Fame we left for quacks to seek,
Gold was dust and dross for us,
While we lived from week to week,
Boating down the Bosphorus.
La' laha, il Allah!
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus !
And gold was dust and dross for us,
While we lived from week to week,
Aboating down the Bosphorus.
Friends we were, and would have shared
Purses, had we twenty full.
If we spent, or if we spared,
Still our funds were plentiful.
Save the hours we past apart
Time brought home no loss for us;
We felt full of hope and heart
While we clove the Bosphorus.
La' laha, il Allah!
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus !
For life has lost its gloss for us,
Since the days we spent of yore
Upon the pleasant Bosphorus !
La' laha, il Allah!
Ah! for youth's delirious hours
Man pays well in after days,
When quench'd hopes and palsied powers
Mock his love-and-laughter days.
Thorns and thistles on our path
Took the place of moss for us,
Till false fortune's tempest wrath
Drove us from the Bosphorus.
La' laha, il Allah!
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus !
When thorns took place of moss for us,
Gone was all! Our hearts were graves
Deep, deeper than the Bosphorus !
La' laha, il Allah!
Gone is all! In one abyss
Lie Health, Youth, and Merriment ! All we've learned amounts to thisLife's a sad experiment.
What it is we trebly feel
Pondering what it was for us,
When our shallop's bounding keel
Clove the joyous Bosphorus.
La' laha, il Allah!
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus !
We wail for what life was for us
When our shallop's bounding keel
Clove the joyous Bosphorus !
Pleasure tempts, yet man has none
Save himself t' accuse, if her
Temptings prove, when all is done,
Lures hung out by Lucifer.
Guard your fire in youth, O Friends!
Manhood's is but Phosphorus,
And bad luck attends and ends
Boatings down the Bosphorus.
La' laha, il Allah!
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! Youth's fire soon wanes to Phosphorus, And slight luck or grace attends
Your boaters down the Bosphorus !
(FROM THE RUSSIAN OF PUSCHKIN.)
BY MRS. W. R. WILDE.
SECRETLY by night returning,
Jealous fears within him burning,
The Waiwode seeks his young wife's bed, And with trembling hand, uncertainBackward draws the silken curtain
Death and vengeance-she has fled!
With a frown like tempest weather,
Fierce he knits his brows together,
Tears his beard in wrathful mood
Roars in thunder through the castle
Summoning each trembling vassal,
"Ho there! slaves-ye devil's brood!
Who left the castle gate unguarded?
The hound is slain-some hand unbarr'd it,
Quick! prepare ye sack and cord;
My arms here, fellows—loaded, ready,
Now slave, your pistols, follow-steady-
Ha, traitress! thou shalt feel this sword."
Close in the murky shadows hiding,
Slave and master onward gliding,
Reach the garden. There indeed,
Listening to the soft appealing
Of a youth before her kneeling,
Stands she in her white Naridd.
Thro' the marble fountain's playing,
Passion's words they hear him saying--
"How I love thee! yet thou'st sold
All thy beauty's glowing treasures,
All this soft hand's tender pressures
For the Waiwode's cursed gold.
How I loved, as none can love thee,
Waited, wept—if tears could move thee-
Ah! and is it thus we meet?
He ne'er strove thro' tears and troubles,
Only changed his silver roubles
And-thou fellest at his feet.
Yet once more thro' night and storm,
I ride to gaze upon thy form,
Touch again that thrilling hand;
Pray that peace may rest upon thee
In the home that now has won thee,
Then for ever fly this land."
Low she bendeth o'er him weeping,
Heeds not stealthy footsteps creeping,
Sees not jealous eye-balls glare.
Now, slave, steady. Fool, thou tremblest, Vengeance if thy heart dissemblest
Kill her as she standeth there."
“Oh, my lord and master, hear me— Patience yet, or much I fear me
I shall never aim aright.
See, the bitter night wind's blowing
Numbs my hand, and brings these flowing
Icy tears to dim my sight."
"Silence! thou accursed Russian,
Hold-I'll guide the pistol's motion;
Seest thou not her gleaming brow?
So-steady, straight before thee-higher,
When I give the signal, fire-
Darker doom awaits him-Now!"
A shot, a groan, and all is over-
Still she standeth by her lover,
"Tis the Waiwode falleth dead!
Was ever known such sad disaster?
The bungling slave hath shot his master
Straight and steady thro' the head.
THE MARINER'S BRIDE.
(FROM THE SPANISH.)
LOOK, mother! the mariner's rowing,
His galley adown the tide;
I'll go where the mariner's going,
And be the mariner's bride!
I saw him one day through the wicket,
I opened the gate and we met,
As a bird in the fowler's net,
Was I caught in my own green thicket.
Oh! mother, my tears are flowing,
I've lost my maidenly pride
I'll go if the mariner's going,
And be the mariner's bride!
This Love, the tyrant evinces,
Alas! an omnipotent might.
He darkens the mind like Night.
He treads on the necks of Princes!
Oh! mother, my bosom is glowing,
I'll go whatever betide,
I'll go where the mariner's going,
And be the mariner's bride!
Yes, mother! the spoiler has reft me
Of reason and self-control;
Gone, gone is my wretched soul,
And only my body is left me!
The winds, oh! mother, are blowing,
The ocean is bright and wide;
I'll go where the mariner's going,
And be the mariner's bride.
(FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS SEEWIS.)
SEE how the day beameth brightly before us!
Blue is the firmament-green is the earth-
Grief hath no voice in the universe-chorus-
Nature is ringing with music and mirth.
Lift up the looks that are sinking in sadness—
Gaze! and if Beauty can capture thy soul,
Virtue herself will allure thee to gladness-
Gladness, Philosophy's guerdon and goal.
Enter the treasuries Pleasure uncloses-
List! how she thrills in the nightingale's lay!
Breathe! she is wafting thee sweets from the roses;
Feel! she is cool in the rivulet's play;
Taste! from the grape and the nectarine gushing
Flows the red rill in the beams of the sun-
Green in the hills, in the flower groves blushing,
Look! she is always and everywhere one.
Banish, then, mourner, the tears that are trickling
Over the cheeks that should rosily bloom;
Why should a man, like a girl or a sickling,
Suffer his lamp to be quenched in the tomb?
Still may we battle for Goodness and Beauty;
Still hath Philanthropy much to essay:
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