iii.

O thou field of my delight so fair and verdant! 
Thou scene of all my happiness and pleasure! 
O how charmingly Nature hath array’d thee
With the soft green grass and juicy clover,
And with corn-flowers blooming and luxuriant. 
One thing there is alone, that doth deform thee;
In the midst of thee, O field, so fair and verdant! 
A clump of bushes stands—­a clump of hazels,
Upon their very top there sits an eagle,
And upon the bushes’ top—­upon the hazels,
Compress’d within his claw he holds a raven,
And its hot blood he sprinkles on the dry ground;
And beneath the bushes’ clump—­beneath the hazels,
Lies void of life the good and gallant stripling;
All wounded, pierc’d and mangled is his body. 
As the little tiny swallow or the chaffinch,
Round their warm and cosey nest are seen to hover,
So hovers there the mother dear who bore him;
And aye she weeps, as flows a river’s water;
His sister weeps as flows a streamlet’s water;
His youthful wife, as falls the dew from heaven—­
The Sun, arising, dries the dew of heaven.

ANCIENT BALLAD

From the Malo Russian.

From the wood a sound is gliding,
Vapours dense the plain are hiding,
How yon Dame her son is chiding. 
“Son, away! nor longer tarry! 
Would the Turks thee off would carry!”
“Ha; the Turkmen know and heed me;
Coursers good the Turkmen breed me.”

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.