A dream I dreamed, and saw in sparkling bowers An evening feast in my home--far away-- Where young and lovely women, crowned with flowers, Conversed of me in accents light and gay. But, in their happy talk not joining, one Sat far apart, and plunged in thought she seemed; And oh!--the mystery knows God alone-- This was the dream her young soul sadly dreamed. She saw in vision Dagestána’s Vale, Where on the slope a well-known body lay; From the black wound smoke rose upon the gale, And in cold streams the life-blood ebbed away. FOOTNOTES: [1] This poem partakes of a prophecy. Lermontof was himself killed in a duel on the slopes of the Caucasus. _CLOUDS._ (AN EXPERIMENT IN RUSSIAN DACTYLS.) Cloudlets ethereal wandering ceaselessly, Floating in pearly chains over the azure deep; Maybe, as even I, suffering banishment,[2] Leaving your own dear North, southward perforce you sweep. What is compelling you? Destiny’s ordinance? Envy invisible? Open iniquity? Maybe deeds criminal heavily press on you; Maybe the slander of friendship’s obliquity. No! you are simply aweary of fruitless fields; Strangers to passions and strangers to punishment. Frigid eternally, free everlastingly, You have no country, and cannot know banishment! FOOTNOTES: [2] Lermontof was banished from St. Petersburg to the Caucasus. _PRAYER._ (AN EXPERIMENT IN RUSSIAN DACTYLS.) Praying now earnestly, Mother of God, come I, Bending before thy shrine radiant in brilliancy, Not for salvation, or battle-eve benison, Not with thanksgiving, or even repentancy. Not for my own sad soul lost in the wilderness, Soul of a pilgrim here wandering homelessly; But for a maiden pure, whom I would trust to thee, Fervid Protectress from cold inhumanity! Circle with Fortune this maiden deserving it; Grant her considerate friends on life’s pilgrimage, Youth of bright buoyancy, age of reposefulness; Grant to her sinless soul Hope’s happy peacefulness. Then--when the farewell hour finally draweth nigh,-- Whether in morn’s hum, or silence of eventide,-- Send forth the best of thine angels to take to thy Bosom of mercy her peerlessly perfect soul! _HOW WEARY! HOW DREARY!_ How weary! how dreary! with no friend to ease the heart’s pain In moments of sorrow of soul! Fond desires! But what use the desire that is ever in vain? And o’er us the best years roll. To love. But the loved one? ’Tis nothing to love for a space; And for ever Love cannot remain. Dost thou glance at thyself? Of the “has been” remains not a trace, And all gladness and sorrow are vain.