Stonet sisĭi golubochik

Once a gentle turtle dove
Night and day dishearten’d mourn’d;
He was widow’d of his love,
She had fled, but not return’d.

He, whose wooing voice was heard
Constant as the break of day,
Pined, and droop’d--the faithful bird
Still, and sad, and silent lay.

While his thoughtless partner flew
Here and there--with all she sported:
All she wish’d to know, or knew,
Greeted, trifled with, or courted.

Oft he look’d, but look’d in vain,
He so faithful, fond, and true;
Slowly pined he ’neath his pain,
Strength departed, sorrow grew.

See, his head is ’neath his wing:
Coldness o’er his bosom creeps--
Ah! poor solitary thing!
All is still--the turtle sleeps.

Then the giddy, gadding dove,
Fluttering gaily, thither hies,
Takes her station by her love--
‘Husband! wake thee now,’ she cries.

With her wings she fans the dead,
Bitterest thoughts begin to flow:--
Chloe! tell me, hast thou read?
I’m a widow’d turtle too.