After his return from imprisonment, Shevchenko planned to write a poem
on the Blessed Virgin and equate her lot with the fate of Ukraine
and the average Ukrainian peasant woman. To do this, he made certain
studies in the apocryphal legends and read some of the more liberal
books of the day.
As a result he produced this poem on unorthodox lines. He was bitterly
attacked for it but his dominant mood is throughout reverence for his
subject, and the preface is thoroughly in line with the traditional
faith.
+Mary+
“_Rejoice, for thou hast renewed all creatures._”
(_Akafist of the Blessed Virgin, l. 10_)
I place my hope and consolation
On Thee, my Heaven fair and bright,
Upon Thy mercy without limit,--
I place my hope and consolation
On Thee, O Mother ever holy,
The holy Power of all saints,
All-sinless and forever blest!
I pray to Thee, I weep and sob;
Look, holy Mother, down on them,
Those prisoners who have been seized
And who are blind; give them the strength
Of Thine own martyred Son, that they
May bear their cross and heavy fetters
Unto the end, the bitter end.
O worthy of all praise!
I bless Thee,
The holy Queen of earth and heaven;
Hark to their groans, and send to them
A worthy end, O ever worshipped;
Without ill feeling, I will sing,
When the poor villages are happy,
Thy sacred fortune everywhere
With quiet and with cheerful psalms.
But now there’s tears and woe and weeping
For each poor soul and, poor myself,
I add to them the final mite.
I
Once Mary dwelt, a hired servant,
With Joseph, the old carpenter,
Perhaps he was a pious cooper.
She grew and turned to maidenhood
And blossomed as a lovely flower
Within a stranger’s poor abode,
A quiet, holy paradise.
The carpenter looked on his servant
As on his own beloved child.
He used to leave his plane and saw
To look at her.
The years passed by
But he did not once even notice
And think: “She has no living kin,
No cabin of her very own--
She’s all alone. And yet perchance
Death stands not far behind my back.”
She stays there underneath the hedge
And spins white wool which she will fashion
Into a festal suit for him,
Or to the shore she’s wont to drive
The goat with its warm-hearted kid
To feed them and to give them drink;
Although ’twas far, she loved to look
At that serene and holy lake,
By name Tiberias. And then
She was so radiant with joy
That Joseph sitting there was still
And did not bar in any way
Her trips to the dear lake.
She went
All smiling and he sat as ever
And did not reach for plane or saw.
The goat would drink and eat its fill.
The maiden stood there by herself,
As if entranced, amid the woods
And looked with sad and troubled gaze
Upon that broad and holy lake
And prayed, “O beautiful, broad sea,
Wide tsar of all the lakes that be,
Tell me, O my wise counselor,
What fate will open unto me
With aged Joseph? O, my lot!”
Then she bent over as a poplar
Bends in the wind towards the ravine.
“He looks upon me as his child.
With my young shoulder I’ll support
His weakened and infirm old age.”
She cast her eyes around the scene,
Until the sparks shown in her eyes,
And from her good and youthful shoulders
The ragged tunic softly slipped
Away; such holy charm divine
No eye had ever dared to see
Or to imagine. Evil fate
Brought to her such a crown of thorns
And mocked about her beauty fair.
O such a fate!
Above the water
She walked with the same quiet step.
She found some flowers on the bank,
She broke them off and made them then
A flower cover for her head,
Upon her holy, troubled brow,
And entered in the forest dark.
O our unsetting Sun of light,
Most holy of all women ever!
The fragrant gem of all the herbs!
Within what woods and what ravines,
And what unknown and secret caves
Thou hidest now from that fierce heat
Of those consuming rays of passion
That burn the heart without a fire
And drown it without water, drown
The holy thoughts Thou always hast?
Where art Thou hiding?
No, nowhere,
The fire blazed, as well it might.
It burst to flame and then alas,
For nothing is its power lost.
It goes into the blood, the bone,
That cursed fire naught can quench.
And still unbroken, Thou must pass
Through all the hottest flames of hell
For Thy dear Son.
Thy future fate
Like prophecy appears to Thee
Before Thine eyes. Do not look at it.
Wipe off the tears that herald this,
Adorn Thy head, a maiden’s head,
With lilies and the wildly spread
Red poppies too and fall asleep
Beneath the vines where it is cool
And see what comes!