THE BLACK SHAWL.

From the Russian of Pushkin.

On the shawl, the black shawl with distraction I gaze, And on my poor spirit keen agony preys.

When easy of faith, young and ardent was I, I lov’d a fair Grecian with love the most high.

The damsel deceitful she flatter’d my flame, But soon a dark cloud o’er my sunshine there came.

One day I’d invited of guests a gay crew, Then to me there came creeping an infamous Jew.

“With thy friends thou art feasting” he croaked in my ear— “Whilst to thee proves unfaithful Greshenka thy dear.”

I gave to him gold and a curse, for his meed, And I summon’d a thrall, ever faithful in need.

Forth rushing, I leap’d my tall courser upon, And soft pity I bade from my bosom begone.

But scarcely the door of Greshenka I view’d When my eyes became dark, and a swoon near ensu’d.

Alone to a far remote chamber I pac’d, And there an Armenian my damsel embrac’d.

My sight it forsook me—forth flash’d my sword straight, But I to prevent the knave’s kiss was too late.

The vile, headless trunk I spurn’d fierce with my foot, And I gaz’d on the pallid maid darkly and mute.

I remember her praying—her blood streaming wide— There perish’d Greshenka, my sweet love there died.

The shawl, the black shawl from her shoulders I tore, And in silence I wip’d from my sabre the gore.

My thrall, when the evening mists fell with their dew, In the waves of the Dunau her fair body threw.

From that hour I have seen not her eyes’ beamy lights, From that hour I have known no delectable nights.

On the shawl, the black shawl with distraction I gaze, And on my poor spirit keen agony preys.