PRINCE VYAZEMSKI.

Speeds the troika, leaping, bounding, ’Neath the horsehoofs dust-clouds fly, While the little bells keep tinkling, Weeping, laughing merrily. Chorus. Speed I, speed I, speed I to her Speed I to my well-beloved! Down the road, with glad notes ringing, Echoes wide the joyous peal; Now afar they jingle clearly, Nor in muffled notes they steal. Chorus. Sails the moon from out the cloudlets; Full reveals her luminous ring; And a rippling gleam of silver O’er the traveller’s face doth fling. Chorus. Who and whence this nightly traveller? Is his distant journey done? For his own or other’s pleasure Speeds he through the dark alone? Chorus. Who can tell! He still is far off; Plunged in cloud the moonbeams sweep, While afar on distant moorland Little bells are lulled to sleep. Chorus.