Shevchenko arrived in St. Petersburg under arrest on April 17, 1847
and was sentenced on May 30. During this period of his confinement
and trial, the poet composed some of his most exquisite lyrics. They
are short and concise but there is a personal touch about them that
was often lacking in his longer works. Thrown back on himself, unable
to associate with his friends, and in danger of death, he achieved
a concentrated form of verse that has put these poems in a class by
themselves.
+In the Fortress+
1
I’m alone, all alone,
As a leaf in the meadow,
For the Lord gave me not
Either joy or good fortune.
God gave to me naught
But black eyes and my beauty
And I wept them away
As a lonesome young maiden.
Not a brother I knew
Nor yet ever a sister,
Amid strangers I grew
And I grew--without loving.
Where’s the husband I sought?
Where are all you good people?
There are none. I’m alone.
And no husband will cheer me.
2
There is grove after grove,
There’s the steppe and the tomb--
From the tomb a Kozak
Rises gray and bent double,
Rises there in the night,
And he turns to the steppe,
And he sings, sadly singing,
“They have piled up the earth,
And gone back to their homes,
But no one remembers!
For three hundred of us
Have been shattered as glass,
But the earth will not take us.
Since the hetman has sold
Into serfdom the Christians
And has ordered to drive us
Upon our own lands,
We have poured out our blood
And have murdered our brothers.
Their blood we have drunken
And we henceforth are lying
In the curse of the tomb.”
So he spoke in his sorrow
And he leaned on his spear
At the edge of the tomb
And he looked at Dnipro
And he sobbed and he wept.
The blue waves have made answer
From across the Dnipro,
From the village it echoes.
Then the third cockcrow sounded.
The Kozak quickly vanished,
Then the grove waved in terror
And the tomb groaned aloud.
3
It makes no difference to me,
If I shall live or not in Ukraine
Or whether any one shall think
Of me ’mid foreign snow and rain.
It makes no difference to me,
In slavery I grew ’mid strangers,
Unwept by any kin of mine;
In slavery I now will die
And vanish without any sign.
I shall not leave the slightest trace
Upon our glorious Ukraine,
Our land, but not as ours known.
No father will remind his son
Or say to him, “Repeat one prayer,
One prayer for him; for our Ukraine
They tortured him in their foul lair.”
It makes no difference to me,
If that son says a prayer or not.
It makes great difference to me
That evil folk lull now to sleep
Our mother Ukraine, and will rouse
Her, when she’s plundered, in the flames.
That makes great difference to me.
4
“Leave not your dear mother,” they told you,
But you paid no heed and went off.
She sought for you but could not find you,
At last she abandoned her effort.
She died ’mid her tears. Long ago
No playmate was left of your comrades.
Your dog has strayed off and is vanished.
A window is broke in your house.
In the garden the lambs go to pasture
By day, and when darkness is come,
The owls wake the night with their cries
And give to the neighbors no quiet.
Your bridal wreath grew and it flourished
But now it is faded to dust,
For you did not pick it. Your pond
Dried up in the neighboring forest
Where you once delighted to bathe.
That forest is sad and lies low.
No bird is still singing within it,
You carried them off when you went.
In the meadow the spring is not flowing,
The willow is leafless and fallen.
The path where you formerly wandered
Is covered with many a thorn.
Where did you direct your sad footsteps?
To whom have you flitted away?
In an alien land, amid strangers
Whom do you rejoice? Unto whom,
To whom have your arms been outstretched?
My heart whispers that you are happy
In palaces, where you ne’er think
Of the home that you once have abandoned.
God grant that no drop of remorse
May ever disturb your sweet slumber,
That it may not enter your palace,
That you never turn on your God
And never your own mother curse.
10
’Tis hard to bear the yoke--though freedom,
To tell the truth, was never there.
But yet somehow I could live on,
Though in another’s home and field.
But now I have been brought to wait
An evil fate as I do God.
I wait for it, and as I look,
I curse my poor and untrained mind
That I allowed poor fools to fool me,
To drown pure freedom in the mud.
My heart grows cold, when I remember
That in Ukraine I shall not die,
That in Ukraine I shall ne’er live,
To love both people and the Lord.
12
Shall we again e’er meet together
Or are we parted once for all?
The word of truth and of pure love
Has been cast out to steppe and jungle.
Let it be so! ’Tis not our mother!
To her we still must pay respect;
It is God’s will! Respect it fully!
Be humble now and pray to God
And think yourselves of one another,
And love our dear Ukraina.
So love it ... in this time of woe,
And in that last and awful minute.
Let each pray to the Lord for her!