zure Don!
Praise to their
Deeds so fair;
Fain our bright
Czar requite
Would each one,
Knew it might
Scarce be done--
Gave his son.

Silent Don!
Azure Don!
Sport and play,
Shine forth gay;
Gift most rare--
Alexander,
Russia's heir,
To thy clan
Given is for
Attaman.

Joys now every Cossack man,
Joys the Black sea's every stan {26}
And Ural
Flings its spray,
Roars withal
Night and day--
Joy to Cossacks--joy and glee
To each hero-regiment be:
Given is an
Attaman.

THE BLACK SHAWL.

From the Russian of Pushkin.

On the shawl, the black shawl with distraction I gaze,
And on my poor spirit keen agony preys.

When easy of faith, young and ardent was I,
I lov'd a fair Grecian with love the most high.

The damsel deceitful she flatter'd my flame,
But soon a dark cloud o'er my sunshine there came.

One day I'd invited of guests a gay crew,
Then to me there came creeping an infamous Jew.

"With thy friends thou art feasting" he croaked in my ear--
"Whilst to thee proves unfaithful Greshenka thy dear."

I gave to him gold and a curse, for his meed,
And I summon'd a thrall, ever faithful in need.

Forth rushing, I leap'd my tall courser upon,
And soft pity I bade from my bosom begone.

But scarcely the door of Greshenka I view'd
When my eyes became dark, and a swoon near ensu'd.

Alone to a far remote chamber I pac'd,
And there an Armenian my damsel embrac'd.

My sight it forsook me--forth flash'd my sword straight,
But I to prevent the knave's kiss was too late.

The vile, headless trunk I spurn'd fierce with my foot,
And I gaz'd on the pallid maid darkly and mute.

I remember her praying--her blood streaming wide--
There perish'd Greshenka, my sweet love there died.

The shawl, the black shawl from her shoulders I tore,
And in silence I wip'd from my sabre the gore.

My thrall, when the evening mists fell with their dew,
In the waves of the Dunau her fair body threw.

From that hour I have seen not her eyes' beamy lights,
From that hour I have known no delectable nights.

On the shawl, the black shawl with distraction I gaze,
And on my poor spirit keen agony preys.

SONG.

From the Russian of Pushkin.

Hoary man, hateful man!
Gash my frame, burn my frame;
Bold I am, scoff I can
At the sword, at the flame.

Thee as hell I abhor,
And despise heartily;
I another do adore,
And for love of him die.

Gash my frame, burn my frame!--
Nothing I w