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.