When came the darkness of eve, my serf Threw their bodies into the Danube's billows-- Since then I kiss no charming eyes, Since then I know no cheerful days. I gaze demented on the black shawl, And my cold soul is torn by grief. 1820. THE ROUSSALKA. III. 71. By a lake once in forest darkness A monk his soul was saving, Ever in stern occupation Of prayer, fast, and labor. Already with slackened shovel The aged man his grave was digging, And only for death in peace and quiet To his saintly patrons prayed he. Once in summer at the threshold Of his drooping little hut To God was praying the hermit. Darker grew the forest. Over the lake was rising fog. And in the clouds the reddish moon Was gently rolling along the sky. Upon the waters the hermit gazed. He looks, and fears, and knows not why, Himself he cannot understand.... Now he sees: the waves are seething And suddenly again are quiet.... Suddenly ... as light as shade of night, As white as early snow of hills, Out cometh a woman naked And on the shore herself she seats. Upon the aged monk she gazes And she combs her moistened tresses-- The holy monk with terror trembles, Upon her charms still he gazes; With her hand to him she beckons And her head she's quickly nodding.... And suddenly like a falling star The dreamy wave she vanished under. The sober monk, all night he slept not, And all day he prayed not The shadow unwittingly before him Of the wondrous maid he ever sees. Again the forest is clad in darkness, Along the clouds the moon is sailing. Again the maid above the water, Pale and splendent there she sits. Gaze her eyes, nods her head, Throws kisses, and she's sporting, The wave she sprinkles, and she frolics; Child-like weeping now and laughing; Sobbing tender--the monk she calls: Monk, O monk, to me, to me! Into the waves transparent she dashes; And again is all in silence deep. But on the third day the roused hermit The enchanted shores nigh sitting was, And the beautiful maid he awaited. Upon the trees were falling shades.... Night at last by dawn was chased-- And nowhere monk could be found, His beard alone, the gray one In the water the boys could see. 1819. THE COSSAK. III. 14. Once at midnight hour, Darkness thro' and fog, Quiet by the river Rode a Cossak brave. Black his cap upon his ear, Dust-covered is his coat, By his knee the pistols hang And nigh the ground his sword. The faithful steed, rein not feeling Is walking slowly on, (Long its mane is, and is waving) Ever further it keeps on. Now before him two--three huts: Broken is the fence; To the village here the road, To the forest there.