Targum eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 65 pages of information about Targum.

Targum eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 65 pages of information about Targum.

Silent Don! 
Azure Don! 
Sport and play,
Shine forth gay;
Gift most rare—­
Alexander,
Russia’s heir,
To thy clan
Given is for
Attaman.

Joys now every Cossack man,
Joys the Black sea’s every stan {26}
   And Ural
   Flings its spray,
   Roars withal
   Night and day—­
Joy to Cossacks—­joy and glee
To each hero-regiment be: 
   Given is an
   Attaman.

THE BLACK SHAWL.

From the Russian of Pushkin.

On the shawl, the black shawl with distraction I gaze,
And on my poor spirit keen agony preys.

When easy of faith, young and ardent was I,
I lov’d a fair Grecian with love the most high.

The damsel deceitful she flatter’d my flame,
But soon a dark cloud o’er my sunshine there came.

One day I’d invited of guests a gay crew,
Then to me there came creeping an infamous Jew.

“With thy friends thou art feasting” he croaked in my ear—­
“Whilst to thee proves unfaithful Greshenka thy dear.”

I gave to him gold and a curse, for his meed,
And I summon’d a thrall, ever faithful in need.

Forth rushing, I leap’d my tall courser upon,
And soft pity I bade from my bosom begone.

But scarcely the door of Greshenka I view’d
When my eyes became dark, and a swoon near ensu’d.

Alone to a far remote chamber I pac’d,
And there an Armenian my damsel embrac’d.

My sight it forsook me—­forth flash’d my sword straight,
But I to prevent the knave’s kiss was too late.

The vile, headless trunk I spurn’d fierce with my foot,
And I gaz’d on the pallid maid darkly and mute.

I remember her praying—­her blood streaming wide—­
There perish’d Greshenka, my sweet love there died.

The shawl, the black shawl from her shoulders I tore,
And in silence I wip’d from my sabre the gore.

My thrall, when the evening mists fell with their dew,
In the waves of the Dunau her fair body threw.

From that hour I have seen not her eyes’ beamy lights,
From that hour I have known no delectable nights.

On the shawl, the black shawl with distraction I gaze,
And on my poor spirit keen agony preys.

SONG.

From the Russian of Pushkin.

Hoary man, hateful man! 
Gash my frame, burn my frame;
Bold I am, scoff I can
At the sword, at the flame.

Thee as hell I abhor,
And despise heartily;
I another do adore,
And for love of him die.

Gash my frame, burn my frame!—­
Nothing I will tell thee;
Man of age, man of rage,
Him thou’lt ne’er know from me.

Fresh as May and as gay,
Warm as Summer days he;
O how sweet, young and neat,
O how well he loves me.

O how him I carest
In the night still and fine;
O how then we did jest
At that grey head of thine.

Copyrights
Project Gutenberg
Targum from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.