itself. He was seated at his guitar, playing a Russian air from memory, when Catherine entered the apartment.
" Is it possible," she exclaimed, smiling, " that so accomplished a troubadour can descend to the savage strains of the frozen North can anything Russian dweil upon your memory ?"
" I must indeed be cold, Catherine," he replied, " ere I
forget the generosity of Ivan, or the beauty of his fair
country-woman," he added, checking himself, lest his too pointed meaning should bring on the declaration he deemed it most honourable to avoid.
" A compliment," replied Catherine, " at the expense of poor sincerity—you are detected, I can read the heart—as a punishment, you shall sing some lay of your own dear country."
" Willinglv," he replied; and striking a slight prelude on the instrument, he sang the following words, not inapplicable to his own feelings—
" Farewell! farewell! I would not fling,
Around thy brow the veil of sorrow:
Brightly for thee the mom may spring,
And mirth and pleasure wait thy morrow !
The words of love thy lips have spoken,
Each buming thought alike forget,
Keep not of me one parting token To wake the strain of vain regret!
Strike not the lute, whose chords for me
Breathed music's strain or passion's spell:
Each note would breathe again in thee The memory of this sad farewell!
Gay hours of bliss—long happy years—
And love'sbest joys—fair maid ! be thine:—
Ilis broken heart, his buming tears,
And sighs of vain regret are mine !"