Neledinsky Meletzky.

Under the oak-tree; near the rill, Sits my fair maiden at evening still, Singing her song, her song of love, Sweetly it warbles through the grove. The nightingale heard the heavenly tone, And blended the music with his own: My ears drink in the wondrous strain, And my spirit re-echoes the song again. How oft the zephyrs have brought to me Delighted, those accents of harmony! How oft have I blamed the jealous breeze That scatter’d the music amidst the trees! Listen awhile, thou nightingale! Echo the song from hill to vale: Though hill and vale enraptured be, Sweeter the music sounds to me!

To the streamlet I’ll repair, Look upon its flight, and say: “Bear, O fleeting streamlet! bear All my griefs with thine away.” Ah! I breathe the wish in vain! In this silent solitude Counted is each throb of pain;— Rest is melancholy’s food. Waves with waves unceasing blend, Hurrying to their destiny: Even so, thoughts with thoughts, and tend All alike to misery. And what grief so dark, so deep As the grief interred within? By the friend, for whom I weep, All unnoticed, all unseen. Yet, could I subdue my pain, Soothe affection’s rankling smart, Ne’er would I resume again The lost empire of my heart. Thou, my love! art sovereign there, There thou hast a living shrine: Let my portion be despair, If the light of bliss be thine. Loved by thee, O might I live, ’Neath the darkest, stormiest sky: ’Twere a blest alternative! Grief is joy, if thou be nigh. Every wish and every pray’r Is a tribute paid to thee: Every heart-beat—there, O there, Thou hast mightiest sovereignty. To thee, nameless one! to thee Still my thoughts, my passions turn; ’Tis through thee alone I see, Think, and feel, and breathe and burn. If the woe in which I live, Ever reach thy generous ear; Pity not—but O forgive Thy devoted worshipper! In some hour of careless bliss, Deign my bosom’s fire to prove; Prove it with an icy kiss— Thou shalt know how much I love!

He whom misery, dark and dreary, Robs of all his spirit’s strength; Hopeless—but that wasted, weary, Nature shall repose at length: Not a joy to sparkle o’er him, Not a ray of promised light; Till the deep grave yawns before him, Till his eye is closed in night. Such am I;—time’s changes borrow All their interest from thee: Life is but a midnight sorrow, Thou, life’s sun-shine, veiled from me. But those hopes, with angels seated, Life and death can ne’er subdue; And the heart to thee related, Needs must be immortal too. Can that spirit ever perish, Which divine emotions fill? Thee on earth I loved to cherish, Thee in heaven must cherish still; Like a shadow to thee clinging, Ever following—ever nigh; Up to thee each look is springing, Every word, and thought, and sigh. Up to thee, my saint, my lover! Up to thee my soul is led: Spirit, wilt thou deign to hover O’er my green and grassy bed? Wilt thou from thy throne descending, Catch thy fond one’s dying breath? Wilt thou, near his tomb attending, Consecrate the dreams of death?