Where are our shallow fords? and where
  The power of Kazan with its fourfold gates? 
From the prison windows our maidens fair
  Talk of us still through the iron grates.

We cannot hear them; for horse and man
  Lie buried deep in the dark abyss! 
Ah! the black day hath come down on Kazan! 
  Ah! was ever a grief like this?

THE BOY AND THE BROOK

Down from yon distant mountain height
  The brooklet flows through the village street;
A boy comes forth to wash his hands,
Washing, yes washing, there he stands,
  In the water cool and sweet.

Brook, from what mountain dost thou come,
  O my brooklet cool and sweet! 
I come from yon mountain high and cold,
Where lieth the new snow on the old,
  And melts in the summer heat.

Brook, to what river dost thou go? 
  O my brooklet cool and sweet! 
I go to the river there below
Where in bunches the violets grow,
  And sun and shadow meet.

Brook, to what garden dost thou go? 
  O my brooklet cool and sweet! 
I go to the garden in the vale
Where all night long the nightingale
  Her love-song doth repeat.

Brook, to what fountain dost thou go? 
  O my brooklet cool and sweet! 
I go to the fountain at whose brink
The maid that loves thee comes to drink,
And whenever she looks therein,
I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin,
  And my joy is then complete.

TO THE STORK

Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing
  Thy flight from the far-away! 
Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring,
  Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.

Descend, O Stork! descend
  Upon our roof to rest;
In our ash-tree, O my friend,
  My darling, make thy nest.

To thee, O Stork, I complain,
  O Stork, to thee I impart
The thousand sorrows, the pain
  And aching of my heart.

When thou away didst go,
  Away from this tree of ours,
The withering winds did blow,
  And dried up all the flowers.

Dark grew the brilliant sky,
  Cloudy and dark and drear;
They were breaking the snow on high,
  And winter was drawing near.

From Varaca’s rocky wall,
  From the rock of Varaca unrolled,
the snow came and covered all,
  And the green meadow was cold.

O Stork, our garden with snow
  Was hidden away and lost,
Mid the rose-trees that in it grow
  Were withered by snow and frost.

FROM THE LATIN

VIRGIL’S FIRST ECLOGUE

MELIBOEUS. 
Tityrus, thou in the shade of a spreading beech-tree reclining,
Meditatest, with slender pipe, the Muse of the woodlands. 
We our country’s bounds and pleasant pastures relinquish,
We our country fly; thou, Tityrus, stretched in the shadow,
Teachest the woods to resound with the name of the fair Amaryllis.