* * * * *

KIEFF.

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN OF IVAN KOZLOFF.  BY T.B.  SHAW.

      O Kieff! where religion ever seemeth
      To light existence in our native land;
      Where o’er Petcherskoi’s dome the bright cross gleameth,
      Like some fair star, that still in heaven doth stand;
      Where, like a golden sheet, around thee streameth
      Thy plain, and meads that far away expand;
      And by thy hoary wall, with ceaseless motion,
      Old Dnieper’s foaming swell sweeps on to ocean.

      How oft to thee in spirit have I panted,
      O holy city, country of my heart! 
      How oft, in vision, have I gazed enchanted
      On thy fair towers—­a sainted thing thou art!—­
      By Lavra’s walls or Dnieper’s wave, nor wanted
      A spell to draw me from this life apart;
      In thee my country I behold, victorious,
      Holy and beautiful, and great and glorious.

      The moon her soft ray on Petcherskoi poureth,
      Its domes are shining in the river’s wave;
      The soul the spirit of the past adoreth,
      Where sleeps beneath thee many a holy grave: 
      Vladimir’s shade above thee calmly soareth,
      Thy towers speak of the sainted and the brave;
      Afar I gaze, and all in dreamy splendour
      Breathes of the past—­a spell sublime and tender.

      There fought the warriors in the field of glory,
      Strong in the faith, against their country’s foe;
      And many a royal flower yon palace hoary,
      In virgin loveliness, hath seen to blow. 
      And Bayan sang to them the noble story,
      And secret rapture in their breast did glow;
      Hark! midnight sounds—­that brazen voice is dying—­
      A day to meet the vanish’d days is flying.

      Where are the valiant?—­the resistless lances—­
      The brands that were as lightning when they waved? 
      Where are the beautiful—­whose sunny glances
      Our fathers, with such potency, enslaved? 
      Where is the bard, whose song no more entrances? 
      Ah! that deep bell hath answer’d what I craved: 
      And thou alone, by these grey walls, O river! 
      Murmurest, Dnieper, still, and flow’st for ever.

* * * * *

MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN.

PART VII.

“Have I not in my time heard lions roar? 
Have I not heard the sea, puft up with wind,
Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat? 
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,
And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies? 
Have I not in the pitched battle heard
Loud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?”