Derzhavin.

O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright All space doth occupy, all motion guide; Unchanged through time’s all-devastating flight; Thou only God! There is no God beside! Being above all beings! Three in One! Whom none can comprehend and none explore; Who fill’st existence with Thyself alone: Embracing all,—supporting,—ruling o’er,— Being whom we call God—and know no more⁠[2]⁠! In its sublime research, philosophy May measure out the ocean-deep—may count The sands or the sun’s rays—but, God! for Thee There is no weight nor measure:—none can mount Up to Thy mysteries; Reason’s brightest spark, Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark: And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, Even like past moments in eternity. Thou from primeval nothingness didst call First chaos, then existence;—Lord! on Thee Eternity had its foundation:—all Sprung forth from Thee:—of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin:—all life, all beauty Thine. Thy word created all, and doth create; Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. Thou art, and wert, and shalt be! Glorious! Great! Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate! Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround: Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath! Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, And beautifully mingled life and death! As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze, So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee; And as the spangles in the sunny rays Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry Of heaven’s bright army glitters in Thy praise⁠[3]⁠. A million torches lighted by Thy hand Wander unwearied through the blue abyss: They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command; All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light— A glorious company of golden streams— Lamps of celestial ether burning bright— Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? But Thou to these art as the noon to night. Yes! as a drop of water in the sea, All this magnificence in Thee is lost:— What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee? And what am I then? Heaven’s unnumber’d host, Though multiplied by myriads, and array’d In all the glory of sublimest thought; Is but an atom in the balance weigh’d Against Thy greatness; is a cypher brought Against infinity! What am I then? Nought! Nought! But the effluence of Thy light divine, Pervading worlds, hath reach’d my bosom too; Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine As shines the sun-beam in a drop of dew. Nought! but I live, and on hope’s pinions fly Eager towards Thy presence; for in Thee I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high, Even to the throne of Thy divinity. I am, O God! and surely Thou must be! Thou art! directing, guiding all, Thou art! Direct my understanding then to Thee; Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart: Though but an atom midst immensity, Still I am something, fashion’d by Thy hand! I hold a middle rank ’twixt heaven and earth, On the last verge of mortal being stand, Close to the realms where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land! The chain of being is complete in me; In me is matter’s last gradation lost, And the next step is spirit—Deity! I can command the lightning, and am dust! A monarch, and a slave; a worm, a god! Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously Constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod Lives surely through some higher energy; For from itself alone it could not be! Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word Created me! Thou source of life and good! Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude Fill’d me with an immortal soul, to spring Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, Even to its source—to Thee—its Author there. O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast, And waft its homage to Thy Deity. God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar; Thus seek Thy presence—Being wise and good! Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore; And when the tongue is eloquent no more, The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.

