Rhymes from the Russian

by Unknown

The babbling brooks and birds in chorus blend;

And pinewoods dark, shimmering in every spray,

To thee, as to a friend, their arms extend.

I’m but a Stranger-Guest, sent from on high

To weary souls a draught of peace to bring,

To soften wrath, to soothe fierce enmity;

I’m but a Stranger-Guest—they call me “Spring.”

PASSION.

Ah! could I but utter in song

All the anguish which robs me of peace,