LITMIR.BIZ

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mead-cups are merrily clashing:

      Their locks are as white as the dawn-lighted snow

      On the peak of the mountain-top flashing:

      They talk of old times, of the days of their pride,

      And the fights where together they struck side by side.

      "But where," quoth Olég, "is my good battle-horse?

      My mettlesome charger—how fares he?

      Is he playful as ever, as fleet in the course;

      His age and his freedom how bears he?"

      They answer and say: on the hill by the stream

      He has long slept the slumber that knows not a dream.

      Olég then grew thoughtful, and bent down his brow:

      "O man, what can magic avail thee!

      A false lying dotard, Enchanter, art thou:

      Our rage and contempt should assail thee.

      My horse might have borne me till now, but for thee

      Then the bones of his charger Olég went to see.

      Olég he rode forth with his spearmen beside;

      At his bridle Prince Igor he hurried:

      And they see on a hillock by Dniépr's swift tide

      Where the steed's noble bones lie unburied:

      They are wash'd by the rain, the dust o'er them is cast,

      And above them the feather-grass waves in the blast.

      Then the Prince set his foot on the courser's white skull;

      Saying: "Sleep, my old friend, in thy glory!

      Thy lord hath outlived thee, his days are nigh full:

      At his funeral feast, red and gory,

      'Tis not thou 'neath the axe that shall redden the sod,

      That my dust may be pleasured to quaff thy brave blood.

      "And am I to find my destruction in this?

      My death in a skeleton seeking?"

      From the skull of the courser a snake, with a hiss,

      Crept forth, as the hero was speaking:

      Round his legs, like a ribbon, it twined its black ring;

      And the Prince shriek'd aloud as he felt the keen sting.

      The mead-cups are foaming, they circle around;

      At Olég's mighty Death-Feast they're ringing;

      Prince Igor and Olga they sit on the mound;

      The war-men the death-song are singing:

      And they talk of old times, of the days of their pride,

      And the fights where together they struck side by side.

      We know not whether our readers will be attracted or repelled by the somewhat exaggerated tone of thought, and the strangeness and novelty of the metre, in the following little piece. The gloom of the despondency expressed in the lines is certainly Byronian—and haply "something more." It is to be hoped, however, that they may find favour in the eyes of the English reader—always so "novitatis avidus,"—if only on the score of the singularity of the versification:—

Remembrance

      When for the sons of men is stilled the day's turmoil,

      And on the dumb streets of the city

      With half-transparent shade sinks Night, the friend of Toil—

      And Sleep—calm as the tear of Pity;

      Oh, then, how drag they on, how silent, and how slow,

      The lonely vigil-hours tormenting;

      How sear they then my soul, those serpent fangs of woe,

      Fangs of heart-serpents unrelenting!

      Then burn my dreams: in care my soul is drown'd and dead,

      Black, heavy thoughts come thronging o'er me;

      Remembrance then unfolds, with finger slow and dread,

      Her long and doomful scroll before me.

      Then reading those dark lines, with shame, remorse, and fear,

      I curse and tremble as I trace them,

      Though bitter be my cry, though bitter be my tear,

      Those lines—I never shall efface them:

      There is another little composition in the same key.

"I have outlived the hopes that charm'd me."

      I have outlived the hopes that charm'd me,

      The dreams that once my heart could bless!

      'Gainst coming agonies I've arm'd me,

      Fruits of the spirit's loneliness.

      My rosy wreath is rent and faded

      By cruel Fate's sirocco-breath!

      Lonely I live, and sad, and jaded,

      And wait, and wait—to welcome death!

      Thus, in the chilly tempest shivering,

      When Winter sings his song of grief,

      Lone on the bough, and feebly quivering,

      Trembles the last belated leaf.

      The following is a somewhat new version of the famous "E pur si muove" of Galileo.

Motion

      "There is," once said the bearded sage, "no motion!"

      The other straight 'gan move before his eyes:

      The contrary no stronglier could he prove.

      All praised the answerer's ingenious notion.

      Now, Sirs; this story doth to me recall

      A new example of the fact surprising:

      We see each day the sun before us rising,

      Yet right was Galileo, after all!

      In the spirited lines addressed to "The Slanderers of Russia," Púshkin has recorded a sufficiently conclusive reply to the hackneyed calumnies against his country, repeated with such a nauseating uniformity, and through so long a period of time, in wretched verse, or more wretched prose, in the leading articles of obscure provincial newspapers, and on the scaffolding of obscure provincial hustings. Whatever may be the merits or demerits, in a moral point of view, of the part played by Russia in the events alluded to by the poet, events which form the stock subject of the scribblings and spoutings we speak of, these tiresome tirades do not come with a very good grace from either England or France. There is a very excellent and venerable proverb which expresses the imprudence of the practice of throwing stones, when indulged in by the inhabitant of an abode composed of a vitreous substance, not to mention a still more greybearded and not less wise saw, specifying, in terms rather forcible than dignified, the impolicy of the pot alluding in an opprobrious manner to the blackness which characterizes the sitting part of its fellow-utensil, the kettle; and the "wisdom of ages" might, in the present instance, be very reasonably adduced to moderate the excessive moral susceptibilities of the aforesaid writers and declaimers, and to restrain the feeble flood of words—the dirty torrent of shallow declamation, so incessantly poured forth against Russia on the subject of Poland. "Judge not, that ye be not judged!" is an excellent precept for the guidance of nations as well as of individuals; and, we think, a Russian, wearied by the tiresome repetition of the same accusations against his native country, can hardly be blamed for asking, in language even more energetic than that here employed by Púshkin, whether England or France have hands so clean, or a conscience so clear, as to justify them in their incessant and insolent attempt to sit in judgment upon their European sister. We certainly think that the recollection of the Affghan war, the bombardment of Copenhagen, of the splendid exploits

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