Ah! that funereal toll! loud tongue of time! What woes are centred in that frightful sound! It calls! it calls me with a voice sublime, To the lone chambers of the burial ground. My life’s first footsteps are midst yawning graves; A pale, teeth-clattering spectre passes nigh; A scythe of lightning that pale spectre waves, Mows down man’s days like grass, and hurries by. Nought his untired rapacity can cloy: Monarchs and slaves are all the earth-worm’s food; And the wild-raging elements destroy Even the recording tomb. Vicissitude Devours the pride of glory; as the sea Insatiate drinks the waters, so our days And years are lost in deep eternity; Cities and empires vandal death decays. We tremble on the borders of the abyss, And giddy totter headlong from on high; For death with life our common portion is, And man is only born that he may die. Death knows no sympathy; he tramples on All tenderness—extinguishes the stars— Tears from the firmament the glowing sun, And blots out worlds in his gigantic wars. But mortal man forgets mortality! His dreams crowd ages into life’s short day;— While, like a midnight robber stealing by, Death plunders time by hour and hour away. When least we fear, then is the traitor nigh; Where most secure we seem, he loves to come: Less swift than he, the bolts of thunder fly, Less sure than he, the lightning strikes the dome. Thou son of luxury! child of dance and song, O whither, whither is thy spirit fled? On life’s dull sea thy bark delayed not long, But sought the silent haven of the dead. Here is thy dust! Thy spirit is not here! Where is it? There. Where there? ’tis all unknown: We weep and sigh—alas! we know not where! For man is doubt and darkness’ eldest son. Where love and joy and health and worldly good, And all life’s pleasures in their splendor glow; He dries the nerves up, he congeals the blood, And shakes the very soul with mighty woe. The songs of joy are funeral cries become— And luxury’s board is cover’d with a pall— The chamber of the banquet is a tomb: Death, the pale autocrat, he rules o’er all. He rules o’er all—and him must kings obey, Whose will no counsel knows and no control; The proud and gilded great ones are his prey, Who stand like pillars in a tyrant’s hall. Beauty and beauty’s charms are nought to him, Man’s intellect is crush’d by his decrees; Man’s brightest light his dreadful frown can dim— He whets his scythe with trophies such as these. Death makes all nature tremble! What are we? To-morrow dust, though almost gods to-day! A mixture strange of pride and poverty: Now basking in hope’s fair and gladdening ray; To-morrow—what is man to-morrow? Nought! How swiftly rolls the never-tarrying stream, Hour after hour to gloomy chaos brought; While ages dawn and vanish like a dream! Even like an infant’s sweet imagining, My early, lovely spring-tide hurried on: Beauty just smiled and sported—then took wing; Joy laugh’d a moment and then joy was gone. Now less susceptible of bliss, less blest, Wiser and worldlier, panting for a name; With a vain thirst of honour, pain’d, opprest, I labour wearied up the hill of fame. But manhood too and manhood’s care will pass, And glory’s struggles be ere long forgot; For fame, like wealth, has busy wings, alas! And joy’s and sorrow’s sound will move us not. Begone, ye vain pursuits, ye dreams of bliss, Changing and false, no longer flatter me! I stand upon the sepulchre’s abyss, In the dark portal of eternity. To-day, my friend! may bring our final doom; If not to-day, to-morrow surely will: Why look we sadly on Meshchersky’s tomb? Here he was happy—he is happy still! Life was not given for ages to endure, But virtue on death’s bosom finds her rest; And know—a spirit order’d well and pure, May make life’s sorrows and life’s changes blest.

Lo! like a glorious pile of diamonds bright, Built on the steadfast cliffs, the waterfall Pours forth its gems of pearl and silver light: They sink, they rise, and sparkling cover all With infinite refulgence; while its song, Sublime as thunder, rolls the woods along— Rolls through the woods—they send its accents back, Whose last vibration in the desert dies: Its radiance glances o’er the watery track, Till the soft wave, as wrapt in slumber, lies Beneath the forest-shade; then sweetly flows A milky stream, all silent, as it goes. Its foam is scattered on the margent bound, Skirting the darksome grove. But list! the hum Of industry, the rattling hammer’s sound, Files whizzing, creaking sluices, echoed come On the fast-travelling breeze! O no! no voice Is heard around, but thy majestic noise! When the mad storm-wind tears the oak asunder, In thee its shivered fragments find their tomb; When rocks are riven by the bolt of thunder, As sands they sink into thy mighty womb: The ice that would imprison thy proud tide, Like bits of broken glass is scattered wide. The fierce wolf prowls around thee—there he stands Listening—not fearful, for he nothing fears: His red eyes burn like fury-kindled brands, Like bristles o’er him his course fur he rears; Howling, thy dreadful roar he oft repeats, And, more ferocious, hastes to bloodier feats. The wild stag hears thy falling waters’ sound, And tremblingly flies forward—o’er her back She bends her stately horns—the noiseless ground Her hurried feet impress not—and her track Is lost amidst the tumult of the breeze, And the leaves falling from the rustling trees. The wild horse thee approaches in his turn: He changes not his proudly rapid stride; His mane stands up erect—his nostrils burn— He snorts—he pricks his ears—and starts aside; Then rushing madly forward to thy steep, He dashes down into thy torrents deep. Beneath the cedar, in