Classic Poem

Nagoy. O Tsar! one drop of wine thou 'lt drink,
One drop refuse not. Thou these many days
Dost wear thyself out. All this time thy lips
Have nothing touched.
Ivan. The body needs no food
When the soul is fed on anguish. Henceforth
Remorse shall be my food.
Nagoy. O mighty Tsar!
Is 't true thou wouldst forsake us? How will it
With the Tsaritsa be? with the Tsarevich
Thy Dimitri?
Ivan. God will not forsake them.
Nagoy. But who can hold the reins of government
Except thyself?
Ivan. My mind's edge is blunted;
My heart is faint; my hands are powerless
To hold the reins; already for my sins,
To th' pagan God hath given victory,
Commanded me my throne that I give up
Unto another; my iniquities
Are more than sands o' th' sea: a cannibal —
Tormentor — lecher — church-profaner I:
The boundlessness of God's long-suffering
Have I exhausted by the last misdeed.
Nagoy. O Tsar! Thou dost exaggerate thy sin;
Thy mind went not with it. Thou meantest not
To slay the Tsarevich: thy staff by accident
Did give the blow.
Ivan. 'T is false! I knowingly,
On purpose, of free will did slay him. Or
Was I then mad, knew not where fell my blow?
No — I slew him purposely! On his back
He fell, bathed in his blood, aye, kissing
These my hands; and dying he forgave me
My monstrous sin, but I forgive myself
Such crimes dare not.
This very night to me
Appeared he, beckoned with bloody hand,
And, pointing to a cowl, he waved me on
With him along, unto the holy dwelling
By the White Lake, ev'n there where lie the relics
Of Cyril the Wonder-worker.
There loved I formerly alone to be
At times from out the tempests of the world;
There loved I, far from every care, to think
Of future rest, and the unthankfulness
Of man, and the malicious wiles of foes forget;
Mournfully sweet it was to me within
Some cell to rest me from the day's exertions,
In evening hour to watch the clouds float by,
Hear but the winds sough, and the cries of gulls,
And of the lake the plash monotonous,
All silent there. There passion 's all forgotten.
There will I take the cowl, and it may be
By prayer, by life-long fasting and contrition,
That I shall merit pardon of my curse.
Go thou, and learn the reason that so long
Their conference lasts. Soon shall I know their sentence.
When come they with their Tsar? I 'll lay on him
At once the regal mantle and the crown!
The end of all! And hither am I brought
Along the lengthened path of majesty.
What have I met with on 't? Sufferings alone.
E'en from my youth but knowing of unrest,
Now on the steed, amid the whistling shot,
The heathen subjecting, now in the Council
Struggling against the boyars in revolt,
I see behind me but a long-drawn line
Of sleepless nights and troubled days.
I have not gracious to my people been —
No! I had never mastery o'er myself.
Father Sylvester, my good old tutor,
Would say to me, " Ivan, take care! In thee
Satan would seat him. Open not thy soul
To him, Ivan. " But I was deaf unto
The holy, aged man, and oped my soul
Unto the devil. No, no Tsar am I.
A wolf! a stinking cur! a tyrant!
My son I 've slain! Cain's crime I have outpast!
A leper in soul and mind! The sores
That eat away my heart are countless!
O thou, God Christ, heal me, and forgive me
From my unheard-of foulness, and among
The choir of the blessed count my soul.