No more was Olga queen for any king;
    The pathway round a throne she could not tread,
  Nor triumph in the royal ring—­
    The boy she bore was dead!

  The cloister hers; she chose the cloak and hood,
    And beads of olive-wood, a pouch for alms;
  So begged she, Christ, for thy dear rood,
    Laus Deo sang thy psalms!

  Why am I here?  This country is my king’s;
    The lovely river, wooded hills above;
  Old St. Sebastian’s church-bell rings—­
    There flies the silver dove

  That flitted by the day we came to praise
    Our gracious Mary for a granted prayer;
  Heralds, trumps, the same gay maze
    Of troops—­King Karl is there!

  Laus Deo with a child, and with his mate—­
    She wins the throne by bringing him a son: 
  Babes make or mar our queenly fate—­
    My woman’s life is done.

A UNIT.

  When I was camping on the Volga’s banks,
  The trader Zanthon with a leash of mares
  Went by my tent.  I knew the wily Jew,
  And he knew me.  He muttered as he passed,
  “The last Bathony, and his tusks are grown. 
  A broken ’scutcheon is a ’scutcheon still,
  And Amine’s token in my caftan lies,—­
  Amine, who weeps and wails for his return.” 
  He caught my eye, and slipped inside the tent. 
  “Haw, Zanthon, up from Poland, at your tricks! 
  How veer the boars on old Bathony’s towers? 
  True to the winds that blow on Poland’s plains?”
  “They bite the dust, my lord, as beast to beast. 
  When Poles conspire, conspiracy alone
  Survives to hover in the murky air. 
  My lord, Bathony’s gates are left ajar
  For you to enter, or—­remain outside;
  The forest holds the secret you surprised,
  And men are there, to dare as they have dared.” 
  “Haw, Zanthon, tell me of the palatine. 
  The air of Russia makes a man forget
  He was a man elsewhere:  the trumpets’ squeal
  I follow, and the thud of drums.  You spoke
  As if I were of princely birth:  hark ye,
  Battalion is the call I listen to.” 
  “My lord, the cranes that plunder in your fens,
  The doves that nest within your woods I saw
  Fly round the gaping walls, and plume their wings
  Upon your father’s grave.  Do you know this?”
  “A token, Zanthon? so—­a withered flower! 
  You think I wore one in my sword-hilt once? 
  Methinks there is no perfume in this flower. 
  Watch, while I fling it on the Volga’s tide. 
  The chief, my father, sent me with a curse
  To travel in the steppes, and so I do. 
  The air of Russia makes a man forget
  He was a man elsewhere, for love or hope,
  And as he marches, he becomes but this. 
  Haw, Zanthon, would you learn the reason why? 
  Search on the Caucasus, the northern seas,
  Look in the sky or over earth, then ask,
  The answer everywhere will be, The Tzar.”