f old times, of the days of their pride,
And the fights where together they struck side by side.

"But where," quoth Oleg, "is my good battle-horse?
My mettlesome charger--how fares he?
Is he playful as ever, as fleet in the course;
His age and his freedom how bears he?"
They answer and say: on the hill by the stream
He has long slept the slumber that knows not a dream.

Oleg then grew thoughtful, and bent down his brow:
"O man, what can magic avail thee!
A false lying dotard, Enchanter, art thou:
Our rage and contempt should assail thee.
My horse might have borne me till now, but for thee
Then the bones of his charger Oleg went to see.

Oleg he rode forth with his spearmen beside;
At his bridle Prince Igor he hurried:
And they see on a hillock by Dniepr's swift tide
Where the steed's noble bones lie unburied:
They are wash'd by the rain, the dust o'er them is cast,
And above them the feather-grass waves in the blast.

Then the Prince set his foot on the courser's white skull;
Saying: "Sleep, my old friend, in thy glory!
Thy lord hath outlived thee, his days are nigh full:
At his funeral feast, red and gory,
'Tis not thou 'neath the axe that shall redden the sod,
That my dust may be pleasured to quaff thy brave blood.

"And am I to find my destruction in _this_?
My death in a skeleton seeking?"
From the skull of the courser a snake, with a hiss,
Crept forth, as the hero was speaking:
Round his legs, like a ribbon, it twined its black ring;
And the Prince shriek'd aloud as he felt the keen sting.

The mead-cups are foaming, they circle around;
At Oleg's mighty Death-Feast they're ringing;
Prince Igor and Olga they sit on the mound;
The war-men the death-song are singing:
And they talk of old times, of the days of their pride,
And the fights where together they struck side by side.

* * * * *

We know not whether our readers will be attracted or repelled by the
somewhat exaggerated tone of thought, and the strangeness and novelty of
the metre, in the following little piece. The gloom of the despondency
expressed in the lines is certainly Byronian--and haply "something
more." It is to be hoped, however, that they may find favour in the eyes
of the English reader--always so "novitatis avidus,"--if only on the
score of the singularity