M.S. Translation attempted from the Italian of Carlo Maggi, by S.P. Junr
When iron grief the bosom rends
Thought draws up near our distant friends
Nor lets mere space our souls divide
But brings them instant to our side
Then ev’ry soothing look and word
By fancy’s power is seen and heard
And all their wonted charm impart
To ease the mind, and glad the heart.
Reason their much-lov’d voice assumes
Its calm the troubled breast resumes.
M.S. Lines attempted to a Russ Air by S.P. Junr
Hark! the battle’s distant thunder
Calls me to the welcome fight,
War-fires rend the clouds in sunder
Fading new born light.
Hid the tear-drop, check thy sobbing!
Thy cossack why wouldst thou shame?
If thy breast for him is throbbing
Be it for his fame!
Woman’s heart still thrills at glory
Why then pallid shouldst thou be?
If thy lover live in story
Lives he not to thee?
Death’s dark veil mine eyelids cov’ring
Yet would leave my spirit free,
Which around thee ever hov’ring
Dear! should dwell with thee.