text:  What stirs ye? Is it that this nation On Moscow's flaming wall blood-slaked and ruin-quench'd Spurn'd back the insolent dictation Of Him before whose nod ye blench'd? Is it that into dust we shatter'd The Dagon that weigh'd down all earth so wearily? And our best blood so freely scatter'd To buy for Europe peace and liberty? Ye're bold of tongue--but hark would ye in _deed_ but try it Or is the hero now reclined in laurell'd quiet Too weak to fix once more Izmail's red bayonet? Or hath the Russian Tsar ever in vain commanded? Or must we meet all Europe banded? Have we forgot to conquer yet? Or rather shall they not from Perm to Tauris' fountains From the hot Colchian steppes to Finland's icy mountains From the grey Kreml's half-shatter'd wall To far Kathay in dotage buried-- A steelly rampart close and serried Rise--Russia's warriors--one and all? Then send your numbers without number Your madden'd sons your goaded slaves In Russia's plains there's room to slumber And well they'll know their brethen's graves! * * * * * We are not sure whether we are right in yielding to the temptation of transcribing in these sheets so many of the smaller lyrics and fugitive pieces of our author; and whether that very charm of _form_ and _expression_ which attract so strongly our admiration to the originals should not have rather tended to deter us from so difficult an attempt as that of transposing them into another language