Page:Songs of Russia.djvu/45

 Now every man is calling on his God
 * To save the people from a certain death.

The children weep, the women wail in fear,
 * The folk confess their sins, with desperate mind;

And souls are fluttering, bodies quivering,
 * In terror of the mad, destructive wind.

But in the steerage down below, two men
 * Sit quietly; no pangs their heart-strings thrill.

They seek no rescue and they make no plans,
 * As if all things around were safe and still.

The water roars, the billows foam, the winds
 * Howl with prodigious tumult as they blow;

The boiler gasps, the smokestack buzzes loud,
 * But calm and silent are the men below.

Coolly they gaze into the eyes of Death;
 * They care not for the tempest’s dangerous might.

It seems as if the spectre Death himself
 * Had reared the two, in terror and dark night.

“Who are you, tell me, miserable men,
 * That you can hide all signs of pain and dread—

That even at the awful gates of death
 * You have no sighs to breathe, no tears to shed?