Targum | Page 5

the fatal mark we see,?Those to be offer'd to our fathers' manes,?Within their high and consecrated fanes,?To dry and cure in wooden trays are laid,?Till bak'd or roast the offering is made.?Our guests they dine on the rejected prey,?And what they leave is safely stor'd away;?The gross amount of what is slain and shot?Falls to the carmen and the rabble's lot.
THE GLORY OF THE COSSACKS.
An Ode.?From the Russian of Boris Fedorow.
Quiet Don!?Azure Don!?Who dost glide?Deep and wide,?To the proud?Cossack crowd?Drink which cheers,?Path which bears.
Quiet Don!?Azure Don!?Glory be?To thy sons,?Cossacks free?Warrior ones;?The world mute?Of their deeds?Hears the bruit--?Wide it speeds.
Light, I wot,?Hands they've not;?Down they fly?Thundringly,?Foes to crush,?E'en as rush?Down midst rocks?Eagle flocks.
Silent Don!?Azure 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 will 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