After his return from the army, Shevchenko’s poetry took a more
austere note. A large part of his latest works were adaptations of
the Old Testament and the warnings of the Prophets were transfigured
into lessons for the Ukrainians and on the fate of Ukraine. They deal
with the same themes that he had treated earlier--the uselessness of
depending upon the Russian autocracy, the weaknesses of the people of
the day, especially the intellectuals, and the need for all the people
to apply the lessons of brotherhood to all their fellows. Shevchenko’s
contact with some of the Russian radicals may have influenced him to
some degree but these poems can be read as general denunciations of the
vices of men and countries. Never more than in the works of his last
period did Shevchenko become a stern, commanding teacher holding up to
all men everywhere the proper course of actions for human things to
pursue. Now more than ever he became a great ethical teacher not only
for his generation and people but for all the nations of the world.
+Hosea, Chapter XIV+
(_Imitation_)
Yes, you will perish, Ukraina,
And leave no trace upon the earth!
And yet you once were richly famous
For good and wealth!
O Ukraina,
My dear, my innocent poor land,
Why does the Lord send you this fate?
Why punish you?
’Tis for Bohdan,
And for the mad, insensate Peter,
And for the pagan lords around them,
He ruins you and drives you down,
Destroys you so.
And it is just!
He long with patience looked upon you
And watched your silence and neglect,
Your sinful womb that bore such monsters,
And spake in wrath: “I will destroy
Your beauty and your charm superb.
You will be broken. In their wrath
Your sons will slay you, when full grown,
And others, ill-conceived, shall die
Within your womb, and fade away
As unhatched chickens that are not.
With tears, the tears of a sad mother
I will fill full your towns and fields
That all the earth may see and know
That I am ruler--and see all.”
Arise, O mother, and return
Unto your spacious home and rest.
You have been burdened long enough
With sins your sons have wrought at times.
A sad and mournful mother, rest
And say to your unfaithful sons,
That they will perish in their sins,
That their dishonor and their treason,
Their crookedness are cut within
The souls of men by fire fierce
And by a bloody flaming sword,
Their destined punishment cries out
And their good tsar will never save them,
Their mild and drunken sovereign lord!
He will not give them food or drink
Or yet a horse to mount unsaddled
And gallop off. You cannot flee,
You cannot hide!
For everywhere
Avenging truth will seek you out.
Men will watch for you, catch you then,
And they will not waste time in trials.
In fetters they will firmly bind you
And take you home for men to see,
And on a cross without a hangman
Or yet a tsar they will spread you,
And nail you fast, tear you apart,
And, dogs, they will give your fresh blood
Unto the dogs to drink.
Add this
And say this word again to them.
Speak plainly, Say, “You have done this.
With foul and filthy hands you made
Your hope and then you say,
‘The tsar’s our God, the tsar’s our hope
And he will feed and will protect
The widow and the orphans.’” ... No!
Say this to them: “The gods are mad,
The idols in the palace rich.”
Tell them that truth will rise again,
Not the departed, ancient word
That now is rotten; a new word
Will come with might unto the people
And save the plundered and the lost
From the false favor of the tsar.
+I do not murmur at the Lord+
I do not murmur at the Lord,
I do not murmur at a soul,
I fool myself in my despair
And sing as well.
For I will plough
My meadow, my poor, humble field,
This word of mine; a harvest rich
Will come some day from it.
I fool
Myself, my own poor, humble person
And no one else, as I can see.
Be thou ploughed, my humble meadow,
From the top to bottom.
Be thou planted, this black meadow
With the shining freedom.
Be thou ploughed, and well turned over,
Let the soil be levelled.
Be thou sown with seed most fertile,
Watered by good fortune.
Be thou turned in all directions,
Ever fertile meadow.
Be not sown with words unmeaning
But with reason, meadow.
Men will come to reap the harvest
In a happy moment--
Be well worked and be well levelled,
Poor and barren meadow.
Do I not fool myself again
With this fantastic word of hope?
I do! But it is better far
To fool myself, my very self,
Than live at peace with my cruel foe
And vainly murmur at the Lord.