Then, oppressed with dire forebodings, Filled with gloomy dreams, Strove Kazbek to count the foemen, Failed to count their streams. Glancing on his tribal mountains, Sadly gloomed the hill; Drew across his brows his mistcap, And for aye was still. FOOTNOTES: [4] This piece is famous for the description it contains of Russia’s progress eastward. [5] Two mountains in the Caucasian range subdued by Russia with the rest of the Caucasus. “_WHY._” I’m sad, for, loving thee, I know full well That this world’s talk, with its calumnious spell, Will never spare thy fresh youth’s opening flower. For every happy day and sunny hour, Fate will exact in grief and tears his pay. I’m sad because I see my loved one gay! _MOSCOW._ Moscow, I love thee with a filial love, Strong, burning, tender, which a Russian knows! I love the holy gleam thy brows above, Thy battled Kremlin in its calm repose. In vain the foreign Potentate[6] essayed, Great Russian giant of a thousand years, To cope with thee, and, by deceit betrayed, To make thee bow thy soul to craven fears. In vain the Stranger spurred; you reared; he fell! The world grew silent ’neath his mighty spell; Whilst thou alone didst live, my stately one, Thou heir to glories ours, and ours alone! Thou livest still, and every stone of thine Doth tell of generations tales divine. FOOTNOTES: [6] Napoleon. FROM PUSHKIN. ⁂ I wander down the noisy streets, I enter crowded fanes, I join in youthful revelries, I give my fancy reins. I say, “The years are flying fast, And seen we scarce are here, Before we reach eternal tombs; For each the hour is near.” I glance upon the lonely oak, The patriarch of the wood, And think, “He’ll live through _my_ brief day, He through my father’s stood.” I fondly kiss the little child, And, kissing, think, “Good-bye! I’m giving up my place to you. You bloom; ’tis mine to die.” Thus every day, thus every hour, I’m wont with thought to spend, And strive to guess the birthday-date Of my approaching end. Ah! where will Fate send Death to me? Abroad? in war? on deep? Or will a neighbouring valley hold My cold dust in its keep? Yet, though I know my lifeless form Must rot where’er I die, I’d fondly wish near my loved home, In my own land, to lie. There, round the entrance to the grave, Let young life freely play, And careless Nature calmly smile With ageless beauty gay! _ANACREONTIC._ We know the steed of mettle By the breed-marks branded on it; We know the haughty Highlander By his plumed and towering bonnet; And I know the happy lovers By the love-light in their eyes, Where, its tale of joyance telling, The languid flame doth rise.