LITMIR.BIZ

         TSAR. (Enters.) I have attained the highest power. Six years

         Already have I reigned in peace; but joy

         Dwells not within my soul. Even so in youth

         We greedily desire the joys of love,

         But only quell the hunger of the heart

         With momentary possession. We grow cold,

         Grow weary and oppressed! In vain the wizards

         Promise me length of days, days of dominion

         Immune from treachery—not power, not life

         Gladden me; I forebode the wrath of Heaven

         And woe. For me no happiness. I thought

         To satisfy my people in contentment,

         In glory, gain their love by generous gifts,

         But I have put away that empty hope;

         The power that lives is hateful to the mob,—

         Only the dead they love. We are but fools

         When our heart vibrates to the people's groans

         And passionate wailing. Lately on our land

         God sent a famine; perishing in torments

         The people uttered moan. The granaries

         I made them free of, scattered gold among them,

         Found labour for them; furious for my pains

         They cursed me! Next, a fire consumed their homes;

         I built for them new dwellings; then forsooth

         They blamed me for the fire! Such is the mob,

         Such is its judgment! Seek its love, indeed!

         I thought within my family to find

         Solace; I thought to make my daughter happy

         By wedlock. Like a tempest Death took off

         Her bridegroom—and at once a stealthy rumour

         Pronounced me guilty of my daughter's grief—

         Me, me, the hapless father! Whoso dies,

         I am the secret murderer of all;

         I hastened Feodor's end, 'twas I that poisoned

         My sister-queen, the lowly nun—all I!

         Ah! Now I feel it; naught can give us peace

         Mid worldly cares, nothing save only conscience!

         Healthy she triumphs over wickedness,

         Over dark slander; but if in her be found

         A single casual stain, then misery.

         With what a deadly sore my soul doth smart;