Bogdanovich.

’Twere but vain daring thro’ dark time to range, Chasing the shadowy forms of words, which change, For ever restless, gave to beauty’s power: All lived an hour, and perished with that hour: The subject of the aspiring poet’s lay Is that fair royal maiden, youngest child Of the eastern monarch, whom with passion wild Crowds honoured, loved and sigh’d for night and day, She by the Greeks called Psyche—meaning (According to our learned ones’ explaining) A soul, or spirit:—our philosophers Thinking that all that’s tender, fair and bright, Must needs be hers, Named her Dushenka⁠[1]⁠;—thus A word so sweet, so musical to us, With all the charm of novelty, O loveliest Psyche, was conferred on thee! Conveyed from tongue to tongue, its throne it found In memory’s archives:—its melodious sound Now breathes the angel-harmony of love, A music and a radiance from above.

Dushenka! Dushenka! the robes that thou wearest Seem ever most lovely and fitting: Whether clad like a queen of the east thou appearest, Or plain as a shepherdess sitting By the door of her cottage at evening’s calm tide, Thou still art the charm of the world and its pride! Thou fairest of saints that devotion has sainted, Divinest of all the divine:— All the pictures of beauty that art ever painted Can give no idea of thine!

I’m fourteen summers old, I trow, ’Tis time to look about me now: ’Twas only yesterday they said, I was a silly, silly maid;— ’Tis time to look about me now. The shepherd-swains so rudely stare, I must reprove them, I declare; This talks of beauty—that of love— I’m such a fool I can’t reprove— I must reprove them, I declare. ’Tis strange—but yet I hope no sin; Something unwonted speaks within: Love’s language is a mystery, And yet I feel, and yet I see,— O what is this that speaks within? The shepherd cries, “I love thee, sweet;” “And I love thee,” my lips repeat: Kind words, they sound as sweet to me As music’s fairest melody; “I love thee,” oft my lips repeat. His pledge he brings,—I’ll not reprove; O no! I’ll take that pledge of love; To thee my guardian dog I’d give, Could I without that guardian live: But still I’ll take thy pledge of love. My shepherd’s crook I’ll give to thee;— O no! my father gave it me— And treasures by a parent given, From a fond child should ne’er be riven— O no! my father gave it me. But thou shalt have yon lambkin fair— Nay! ’tis my mother’s fondest care; For every day she joys to count Each snowy lambkin on the mount;— I’ll give thee then no lambkin fair. But stay, my shepherd! wilt thou be For ever faithful—fond to me? A sweeter gift I’ll then impart, And thou shalt have—a maiden’s heart, If thou wilt give thy heart to me.

Hark! those tones of music stealing Through yon wood at even: Sweetest songs that breathe a feeling Pure and bright as heaven. Nightingales in chorus near thee, All their notes are blending; Then they stop their songs to hear thee, Silent—unpretending.

What to the maiden has happened? What to the gem of the village? Ah! to the gem of the village. Seated alone in her cottage. Tremblingly turned to the window; Ah! ever turned to the window. Like the sweet bird in its prison, Pining and panting for freedom; Ah! how ’tis pining for freedom! Crowds of her youthful companions Come to console the lov’d maiden; Ah! to console the lov’d maiden. “Smile then, our sister! be joyful, Clouds of dust cover the valley; Oh! see, they cover the valley. “Smile then, our sister! be joyful, List to the hoof-beat of horses; O! to the hoof-beat of horses.” Then the maid looked through the window, Saw the dust-clouds in the valley; O! the dust-clouds in the valley: Heard the hoof-beat of the horses, Hurried away from the cottage; O! to the valley she hurries. “Welcome! welcome! thou lov’d one:” See, she has sunk on his bosom; O! she has sunk on his bosom. Now all her grief is departed: She has forsaken the window: O! quite forsaken the window. Now her eye looks on her lov’d one, Beaming with brightness and beauty; O! ’tis all brightness and beauty.