When thus fresh meat they have obtain’d with glee,
The largest beasts the hunters bear to me,
From which we separate and cast aside
Whatever beast by frontal wound has died;
To those the preference we at once decree,
In whose left side 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.