SONG.
From the Russian of Pushkin.
Hoary man, hateful man!
Gash my frame, burn my frame;
Bold I am, scoff I can
At the sword, at the flame.
Thee as hell I abhor,
And despise heartily;
I another do adore,
And for love of him die.
Gash my frame, burn my frame!--
Nothing I will tell thee;
Man of age, man of rage,
Him thou'lt ne'er know from me.
Fresh as May and as gay,
Warm as Summer days he;
O how sweet, young and neat,
O how well he loves me.
O how him I carest
In the night still and fine;
O how then we did jest
At that grey head of thine.
THE COSSACK.
An ancient Ballad.
From the Malo-Russian.
O'er the field the snow is flying,
There a wounded Cossack's lying;
On a bush his head he's leaning,
And his eyes with grass is screening,
Meadow-grass so greenly shiny,
And with cloth the make of China;
Croaks the raven hoarsely o'er him,
Neighs his courser sad before him:
"Either, master, give me pay,
Or dismiss me on my way."
"Break thy bridle, O my courser,
Down the path amain be speeding,
Through the verdant forest leading;
Drink of two lakes on thy way,
Eat of mowings two the hay;
Rush the castle-portal under,
With thy hoof against it thunder,
Out shall come a Dame that moaneth,
Whom thy lord for mother owneth;
I will tell thee, my brave prancer,
When she speaks thee what to answer.
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