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«ЖІНОЧИЙ СВІТ» | By Dr. John Yatchew | ORIGINALS AND POETRY TRANSLATIONS Ivan Franko. MUSE MINE Muse mine, thou wounded little dove, To croon еу'п thou must cease ; Tis futile plaintively to weep, Let us depart in peace. Thy poisoned wound enough endured, Nor love can now be sought; For, every moment and note bring forth Heart bleeding grief hath wrought. With every pause, and every note More faint thine echo grows; Muse, with poison and woe o’erflowing, “Tis time for thy repose. -0- Taras Shexchenko MY LAST WILL When I die, then bury Me upon a mound, Mid spacious Steppes, in Ukraina, Beloved soil around, That yonder fields, widely stretching, I may be adoring; Mighty Dnieper with his windings І may hear him roaring! When he bears from Ukraina Into the blue sea Blood of foeman, then the meadows And hills dear to me — Will I leave all, hasten soaring, Вчи to God ГІЇ go, There to pray, but until then God I do not know. Bury me, and then arise, Your fetters tear asunde Sprinkling with foeman’s vicious blood Your freedom safe thus render. And in the coming kinship great, Kinship new and free, Forget not to gently, kindly, Sometimes speak of me. Dr. John Yatchew ON MY BIRTHDAY On this my birthday I feel like A greyhound in his lengthy chase, Stopping a moment to reflect Upon this lifelong lasting race. Where am I bound, what have I done For self, for others all past years? I meditate awhile, and feel That I deserve no praise or cheers. Days pass and I plod ever on, My great ambitions to fulfill, — I win, 1 lose, in either ease My judgment urges, “climb that hill”: Perhaps as yonder beaming light, My life’s goal same day I come near, I shall forget, when I’ve arrived Where destined, what time, and year. I shall be glad my thorny path, Causing me ever frequent pain, Had roses strewn, some here, some there, Made life worth while, and not in vain.
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