abstraction sunk, Close to thine awful pile of majesty, On yonder old and mouldering moss-bound trunk, That hangs upon the cliff’s rude edge, I see An old man, on whose forehead winter’s snow Is scattered, and his hand supports his brow. The lance, the sword, the ample shield beneath Lie at his feet obscured by spreading rust; His casque is circled by an ivy wreath— Those arms were once his country’s pride and trust: And yet upon his golden breast-plate plays The gentle brightness of the sunset rays. He sits, and muses on the rapid stream, While deep thoughts struggling from his bosom rise: “Emblem of man! here brightly pictured seem The world’s gay scenery and its pageantries, Which, as delusive as thy shining wave, Glow for the proud, the coward and the slave. So is our little stream of life poured out, In the wild turbulence of passion: so, Midst glory’s glance and victory’s thunder-shout, The joys of life in hurried exile go— Till hope’s fair smile and beauty’s ray of light Are shrouded in the griefs and storms of night. Day after day prepares the funeral shroud; The world is gray with age:—the striking hour Is but an echo of death’s summons loud— The jarring of the dark grave’s prison door: Into its deep abyss—devouring all— Kings and the friends of kings alike must fall. Aye! they must fall! see that unconquered one Midst Rome’s high senate—hark! his deeds they tell: He stretch’d his hand to seize the proffered crown; His mantle veiled his countenance—he fell. Where are the schemes, the hopes that dazzled him? Those eyes, aspiring to a throne, are dim⁠[4]⁠. Aye! they must fall! another hero see, From triumph’s golden chariot fortune flings: The proudest son of magnanimity, Who scorned the purple robe:—ev’n he whom kings Looked to with reverence: he in prison dies, Heaven’s light extinguished in his vacant eyes⁠[5]⁠. Aye! they must fall! as I have fallen—I, Whom late with flowery wreaths the cities crown’d; And dazzling phantoms played so smilingly Midst laurels, olive-branches waving round; ’Tis past—’tis past—for in the battle now My hand no lightnings at the foe can throw. My strength abandons me; the tempest’s roar Hath in its fury borne my lance away: My spirit rises proudly as before, But triumph hides her false and treacherous ray.” He spake—he slumbered, wearied and opprest; And Morpheus o’er him waved his wings of rest. A wintry darkness visited the world, Borne on the raven-pinions of the night; Nothing is heard but thy loud torrents, hurled Down in their fierceness from the o’erhanging height; They dash in fury ’gainst the echoing rock, Even with an Alpine avalanche’s shock. The desert is as gloomy as the grave; The mountains seem all wrapt in solemn sleep; The clouds are rolling by, like wave on wave, In silent majesty across heaven’s deep. But see, the pale-faced melancholy moon Looks tremblingly from her exalted throne: She look’d out tremblingly, and soon withdrew Her terror-stricken horns: the old man lay Sleeping in sweet tranquillity: she knew Her mighty foe—she knew, and slunk away: She dared not look on that old man, for he Was the world’s glory and her enemy⁠[6]⁠. He slumber’d; glorious were his hero-dreams! And wondrous visions floated round his eye: While near, the sleeping bolt of thunder seems To wait from him its awful destiny. Ten thousand warriors armed around him stand, And silently attend his high command. His finger points! the loud artillery’s fire Follows! a sudden trembling shakes the ground; Army on army, in their proud attire, Cover the vales, the hills, the plains around; They rise like mountains o’er the distant sea, When from the sunny ray the vapours flee. His footsteps now imprint the dewy grass; There early morning opens on his view, Amidst the dust, th’ innumerable mass Of enemies: he looks their squadrons through, And reads the secrets of their vast array, Even as an eagle soaring o’er his prey. Then like a Magus in his dark retreat He calls his spirits round him; gathering those And scattering these, with prudence infinite, Thro’ valleys, plains, and mountains; then he throws O’er all a mantle of omnipotence, While the storm bursts with furious vehemence. The eagle’s daring, and the crescent’s pride, There, by the ebony and the amber sea⁠[7]⁠, He humbles; and, by the evening’s golden side⁠[8]⁠, Subdues the golden fleece and Kolkhidi. A thousand trophies of victorious war Redeem the losses of the snowy tzar⁠[9]⁠: Like the vermilion ray on morning’s wings, His triumphs o’er admiring nations beam: Emperors and empires, heroes, kingdoms, kings, Unite to praise, unite to honour him, And raise above his glory-circled head A laurelled, time-enduring pyramid. His name, his deeds through hurrying years appear Bright as the sun-beams on the mountain’s brow, Dazzling the world with splendor: waving there Garlands of radiance-giving laurels glow; Their rays shall animate the future fight, And fill the brave one’s breast with hope and light. Envy, disarmed before his