him;
And aye she weeps, as flows a river’s water;
His sister weeps as flows a streamlet’s water;
His youthful wife, as falls the dew from heaven—
The Sun, arising, dries the dew of heaven.

ANCIENT BALLAD

From the Malo Russian.

From the wood a sound is gliding,
Vapours dense the plain are hiding,
How yon Dame her son is chiding.
“Son, away! nor longer tarry!
Would the Turks thee off would carry!”
“Ha; the Turkmen know and heed me;
Coursers good the Turkmen breed me.”

From the wood a sound is gliding,
Vapours dense the plain are hiding,
Still that Dame her son is chiding:
“Hence, begone! nor longer tarry!
Would the Horde {11} thee off would carry!”
“Ha! the Horde has learnt to prize me;
“’Tis the Horde with gold supplies me.”

Brings his horse his eldest sister,
And the next his arms, which glister,
Whilst the third, with childish prattle,
Cries, “when wilt return from battle?”

“Fill thy hand with sands, ray blossom!
Sow them on the rock’s rude bosom,
Night and morning stroll to view them,
With thy briny tears bedew them,
And when they shall sprout in glory
I’ll return me from the foray.”

From the wood a sound is gliding,
Vapours dense the plain are hiding,
Cries the Dame in anxious measure:
“Stay, I’ll wash thy head, my treasure!”
“Me shall wash the rains which splash me,
Me shall comb the thorns which gash me,
Me shall dry the winds which lash me.”

THE RENEGADE

From the Polish of Mickiewicz.

Now pay ye the heed that is fitting,
Whilst I sing ye the Iran adventure;
The Pasha on sofa was sitting
In his harem’s glorious centre.

Greek sang and Tcherkass for his pleasure,
And Kergeesian captive is dancing;
In the eyes of the first heaven’s azure,
And in those black of Eblis is glancing.

But the Pasha’s attention is failing,
O’er his visage his fair turban stealeth;
From tchebouk {13a} he sleep is inhaling
Whilst round him sweet vapours he dealeth.

What rumour without is there breeding?
Ye fair ranks asunder why wend ye?
Kyslar Aga {13b}, a strange captive leading,
Cometh forward and crieth.  “Efendy!

Whose face has the power when present
Midst the stars in divan which do muster,
Which amidst the gems of night’s crescent
Has the blaze of Aldeboran’s lustre.

Glance nearer, bright star!  I have tiding,
Glad tiding, behold how in duty
From far Lehistan the wind, gliding.
Has brought this fresh tribute of beauty.

In the Padishaw’s garden there bloometh,
In proud Istambul, no such blossom;
From the wintry regions she cometh
Whose memory so lives in thy bosom.”

Then the gauzes removes he which shade her,
At her beauty all wonder intensely;
One moment the Pasha survey’d her,
And, dropping his tchebouk, without sense lay.

His turban has fallen from his forehead,
To assist him the bystanders started—
His mouth foams, his face blackens horrid—
See the Renegade’s soul has departed.

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