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Nor will you napping there discover me;

But never mind your horse, though out of sight 'T were best to carry him into some wood, If but the means or way I understood." The giant said, “ Then carry him I will,

Since that to carry me he was so slack, To render, as the gods do, good for ill;

But lend a hand to place him on my back."
Orlando answered, “If my counsel still

May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake
To lift or carry this dead courser, who
As you have done to him will do to you.

“ Take care he don't revenge himself, though dead,

As Nessus did of old beyond all cure;
I don't know if the fact you've heard or read,

But he will make you burst, you may be sure." “But help him on my back," Morgante said,

“And you shall see what weight I can endure. In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey, With all the bells, I'd carry yonder belfrey."

The abbot said, “The steeple may do well,

But for the bells, you've broken them, I wot." Morgante answered, “ Let them pay in hell

The penalty, who lie dead in yon grot."
And hoisting up the horse from where he fell,

He said, “Now look if I the gout have got,
Orlando, in the legs - or if I have force;" —
And then he made two gambols with the horse.

Morgante was like any mountain framed;

So if he did this, 't is no prodigy:
But secretly himself Orlando blamed,

Because he was one of his family;
And fearing that he might be hurt or maimed,

Once more he bade him lay his burthen by:
“ Put down, nor bear him further the desert in.”
Morgante said, “I'll carry him for certain."

He did : and stowed him in some nook away,

And to the abbey then returned with speed. Orlando said, “Why longer do'we stay,

Morgante ? here is naught to do indeed."

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ALEXANDER SERGÉEVICH PUSHKIN.

PUSHKIN, ALEXANDER SERGÉEVICH, a great Russian poet and romancer; born at Moscow, May 26, 1799 ; killed in a duel January 29, 1837. Among his principal works are: “The Prisoner of the Caucasus” (1821); “ The Fountain of Bakhchisarai” (1822); “The Robber Brothers" (1822); “The Gipsies ” (1824); “Count Nulin,” a comic epos; “Poltava” (1829), an epic poem; “Journey to Erzerum during the Campaigu of 1829” (1836); “The Little House in Kolomna," a poetical narrative; the dramas “ The Avaricious Knight," “ Mozart and Salieri,” and “The Stony Guest;” “The Banquet during the Plague;" his masterpiece “Evgeny Onyegin " (1828), a romance in verse after the manner of Byron's “Don Juan;" and the historic novels “ The Captain's Daughter” (1831), " Dubrovsky,” “History of Pugachef's Revolt” (1834).

GRIGORI AND FATHER PIMEN.
(From “ Boris Godunof.”) Translated by Nathan Haskell Dole.
Night: A cell in the Tydobori Monastery, 1603. FATHER PIMEN;
GRIGORI (afterwards known as the False Dmitri) sleeping.

PIMEN [writing before a lamp].
One more, one final anecdote, and then
My manuscript will be complete, the task
On me, a sinner, laid by God, fulfilled.
'Tis not for naught that during all these years
The Lord hath made me witness many things,
And taught me all the art of writing books.
When in the future some industrious monk
Shall find my hard accomplished nameless work,
He will, like me, illume his little lamp,
And, brushing off the dust of centuries,
Will copy down my truthful chronicle.
Then will the children of believers true
Read all the story of their native land,
Recall the labors of their mighty tsars,

Performed for them, for glory and for right,
And humbly offer prayers that God will blot
The crimes, though dark, of him who wrought for them.
Thus, bent with many years, I live anew
The past, before me rolls its hurrying flood.
Is 't long ago that like the angry sea
Time's fateful surges broke in great events ?
And now it rests in motionless repose !
Not many men my memory preserves,
Nor many words are in my mind engrossed,
And all the rest forever now are gone.
But day is nigh, my little lamp burns dim;
One more, one final story of the past !

[Writes.] GRIGORI (wakes]. That dream again ? How strange!

That cursed dream..
Thrice have I dreamed it! . . . But the aged man
Still sits before his little lamp and writes.
He hath not closed his eyes the livelong night
In slumber : how I love his peaceful mien,
As, deeply buried in the past, his soul
Broods o’er the secrets of his manuscript.
How gladly would I scan his precious lines.
What writeth he: the Tatars' bloody reign, -
The cruel deeds of John the Terrible ?
The stormy council of old Novgorod ?
The glories of the fatherland ? In vain!
Nor in his glance nor in his lofty brow
Can one discern the secrets of his mind :
His mien is calm and full of majesty,
As well becomes an aged priest who looks
With cloudless eyes on good and evil men
Impartially, detecting right and wrong
Or hatred or compassion knowing not.

