Last Songs 1876-1879
A Poem by Alexei Apukhtin1
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Hail, O offspring of the new age,
Bards of your native land,
For wisely making minuets
A means of propaganda!
Whom do I see? Is that really
The great Stasov who has
Fully grasped the style Byzantine,
Expert on iconstasis?
You--a general of music,
Man of words and councils,
You don't plan to compose yourself . . . ?
O, hail to thee for that!
And Korsakov, so says the press,
You're a famous maestro,
You're a real Sadko: in each bowl
Leading marine orchestras!
You, Musorgsky, by means of notes
Can show us anything:
To sew a seam and grow mushrooms,
How children laugh and cry.
You've killed off Boris Godunov--
Serves him right, the villain!
Did he have to murder the child!
I can't really blame you.