ill tell thee;
Man of age, man of rage,
Him thou'lt ne'er know from me.

Fresh as May and as gay,
Warm as Summer days he;
O how sweet, young and neat,
O how well he loves me.

O how him I carest
In the night still and fine;
O how then we did jest
At that grey head of thine.

THE COSSACK.

An ancient Ballad.
From the Malo-Russian.

O'er the field the snow is flying,
There a wounded Cossack's lying;
On a bush his head he's leaning,
And his eyes with grass is screening,
Meadow-grass so greenly shiny,
And with cloth the make of China;
Croaks the raven hoarsely o'er him,
Neighs his courser sad before him:
"Either, master, give me pay,
Or dismiss me on my way."
"Break thy bridle, O my courser,
Down the path amain be speeding,
Through the verdant forest leading;
Drink of two lakes on thy way,
Eat of mowings two the hay;
Rush the castle-portal under,
With thy hoof against it thunder,
Out shall come a Dame that moaneth,
Whom thy lord for mother owneth;
I will tell thee, my brave prancer,
When she speaks thee what to answer.

"O thou steed, than lightning faster,
Tell me where's thy youthful master!
Him in fight thou hast forsaken,
Or has cast him down, I reckon."

"Nor in fight I've him forsaken,
Nor have cast him down, I reckon,
The lone field with blood bedewing,
There the damsel Death he's wooing."

THE THREE SONS OF BUDRYS.

A Lithuanian Ballad.
From the Polish of Mickiewicz.

With his three mighty sons, tall as Ledwin's were once,
To the court-yard old Budrys advances;
"Your best steeds forth lead ye, to saddle them speed ye,
And sharpen your swords and your lances.

For in Wilna I've vow'd, that three trumpeters loud
I'd despatch unto lands of like number,
To make Russ Olgierd vapour, and Pole Skirgiel caper,
And to rouse German Kiestut from slumber.

Hie away safe and sound, serve your dear native ground;
May the High Gods Litewskian defend ye!
Though at home I must tarry, my counsel forth carry:
Ye are three, and three ways ye must wend ye.

Unto Olgierd's Russ plain one of ye must amain,
To where Ilmen and Novogrod tower;
There are sables for plunder, veils work'd to a wonder,
And of coin have the merchants a power.

Let another essay to prince Kiestut his way,
To whose crosletted doys {32} bitter gruel!
There is amber like gravel, cloth worthy to travel,
And priests deck'd in diamond and jewel.

Unto Pole Skirgiel's part let the third hero start,
There the dw