KÍEFF.

O Kiéff! where religion ever seemeth

To light existence in our native land;

Where o'er Petchérskoi's dome the bright cross gleameth,

Like some fair star, that still in heaven doth stand;

Where, like a golden sheet, around thee streameth

Thy plain, and meads that far away expand;

And by thy hoary wall, with ceaseless motion,

Old Dniéper's foaming swell sweeps on to ocean.

How oft to thee in spirit have I panted,

O holy city, country of my heart!

How oft, in vision, have I gazed enchanted

On thy fair towers—a sainted thing thou art!—

By Lávra's walls or Dniéper's wave, nor wanted

A spell to draw me from this life apart;

In thee my country I behold, victorious,

Holy and beautiful, and great and glorious.

The moon her soft ray on Petchérskoi poureth,

Its domes are shining in the river's wave;

The soul the spirit of the past adoreth,

Where sleeps beneath thee many a holy grave:

Vladímir's shade above thee calmly soareth,

Thy towers speak of the sainted and the brave;

Afar I gaze, and all in dreamy splendour

Breathes of the past—a spell sublime and tender.

There fought the warriors in the field of glory,

Strong in the faith, against their country's foe;

And many a royal flower yon palace hoary,

In virgin loveliness, hath seen to blow.

And Báyan sang to them the noble story,

And secret rapture in their breast did glow;

Hark! midnight sounds—that brazen voice is dying—

A day to meet the vanish'd days is flying.

Where are the valiant?—the resistless lances—

The brands that were as lightning when they waved?

Where are the beautiful—whose sunny glances

Our fathers, with such potency, enslaved?

Where is the bard, whose song no more entrances?

Ah! that deep bell hath answer'd what I craved:

And thou alone, by these grey walls, O river!

Murmurest, Dniéper, still, and flow'st for ever.