Part 25 (1/2)

One he seized and tore, Tore the little dove, With his feather'd feet, Soft blue little dove; And he poured his blood Streaming down the tree.

Feathers too were strew'd Widely o'er the field; High away the down Floated in the air.

Ah! how wept and wept; Ah! how sobb'd and sobb'd The poor doveling then For her little dove.

”Weep not, weep not so, Tender little bird!”

Spake the light young hawk To the little dove.

”O'er the sea away.

O'er the far blue sea, I will drive to thee Flocks of other doves.

From them choose thee then.

Choose a soft and blue, With his feathered feet, Better little dove.”

”Fly, thou villain, not, O'er the far blue sea Drive not here to me Flocks of other doves.

Ah! of all thy doves None can comfort me; Only he, the father Of my little ones.”

P.

The following little elegy we translate from a Russian Annual; the editor of which, Baron Delvig, took it down from the lips of a peasant girl.

THE FAITHLESS LOVER.

Nightingale, O nightingale, Nightingale so full of song, Tell me, tell me, where thou fliest, Where to sing now in the night?

Will another maiden hear thee Like to me, poor me, all night Sleepless, restless, comfortless, Ever full of tears her eyes?

Fly, O fly, dear nightingale, Over hundred countries fly, Over the blue sea so far; Spy the distant countries through, Town and village, hill and dell, Whether thou find'st any one, Who so sad is, as I am?

O, I bore a necklace once, All of pearls like morning dew; And I bore a finger-ring, With a precious stone thereon;

And I bore deep in my heart Love, a love so warm and true.

When the sad, sad autumn came, Were the pearls no longer clear; And in winter burst my ring, On my finger, of itself![25]

Ah! and when the spring came on, Had forgotten me my love.

There is one trait in the Russian character, which we recognize distinctly in their poetry, namely, their peculiar and almost Oriental veneration for their sovereign, and a blind submission to his will.

There is indeed somewhat of a religious mixture in this feeling; for the Tzar is not only the sovereign lord of the country and master of their lives, but he is also the head of the orthodox church. The _orthodox_ Tzar is one of his standing epithets. The following ballad, which we consider as one of the most perfect among Russian popular narrative ballads, exhibits very affectingly the complete resignation with which the Russian meets death, when decreed by his Tzar. In its other features, also, it is throughout natural. Its historical foundation is unknown. There are several versions of it extant, slightly differing from each other; which seems to prove that it has been for a long time handled by the people.

THE BOYAR'S EXECUTION.

”Thou, my head, alas! my head, Long hast served me, and well, my head; Full three-and-thirty summers long; Ever astride of my gallant steed, Never my foot from its stirrup drawn.

But alas! thou hast gained, my head, Nothing of joy or other good; Nothing of honours or even thanks.”

Yonder along the Butcher's street, Out to the fields through the Butcher's gate,[26]

They are leading a prince and peer.

Priests and deacons are walking before, In their hands a great book open; Then there follows a soldier troop, With their drawn sabres flas.h.i.+ng bright.

At his right, the headsman goes, Holds in his hand the keen-edged sword; At his left goes his sister dear, And she weeps as the torrent pours, And she sobs as the fountains gush.

Comforting speaks her brother to her: ”Weep not, weep not, my sister dear!

Weep not away thy eyes so clear, Dim not, O dim not thy face so fair, Make not heavy thy joyous heart!

Say, for what is it thou weepest so?

Is 't for my goods, my inheritance?