Stepped the maiden from her chamber then; Wet, oh, wet with tears her lovely face! All with sadness dimmed her eyes so clear, Feebly drooping hung her snowy arms. ’Twas no arrow that had pierced her heart, ’Twas no adder that had stung her so; Weeping, thus the lovely maid began: “Fare thee well, belovèd, fare thee well, Dearest soul, thy father’s dearest son! I have been betrothed since yesterday; Come, to-morrow, troops of wedding guests; To the altar I, perforce, must go! I shall be another’s then; and yet Thine, thine only, thine alone till death.” --From Talvi’s _Historical View_. Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine, Sitting there alone amidst the green of May! In the prison-tower the lad sits mournfully; To his father writes, to his mother writes: Thus he wrote, and these, these were the very words: “O good father mine, thou belovèd sir! O good mother mine, thou belovèd dame! Ransom me, I pray, ransom the good lad,-- He is your beloved, is your only son!” Father, mother,--both,--both refused to hear, Cursed their hapless race, cursed their hapless seed: “Never did a thief our honest name disgrace,-- Highwayman or thief never stained the name!” Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine, Sitting there alone in the green of May! From the prison-tower thus the prisoner wrote, Thus the prisoner wrote to his belovèd maid: “O thou soul of mine! O thou lovely maid! Truest love of mine, sweetest love of mine! Save, O save, I pray, save the prisoned lad!” Swiftly then exclaimed that belovèd maid: “Come, attendant! Come! Come, my faithful nurse! Servant faithful, you that long have faithful been, Bring the golden key, bring the key with speed! Ope the treasure chests, open them in haste; Golden treasures bring, bring them straight to me: Ransom him, I say, ransom the good lad, He is my beloved, of my heart beloved.” Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine, Sitting there alone amidst the green of May! --From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part II. WEDDING GEAR The blacksmith from the forge comes he--Glory! And carries with him hammers three--Glory! O blacksmith, blacksmith, forge for me--Glory! A wedding crown of gold, bran-new!--Glory! A golden ring, oh, make me, do!--Glory! With what is left a gold pin too!--Glory! The crown on wedding day I’ll wear--Glory! On golden ring my troth I’ll swear--Glory! The pin will bind my veil to hair--Glory! --From John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_. THE SALE OF THE BRAID