PIMEN. Art thou awake?
GRIGORI.

Thy blessing, honored sire. PIMEN. The Lord his blessing grant thee, oh, my son, To-day, hereafter, and for evermore !

GRIGORI. Long has thy pen been busy, nor has sleep
Once brought thee sweet oblivion this night;
But some strange diabolic vision hath disturbed
My rest: my enemy hath tormented me.
I mounted to the windy tower alone;
Before me from the top all Moscow lay
Diminished like an ant-hill. Far below
The people swarmed and babbled in the square

And jeered at me with senseless ridicule.
Shame mastered me and terror overwhelmed,
And, falling headlong on my face, I waked.
'Tis thrice that I have dreamed the self-same dream.
Is 't not a marvel ?
PIMEN.

'Tis thy youthful blood
Makes sport of thee: by prayer and strenuous fast
Thy dreams will be with peaceful visions filled.
'Tis only since a little time, if I,
Dazed with involuntary drowsiness,
Should fail my soul with earnest prayer to guard,
My aged dreams would be disturbed with sin :
Wild scenes of banqueting would oft torment,
Now warlike camps or surging battles rude,
Now senseless dissipations of wild youth.

GRIGORI. How gayly must have passed thy youthful days!
Thou wast in battle 'neath Kazán's high wall;
Hast shared the war in Lithuania's plain;
Hast seen the wanton court of John the Great.
How fortunate! But I from earliest years
Have been immured in cells a needy monk !
Why should not I have had delight in war
And feasted at the table of the Tsar ?
Then when I reached like thee the term of life,
I might have turned me gladly from the world
And all its vanities, and shut myself
Within the calm retirement of a cell
To meditate upon my holy vows.

PIMEN. Lament not, brother, that thou hast so soon
The world abandoned, that a loving God
Hath little of temptation sent to thee.
Take thou my word, a fascination strong
Is exercised upon us from afar,
By glory, luxury, and woman's wiles.
Long have I lived and much have I enjoyed;
But only true enjoyment have I known
Since to the cloister God hath led my steps.
Recall the mightiest tsars that ever lived.
Who stands above them ? God alone! And who
Would venture to oppose them ? None! What then ?
On them so sorely weighs the golden crown
They would exchange it gladly for the cowl.
E'en John the Tsar sought comfort and relief
Within the semblance of monastic rule.
His court, where swarmed his haughty favorites,

The novel aspect of a cloister took ;
His body-guard, in sackcloth and in stole,
Appeared like docile monks, the while the Tsar,
Himself, the cruel Tsar, an abbot mild,
Myself have seen, here in this very cell —
('T was then the abode of that most just of men,
Kirill, who suffered much, and even then
I also had been led by God to see
The folly of the world) — myself have seen,
Here in this very cell, the mighty Tsar,
Grown weary of his mad designs and wrath,
Repenting, sit amongst us, meek and mild.
We stood before him silent, motionless,
And quietly he would converse with us,
Would hold the abbot and the brotherhood :
“ Ye fathers, now the wished-for hour is come,
Here I appear with hunger to be saved ;
Thou Nikodim, thou Sergi, thou Kirill,
And all of ye, accept my heartfelt vow !
I come to you a sinner in despair;
I take upon myself the monk's harsb garb,
And fall, oh, holy father, at thy feet!”.
Thus spoke the mighty ruler of the realm;
And gentle words flowed from his cruel lips,
And tears bedewed his cheeks; and we in tears
Would pray our Lord his sinful, suffering soul
To fill with everlasting love and peace.
But his son Feodor ? Upon the throne
Vowed to perpetual silence, like a monk;
He sighed to lead a life of easy peace.
He would have changed the royal palace-halls
To cloistered cells, the heavy cares of state
Would not then have disturbed his soul.
God mercifully gave the Tsar his peace;
And while he lived, our Russia, undisturbed
In taintless glory, owned his gentle sway.
But when he died, a miracle was wrought,
Unheard of; at his couch appeared a man
With face of flame, seen by the Tsar alone.
Feodor talked with him, and called him “Sire" -
“Great Patriarch." All around were filled with fear
To see the heavenly apparition there,
Because the holy father was not then
Within the chamber where the Tsar was laid.
And when he ceased sweet fragrance filled the halls,

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