France still remembers with shuddering rage the two irruptions of those terrible barbarians upon her soil. The fearful image of another Cossack invasion has been embodied by Beranger, the greatest poet of France, in his “Chant du Cosaque,” thus vigorously translated by “Father Prout:”—
Come, arouse thee up, my gallant horse, and bear thy rider on!
The comrade thou, and the friend I trow, of the dweller on the Don:
Pillage and death have spread their wings; ’tis the hour to hie thee forth,
And with thy hoofs an echo wake to the trumpets of the North.
Nor gems, nor gold do men behold upon thy saddle tree;
But earth affords the wealth of lords for thy master and for thee.
Then proudly neigh, my charger grey! Oh! thy chest is broad and ample.
And thy hoofs shall prance o’er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample.
Europe is weak, she hath grown old, her bulwarks are laid low;