Among the good and free in soul;

Harsh thou art and rash: so, leave us!

Farewell, and peace abide with thee!"

He spake, and now the busy crowd

The nomad camp begin to raise:

They hasten forth, and soon are lost

To view. One van alone, with roof

Of canvas torn, remains behind,

And stands upon the fatal field.

As when, before cold winter conies,

At early hour, on misty morn,

A flock of cranes will from the field

Rise up on high with eager cry,

And quick begin their southern flight,

One wretched bird, the sportsman prey,

With wounded wing that helpless hangs,

Is left behind to pine and die.

Though night came on, within the van

None cared to kindle light or fire,

And none beneath the tattered roof

Sought rest or sleep till morning broke.

EPILOGUE.

The magic charm of song divine

Brings back to lite the olden days,

Writes anew on memory's page

The record of past joys and griefs.

In the land where centuries long

The din of war not once was hushed;

Where Russian arms supremely marked

The lawful bounds of Stamboul's sway;

And where the mighty eagle shook

His proud, wide wings o'er triumphs won;

'Twas there, the wild steppe stretching round,

On borders of our ancient rule,