THE

RUSSIAN FUGITIVE.

[Peter Henry Bruce, having given in his entertaining Memoirs the substance of the following Tale, affirms, that, besides the concurring reports of others, he had the story from the Lady's own mouth.

The Lady Catherine, mentioned towards the close, is the famous Catherine, then bearing that name as the acknowledged Wife of Peter the Great.]

PART I.

ENOUGH of rose-bud lips, and eyes
Like harebells bathed in dew,
Of cheek that with carnation vies,
And veins of violet hue;

Earth wants not beauty that may scorn
A likening to frail flowers;
Yea, to the stars, if they were born

For seasons and for hours.

Through Moscow's gates, with gold unbarred,

Stepped One at dead of night,

Whom such high beauty could not guard

From meditated blight ;

By stealth she passed, and fled as fast

As doth the hunted fawn,

Nor stopped, till in the dappling east
Appeared unwelcome dawn.

Seven days she lurked in brake and field,
Seven nights her course renewed,
Sustained by what her scrip might yield,
Or berries of the wood;

At length, in darkness travelling on,
When lowly doors were shut,
The haven of her hope she won,
Her Foster-mother's hut.

"To put your love to dangerous proof I come," said she, "from far;

For I have left my

Father's roof,

In terror of the Czar."

No answer did the Matron give,

No second look she cast, But hung upon the Fugitive, Embracing and embraced.

She led the Lady to a seat

Beside the glimmering fire, Bathed duteously her wayworn feet, Prevented each desire :

The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed,

And on that simple bed,

Where she in childhood had reposed,

Now rests her weary head.

When she, whose couch had been the sod,
Whose curtain, pine or thorn,

Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God,

Who comforts the forlorn;

While over her the Matron bent

Sleep sealed her eyes, and stole Feeling from limbs with travel spent, And trouble from the soul.

Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at morn,
And soon again was dight
In those unworthy vestments worn
Through long and perilous flight;
And "O beloved Nurse," she said,

66 My thanks with silent tears
Have unto Heaven and You been paid:

Now listen to my fears!

"Have you forgot"—and here she smiled—

"The babbling flatteries

You lavished on me when a child

Disporting round your knees?

I was your lambkin, and your bird,

Your star, your gem, your flower; Light words, that were more lightly heard In many a cloudless hour!