Page:Anthology of Russian Literature (Part II).djvu/145

Rh War breaking out, my friends to it
 * As to a banquet prest;

I with them; but me cruel fate
 * Soon parted from the rest.

In weary idleness their steps
 * I followed mentally;

And oft their relatives I cheered
 * With words of victory.

Time passed: the thoughts of days gone by
 * Sad tears of sorrow yield;

Then ceased the war. Where are my friends?
 * Dead on the battlefield.

Now I am sorrowful at feasts,
 * Where others' joy is great;

In wine-cups e'en the past recalled
 * Embitters all my state.

—From C. T. Wilson's Russian Lyrics.

Sang a little bird, and sang,
 * And grew silent;

Knew the heart of merriment,
 * And forgot it.

Why, O little songster bird.
 * Grew you quiet?

How learned you, O heart, to know
 * Gloomy sorrow?

Ah! the little bird was killed
 * By grim snow-blasts;

Perished is the fellow brave
 * Through ill gossips!

Had the bird but flown away
 * Tow'rds the blue sea!

Had the youth but run away
 * Tow'rds the forest!