TOLSTOY.

IN HOURS OF EBBING TIDE

In hours of ebbing tide, oh trust not to the Sea! 
  It will come back to shore with redness of the morrow;
  O don’t believe in me when in the trance of sorrow
I swear I am no longer true to thee!

The waves will roll again in dazzling ecstasy,
  From far away, with joy, to the beloved shore;
  And I with breast aflame, beneath thy charm once more,
Shall haste to bring my liberty to thee!

TOLSTOY.

SWANS

White Swans, ye harbingers of Spring, a greeting fond from me! 
Rejoicing thrills within the breast of Mother Earth anew—­
From her once more the flowers push forth ’mid gleaming drops of dew,
And like the Swans, across my soul my dreams will lightly sweep,
And my heart blissful throbbing, ghostly tears of rapture weep. 
O Spring I feel thy coming!  And behold Thee, Poesy!

MAIKOW.

TO SLEEP

When shadows pale are sinking in hues the twilight weaves,
Upon the golden grain fields of gleaming wheaten sheaves—­
Upon the emerald pastures and blue of forests deep,
When the soft mists of silver o’er the sea doth creep;
When ’mid the reeds, the swan’s head is pillowed ’neath her wings,
The stream to sleep is rocking, light flowing as she sings,—­
Then to my hut o’er thatched with golden straw,—­o’er grown
By frail acacia green and leafy oaks, I turn. 
And there with greeting holy, in radiant starry crown—­
Her scented locks with deepest of purple poppies bound,
And with one dusky gauze enveiled her snowy breast—­
The Goddess comes to me with sweet desire of rest. 
A faint and roseate fire about my brow she sheds,
Soft mystery of azure above my eyelids spreads,
Bends low upon my breast her regal star-crowned tresses
And on my mouth and eyes, the kiss of slumber presses!

MAIKOW.

IN MEMORY OF MY DAUGHTER

Clear on the night of my spirit,
To me shines the glance of a star,
It is she!  My heart’s little maiden! 
From her glance gleams something afar,
Of victory, deathless, eternal—­
Something that musing, misgiving,
Pierces the essence of being!

It cannot be!  It cannot be! 
She lives—­soon she will waken; straightway
Will ope her pretty eyes,—­glad she
Will prattle merry, laughing gay! 
And when in tears beholding me—­
Will smiling, kissing, cry consoling,
“Papa—­it is but playing—­See! 
I live,—­yes!  Leave off mourning!”
  But cold and mute she lies, alas! 
  And motionless.

Now in her coffin she lies,
Silent amid scented flowers—­
Ah what mute spirits in white
O’er her corpse circle and hover? 
Are they the visions of bliss? 
Are they all spirits of hope? 
That during life lured her on—­