Cries, "when wilt return from battle?"

"Fill thy hand with sands, ray blossom!
Sow them on the rock's rude bosom,
Night and morning stroll to view them,
With thy briny tears bedew them,
And when they shall sprout in glory
I'll return me from the foray."

From the wood a sound is gliding,
Vapours dense the plain are hiding,
Cries the Dame in anxious measure:
"Stay, I'll wash thy head, my treasure!"
"Me shall wash the rains which splash me,
Me shall comb the thorns which gash me,
Me shall dry the winds which lash me."




THE RENEGADE


From the Polish of Mickiewicz.

Now pay ye the heed that is fitting,
Whilst I sing ye the Iran adventure;
The Pasha on sofa was sitting
In his harem's glorious centre.