From the wood a sound is gliding,
Vapours dense the plain are hiding,
Still that Dame her son is chiding:
“Hence, begone! nor longer tarry!
Would the Horde [{11}] thee off would carry!”
“Ha! the Horde has learnt to prize me;
“’Tis the Horde with gold supplies me.”
Brings his horse his eldest sister,
And the next his arms, which glister,
Whilst the third, with childish prattle,
Cries, “when wilt return from battle?”
“Fill thy hand with sands, ray blossom!
Sow them on the rock’s rude bosom,
Night and morning stroll to view them,
With thy briny tears bedew them,
And when they shall sprout in glory
I’ll return me from the foray.”
From the wood a sound is gliding,
Vapours dense the plain are hiding,
Cries the Dame in anxious measure:
“Stay, I’ll wash thy head, my treasure!”
“Me shall wash the rains which splash me,
Me shall comb the thorns which gash me,
Me shall dry the winds which lash me.”
THE RENEGADE
From the Polish of Mickiewicz.
Now pay ye the heed that is fitting,
Whilst I sing ye the Iran adventure;
The Pasha on sofa was sitting
In his harem’s glorious centre.
Greek sang and Tcherkass for his pleasure,
And Kergeesian captive is dancing;
In the eyes of the first heaven’s azure,
And in those black of Eblis is glancing.
But the Pasha’s attention is failing,
O’er his visage his fair turban stealeth;
From tchebouk [{13a}] he sleep is inhaling
Whilst round him sweet vapours he dealeth.
What rumour without is there breeding?
Ye fair ranks asunder why wend ye?
Kyslar Aga [{13b}], a strange captive leading,
Cometh forward and crieth. “Efendy!