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Poems: Narrative.
The son of Don he pulls the rein
And the spur he strikes:
Like an arrow rushed the steed—
To the huts he turned.
In the clouds the distant sky
Was silvering the moon;
A Beauty-Maid in melancholy
By the window sits.
Espies the brave the Beauty-Maid,
Beats his heart within:
Gently steed to left, to left—
Under the window now is he.
"Darker growing is the night
And hidden is the moon;
Quick, my darling, do come out,
Water give my steed."
"No, not unto a man so young;
Right fearful 't is to go;
Fearful 't is my house to leave,
And water give thy steed."
"Have no fear, О Beauty-Maid,
And friendship close with me"—
"Brings danger night to Beauty-Maids,"—
"Fear me not, О joy of mine!
