His youthful wife, as falls the dew from heaven--
The Sun, arising, dries the dew of heaven.




ANCIENT BALLAD


From the Malo Russian.

From the wood a sound is gliding,
Vapours dense the plain are hiding,
How yon Dame her son is chiding.
"Son, away! nor longer tarry!
Would the Turks thee off would carry!"
"Ha; the Turkmen know and heed me;
Coursers good the Turkmen breed me."

From the wood a sound is gliding,
Vapours dense the plain are hiding,
Still that Dame her son is chiding:
"Hence, begone! nor longer tarry!
Would the Horde {11} thee off would carry!"
"Ha! the Horde has learnt to prize me;
"'Tis the Horde with gold supplies me."

Brings his horse his eldest sister,
And the next his arms, which glister,
Whilst the third, with childish prattle,