Targum Part 2

What elegance and majesty they bear!

What witchery lurketh in their voice and eyes; View them but once, and whilst thou breath'st the air Thou'lt ne'er forget the great, the good and wise.

Survey, survey Gi Shoi's murmuring flood!

How its bamboos uptower in green array; The bonnets of the great, the wise and good At either ear an agate gem display; Bright as a star the crownlet of their hair-- What witchery lurketh in their voice and eyes; Survey them once, and whilst thou breath'st the air Thou'lt ne'er forget the great, the good and wise.

Survey, survey Gi Shoi's murmuring flood!

Like to the green bamboos upon it's sh.o.r.e Are the ill.u.s.trious, the great and good-- More pure than gold, more soft than stannine ore; The round imperial agate's not more sheen; Ever magnanimous and constant found, On glory's car they sit with placid mien, And smile benign where jocund sports abound.

THE MOUNTAIN-CHASE.

From the Mandchou or Chinese Tartar.

(An extract from the "Description of Moukden" by the Emperor Kian Loung.)

Autumn has fled and winter left our bounds; Now for the chase amongst the mountain grounds, Our troops their implements and arms prepare.

Like colour'd rainbow see our banners glare; While paler far and like the waning bow, Rustle the standards in the winds that blow; Piercing the mists, above our heads that lower, Aloft behold our stately Toron {21} tower, Flapping the skies with its embroider'd rim.

Away we journey, hale in mind and limb; Our cars of state are creaking in the rear, Whilst in the front the active guides appear.

And now our children mount their colts of speed, Their sculptur'd cars full little here they need; From the right side they take the arrow keen, Ne'er to its quiver to return, I ween; The bow, the left side's fitting ornament; The bow, the tough and pliant bow is bent; It yields a sound, like thunder from afar, While flies the arrow, like a streaming star.

None now expects a tale of fabled might; w.a.n.g Liyang's {22} bridle will no more delight; Nor how his chariot Siyan Ou did guide; Nor how, incas'd in hauberk's steely pride, His hundred myriads, at the cymbals' sound, The falcon launch'd, or slipp'd the eager hound; Or giving rein to every fiery steed No more precipitous Tai Shan would heed, Than stair which leadeth to some upper bower; Or swarming down tumultuous to the sh.o.r.e, Chain'd the sea-waters with the nets they cast-- For such wild miracles the time is past.

Numerous and brilliant spreads our hunting train, Stilly or noisily the aim is ta'en, Forth the shaft speedeth all athirst for blood, Whilst the string rattleth sharp against the wood; The stags we scatter, in the plain which browse, Or from his cavern the rough boar uprouse; We scare the bokoin to the highest steeps, Hunt down the hare, along the plain which leaps.

But though we slaughter, nor the work resign When stiff and wearied are each hand and spine, On field and mountain still the beasts are spied Plenteous as gra.s.ses in the summer tide; As at three points the fierce attack I ply, Seeing what numbers still remain to die, Captains, pick'd captains I with speed despatch, Who by the tail the spotted leopard catch, Crash to the brain the furious tiger's head, Grapple the bear so powerful and dread, The ancient sow, the desert's haunter, slay-- Whilst with applause their prowess we survey.

When thus fresh meat they have obtain'd with glee, The largest beasts the hunters bear to me, From which we separate and cast aside Whatever beast by frontal wound has died; To those the preference we at once decree, In whose left side the fatal mark we see, Those to be offer'd to our fathers' manes, Within their high and consecrated fanes, To dry and cure in wooden trays are laid, Till bak'd or roast the offering is made.

Our guests they dine on the rejected prey, And what they leave is safely stor'd away; The gross amount of what is slain and shot Falls to the carmen and the rabble's lot.

THE GLORY OF THE COSSACKS.

An Ode.

From the Russian of Boris Fedorow.

Quiet Don!

Azure Don!

Who dost glide Deep and wide, To the proud Cossack crowd Drink which cheers, Path which bears.

Quiet Don!

Azure Don!

Glory be To thy sons, Cossacks free Warrior ones; The world mute Of their deeds Hears the bruit-- Wide it speeds.

Light, I wot, Hands they've not; Down they fly Thundringly, Foes to crush, E'en as rush Down midst rocks Eagle flocks.

Silent Don!

Azure Don!

Praise to their Deeds so fair; Fain our bright Czar requite Would each one, Knew it might Scarce be done-- Gave his son.

Silent Don!

Azure Don!

Sport and play, Shine forth gay; Gift most rare-- Alexander, Russia's heir, To thy clan Given is for Attaman.

Joys now every Cossack man, Joys the Black sea's every stan {26} And Ural Flings its spray, Roars withal Night and day-- Joy to Cossacks--joy and glee To each hero-regiment be: Given is an Attaman.

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.