Then up there comes a veteran, With medals on his breast; He scarcely lives, but yet he strives To drink with all the rest. “A lucky man, am I,” he cries, And thus to prove the fact he tries. “In what consists a soldier’s luck? Pray, listen while I tell. In twenty fights, or more, I’ve been, And yet I never fell. And, what is more, in peaceful times Full meal I never knew; Yet, all the same, I _have_ contrived Not to give Death his due. Again, for sins both great and small, Full many a time they’ve me With sticks unmercifully flogged, Yet I’m alive, you see!” FROM MAIKOF. _A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM._ For a long time last night I for sleep vainly yearned. I arose, my room window wide throwing; The night with its silence oppressed me, and burned, O’er me odours intoxicant blowing. Of a sudden the hedge ’neath my window-sill shook; My curtain blew back with a shimmer; And in floated a youth with a beaming look, Just as if from the moonlight a glimmer. Gliding up to my couch, came my wonderful guest, Whispered he, as a smile his lips parted, “Why from me, with your cheek ’neath the pillow prest, Like a startled wee fish, have you darted? “Look up! I’m a god--god of visions and dreams, Secret friend of the innocent maiden; And for thee, my own queen, for the first time, I ween, With a bliss from on high come I laden!” He spoke--and his hands my face lovingly seek; From its nook he it tenderly presses; Then a burning kiss fell on the curve of my cheek, And his lips sought my lips in caresses. Neath the breath of his mouth my strength seemed to have flown, From my breast unclaspt arms I extended, And there breathed in my ears, “You’re my own! you’re my own!” Distant notes, with harp’s melody blended! Swiftly glided the hours; when I opened my eyes, Rosy dawn through my chamber was streaming; Alone, locks dishevelled, I trembling arise, And I know not the drift of my dreaming. _WHO WAS HE?_ A STORY OF PETER THE GREAT. Upon the mighty Neva’s bank, Along the winding woodland way, A Horseman rode, in forest wilds Of elm, of pine, of mosses grey. Before him rose a Fisher’s hut; Beneath a pine, by the blue stream, An aged, bearded Fisherman Was mending his boat’s broken beam. The Horseman said, “Grandsire! Good-day! God help thee, friend! how liveth thou? Doth thou catch much? and tell me, pray, Where doth thou sell thy takings now?” The old man answered sullenly, “Are fishes in the river few? And other market have I none, Except the town, there, close to you. “And how am I to fish to-day? What kind of turmoil’s here, you see! You fight; and, in the fight, a shell Has smashed my fishing-boat for me!”