THE FAITHLESS LOVER.

  Nightingale, O nightingale,
  Nightingale so full of song,
  Tell me, tell me, where thou fliest,
  Where to sing now in the night? 
  Will another maiden hear thee
  Like to me, poor me, all night
  Sleepless, restless, comfortless,
  Ever full of tears her eyes? 
  Fly, O fly, dear nightingale,
  Over hundred countries fly,
  Over the blue sea so far;
  Spy the distant countries through,
  Town and village, hill and dell,
  Whether thou find’st any one,
  Who so sad is, as I am?

  O, I bore a necklace once,
  All of pearls like morning dew;
  And I bore a finger-ring,
  With a precious stone thereon;

  And I bore deep in my heart
  Love, a love so warm and true. 
  When the sad, sad autumn came,
  Were the pearls no longer clear;
  And in winter burst my ring,
  On my finger, of itself![25]
  Ah! and when the spring came on,
  Had forgotten me my love.

There is one trait in the Russian character, which we recognize distinctly in their poetry, namely, their peculiar and almost Oriental veneration for their sovereign, and a blind submission to his will.  There is indeed somewhat of a religious mixture in this feeling; for the Tzar is not only the sovereign lord of the country and master of their lives, but he is also the head of the orthodox church.  The orthodox Tzar is one of his standing epithets.  The following ballad, which we consider as one of the most perfect among Russian popular narrative ballads, exhibits very affectingly the complete resignation with which the Russian meets death, when decreed by his Tzar.  In its other features, also, it is throughout natural.  Its historical foundation is unknown.  There are several versions of it extant, slightly differing from each other; which seems to prove that it has been for a long time handled by the people.

THE BOYAR’S EXECUTION.

  “Thou, my head, alas! my head,
  Long hast served me, and well, my head;
  Full three-and-thirty summers long;
  Ever astride of my gallant steed,
  Never my foot from its stirrup drawn. 
  But alas! thou hast gained, my head,
  Nothing of joy or other good;
  Nothing of honours or even thanks.”

  Yonder along the Butcher’s street,
  Out to the fields through the Butcher’s gate,[26]
  They are leading a prince and peer.

  Priests and deacons are walking before,
  In their hands a great book open;
  Then there follows a soldier troop,
  With their drawn sabres flashing bright. 
  At his right, the headsman goes,
  Holds in his hand the keen-edged sword;
  At his left goes his sister dear,
  And she weeps as the torrent pours,
  And she sobs as the fountains gush.