In open field the horses graze;

Beyond the tent the tamed bear lies;

And all is gay along the steppe

With busy cares of household life,

With women's songs, and children's laugh,

And measured beat of blacksmith's stroke,

As they prepare for morrow's march.

And now, o'er all the nomad camp

Unbroken silence calmly reigns,

And naught is heard on tranquil steppe,

Save bark of hound or neighing steed.

Throughout the camp the fires are quenched,

. And all is peace. The moon, sole queen

In heaven's expanse, sheds forth her rays,

And bathes the sleeping camp in light.

All sleep, save one old man who sits

Before the half-extinguished fire

And warms himself with its last heat.

And oft he scans the fields remote,

Enwrapt in evening's soft, white mist.

His daughter young and fair is wont

In all to have her way, and now

Has gone to stroll the lonely fields.

She will come back; but it is late,

And o'er the moon the clouds or night

Already gather thick and fast.

But no Zemphire returns: meanwhile,

The old man's modest meal grows cold.

At last she comes, and close behind

Follows along her path a youth,

A stranger to the gipsy sire.

"See, father mine", the maiden said,

"I bring a guest; beyond the mounds