes.
You buy them from him,
eat them for the good of your health
and praise Cossackery.
But with whose blood
was the land sprinkled
that grew the potatoes?
Oh, that’s a trifle;
so long as it’s good for the garden.
Very proud you are
that we once destroyed Poland.
Very true indeed:
Poland fell,
but fell on top of us.
So your fathers shed their blood
for Moscow and for Warsaw,
And left to you, their sons
their fetters and their glory.
III.
To the very limit has our country come,
Her own children crucify her worse than the Poles.
How like beer they draw off her righteous blood.
They would, you see enlighten the maternal eyes with everlasting fires;
Lead on the poor blind cripple after the spirit of the age,
German fashion!
Fine, go ahead, show us the way!
Let the old mother learn how to look after such children
Show away!
For this instruction,
Don’t worry—
Good motherly reward will be.
The illusion fades from your greedy eyes
Glory shall you see, such glory as fits the sons of deceitful sires.
To study then, my brothers,
Think and read,
Learn from the foreigner
Despise not your own.
Who forgets his mother
Him God will punish.
Foreigners will despise him
Nor admit him to their homes;
His children shall as strangers be
Nor shall he find happiness on earth.
I weep when I remember
the deeds of our fathers,
deeds I can not forget.
Heavy on my heart they lie;
Half my life I’d give
could I forget them.
Such is our glory
the glory of Ukraine.
So read then
that ye may see
Not in dream
but in vision
All the wrongs that lie
beneath yon mighty tombs.
Ask then of the martyrs
by whom, when and for what
were they crucified.
Embrace then
brothers mine—
The least of your brethren.
That your mother may smile again,
Smile through her tears.
Give blessings to your children
with hard toiler’s hands;
With free lips kiss them
when they are washed and clad.
Forget the shameful past
And the true glory shall live again,
the glory of the Ukraine.
And clear light of day
not twilight gloom
Shall gently shine.
Love one another, my brothers,
I pray you—I plead.