From ‘Specimens of the Russian Poets.’

FROM BOBROV—­THE GOLDEN PALACE

[Sung at midnight in the Greek churches the last week before Easter.]

The golden palace of my God
Tow’ring above the clouds I see
Beyond the cherubs’ bright abode,
Higher than angels’ thoughts can be: 
How can I in those courts appear
Without a wedding garment on? 
Conduct me, Thou life-giver, there;
Conduct me to Thy glorious throne: 
And clothe me with thy robes of light,
And lead me through sin’s darksome night,
My Savior and my God!

From ‘Specimens of the Russian Poets.’

FROM DMITRIEV—­THE DOVE AND THE STRANGER

STRANGER

Why mourning there so sad, thou gentle dove?

DOVE

     I mourn, unceasing mourn, my vanished love.

     STRANGER

     What, has thy love then fled, or faithless proved?

     DOVE

     Ah no! the sportsman murdered him I loved!

     STRANGER

     Unhappy one! beware! that sportsman’s nigh!

     DOVE

     Oh, let him come—­or else of grief I die.

From ‘Specimens of the Russian Poets.’

FROM SARBIEWSKI—­SAPPHICS TO A ROSE

[Intended to be used in the garlands for decorating the head of the Virgin Mary.]

Rose of the morning, in thy glowing beauty
Bright as the stars, and delicate and lovely,
Lift up thy head above thy earthly dwelling,

                        Daughter of heaven!

Wake! for the watery clouds are all dispersing;
Zephyr invites thee.—­frosts and snows of winter
All are departed, and Favonian breezes

                        Welcome thee smiling.

Rise in thy beauty;—­wilt thou form a garland
Round the fair brow of some beloved maiden? 
Pure though she be, unhallowed temple never,

                        Flow’ret! shall wear thee.

Thou shouldst be wreathed in coronal immortal—­
Thou shouldst be flung upon a shrine eternal—­
Thou shouldst be twined among the golden ringlets

                        Of the pure Virgin.

From ‘Specimens of the Polish Poets.’

HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN

(1848-1895)

Boyesen had thoroughly assimilated the spirit of his native Norway before he left it.  In the small southern seaport of Friedricksvaern he had lived the happy adventurous boyhood depicted in those loving reminiscences ‘Boyhood in Norway.’  He knew the rugged little land and the sparkling fiords; his imagination had delighted in Necken and Hulder and trolls, and all the charming fantastic sprites of the Northland.  So when he was far away, during his bread-winning struggles in America, they grew clearer and dearer in perspective; and in ‘Gunnar,’ ’A Norseman’s Pilgrimage,’ ‘Ilka on the Hilltop,’ and other delightful books, he bequeathed these memories to his adopted land.