piercing glance, Bends down her head to earth, and hurries by; Crawls trembling to her vile retreat askance— She cannot bear the lightnings of his eye. Go, envy, to thy dark and deep abyss! What deeds, what fame can be compared to his? He slumbers midst these images; but now He hears the howling dogs—the trembling trees; The vulture’s cries, the screech-owl’s voice of woe, And the fierce raging of the turbulent breeze; The wild beasts’ roaring from their distant lair, And shadowy spirits fill the troubled air. The oaks are shivered by the maddened storm; Armies of ravens flap their funeral wings; The stony mountain shakes its giant form, And bursts, with terrible re-echoings: From rock to rock ’tis vibrated around, And thunders thunder back the thundering sound⁠[10]⁠. A winged woman, clad in sable weeds, Her long hair scattered by the winds, was there, Like one with dreadful, deathful news that speeds: She waved a scythe-like weapon in the air, And held a golden trump; she called “Arise,” And her loud voice was echoed through the skies. See on her casque the frowning eagle rest, Grasping the fearful thunderbolt: he bears His country’s shield upon his noble breast. The old man waked; he shed a shower of tears; He sighed, and bent his venerable head, Uttering—“Some hero surely must be dead. Happy if always combating for right When combating with glory: happy he Whose sword knew mercy in the bloodiest fight, His shield an Ægis for an enemy. Centuries to come shall celebrate his fame, And ‘Friend of Man’ shall be his noblest name. Dear let his memory be, and proud his grave, And this his epitaph!—‘He lived, he fought For truth and wisdom: foremost of the brave, Him glory’s idle glances dazzled not; ’Twas his ambition, generous and great, A life to life’s great end to consecrate!’ O glory! glory! mighty one on earth! How justly imaged in this waterfall! So wild and furious in thy sparkling birth, Dashing thy torrents down, and dazzling all, While hurrying thus sublimely from thy height, Majestic, thundering, beautiful and bright. How many a wondering eye is turned to thee, In admiration lost;—short-sighted men! Thy furious wave gives no fertility; Thy waters, rolling fiercely through the plain, Bring nought but devastation and distress, And leave the flowery vale a wilderness. O fairer, lovelier is the modest rill, Watering with steps serene the field, the grove; Its gentle voice as sweet and soft and still As shepherd’s pipe, or song of youthful love. It has no thundering torrent, but it flows Unwearied, scattering blessings as it goes. To the wild mountain let the wanderer come, And, resting on the turf, look round and see, With sadden’d eye, the green and grassy tomb, And hear its monitory language: he— He sleeps below, not famed in war alone; The great, the good, the generous-minded one. O be immortal, warlike hero! Thou Hast done thy duty—all thy duty here.” So said the old man crowned with locks of snow: He looked to heaven, then stood in silence there,— In silence, but the echoes caught the sound, And filled the listening scenery around. Who glances there along the mountain’s side, Just like the moon upon the darkest wave? What shadow flits across the midnight tide, Gleaming as if from heaven? The pitchy grave Is brighter than that gloomy brow, ’tis clad In deep and desolate abstraction sad! What wondrous spirit from the north descends? The winds are swift, but cannot follow him: Nation on nation struck with terror bends; His voice is thunder; starry glories gleam Around him, and his glancing footsteps bright Scatter a thousand thousand rays of light. His body, like a dark and gloomy shade, On midnight’s melancholy bosom lies: A coarse and heavy garment round him laid, And thickening films are gathering round his eyes: His icy fingers press his bosom chill, His lips are opened wide, but all is still. His bed, the earth: his roof, the azure sky: His palace, yonder desert stretching wide. Art thou the son of fame and luxury? The prince of Tavrid? from thy height of pride Fallen so low and lonely? and is this But one dark step from glory and from bliss? Wert thou the favourite of the northern throne, Minerva’s⁠[11] favourite? Wert thou he that trod The Muse’s temple—thou, Apollo’s son, The pride of Mars—thou, on whose mighty nod Both peace and war stood waiting; nobly great, Not clad in purple, but a potentate? What! art thou he that cradled and uprear’d The Russian’s prowess—Catherine’s energy? Sustain’d by her, thy thunderbolt was heard Rolling through distant lands its majesty; And to the everlasting heights was hurl’d, Whence Rome sent forth her mandates to the world. Art thou not he who bade the robber yield; Scatter’d the pirate herds the desert o’er, And bade the city flourish and the field, Where all was waste and barrenness before; Sprinkled with ships the Euxine—while the shore Even of the tropics heard thy cannons’ roar? Wert thou the great, the glorious one, who knew With martial fire the hero Russ to fill; Taught him the very elements to subdue, In burning Ochakov and Ismahil: With eagle-daring, eagle-strength inspired; While valour looked and wondered and admired? ’Tis he, the hardiest of mortals; he, Sublimely soaring, takes his flight alone, Creator of his own proud destiny: No footstep near him—that bright path his own. Thy fame, Potemkin, shall in glory glow, While everlasting ages lingering flow. Beauty and art and knowledge raised to him Triumphal arches: smiling fortune wove Myrtle and laurel-wreaths, and victory’s beam Lighted them up with brightness: joy and love Play’d round thy flow’ry footsteps: pleasure, pride Walk’d in majestic glory at thy side. ’Tis he, ’tis he to whom the poet brought His offerings lighted with the Muse’s fire: Thundering with Pindar’s majesty of thought, And breathing all the sweetness of the lyre, I sang the victories of Ismahil; But thou wert gone—the poet’s lyre was still. Alas! ’twas then a vain and voiceless shell: Or, if it spoke, its tone was but despair; From my weak hands it fell, in dust it fell, My eye was dimmed by the fast-falling tear: I stood the stars of paradise beneath⁠[12]⁠, But all was darkness, desolation, death! ’Tis still, where all was eloquent with thee: The thunders of thy fame have rolled away; Thy orphan’d armies wail their misery; The ear is wearied with their plaintive lay. ’Twas brightness all, with joy and beauty bright, But now ’tis night, ’tis desolation’s night. Thy laurel crown is faded in its pride: Thy sparkling Bulava⁠[13] is broken now; Thy half-sheathed sword hangs useless at thy side; And Catherine mourns her woe, her more than woe: He fell; his mighty, unexpected fall Shook, like an earthquake, the terrestrial ball. Peace brought her fresh green laurel branches; saw His fall, and from her hands the garland fell. She heard the voice of wretchedness and woe; The Muses joined to sing a funeral knell Around the tomb of Pericles:—the strain Of Maro wept Macænas’ fate again⁠[14]⁠. His was a kingdom full of light: a throne Of more than regal glory was his seat: A rosy-silver steed convey’d him on— A splendour-glancing phaeton at his feet: Proudest of all the proud equestrians he— He fell:—in death’s dull, dark obscurity. O! what is human glory, human pride? What are man’s triumphs when they brightest seem? What art thou, mighty one! though deified? Methusalem’s long pilgrimage, a dream; Our age is but a shade, our life a tale, A vacant fancy, or a passing gale, Or nothing! ’Tis a heavy hollow ball, Suspended on a slender, subtle hair, And filled with storm-winds, thunders, passions, all Struggling within in furious tumult there. Strange mystery! man’s gentlest breath can shake it, And the light zephyrs are enough to break it. But a few hours, or moments, and beneath Empires are buried in a night of gloom: The very elements are leagued with death, A breath sends giants to their lonely tomb. Where is the mighty one? He is not found, His dust lies trampled in the noiseless ground! The dust of heroes? No! their glories rise Triumphant upwards, spreading living light And pure imperishable memories Through ages of forgetfulness and night: Flowers shining on time’s wintry mountain side; Potemkin could not die—he has not died! His theatre was th’ Euxine’s distant shore, His temple, thankful hearts: the glorious hand That crowns him, Catherine’s: glancing, dazzling o’er Was fame’s all-eloquent, triumphant band. Life was a list of triumphs, and his head Beneath a tomb-stone, reared by love, was laid. When the red morn breaks trembling o’er the dew, And through the woods the wild winds whistle shrill; When the dark Danube wears a bloody hue— Then is the name oft heard of Ismahil, And oft a gloomy voice is echoed then, Through twilight, “Say what means the Saracen?” He trembles, and his eye is dimmed with fear, The arms he dreads are sparkling in the sun; And forty thousand Moslems dying there, Are the proud trophies of the northern one. Their shades, like frighted spectres, glide before, And the Russ stands in streams of human gore. He trembles, and looks upwards, but the skies Are covered with portentous omens dire; Dark visions from the sea of Tavrid rise, And the land shakes with heaven’s excited ire: Ochakov pours anew her sanguine flood, And terror seems to freeze that tide of blood. As through the fluid brightness of the sea, Beneath the welkin’s sunny canopy, The tenants of the waves glide joyfully; So o’er the Leman’s face our squadrons fly, Their swell’d sails bursting with the winds, they tell How proud the ambition of the Russ can swell. Ours is unutterable triumph now, Theirs fears and apprehensions: on the tomb That shields their heroes, thorns and mosses grow; Laurels and roses o’er our heroes bloom. Our glory-girded mausoleums stand O’er conquerors of the ocean and the land. When the sun sinks at evening’s calmest close, Love sorrowfully sits: the breeze of spring Across the melancholy harp-strings blows, And spreads around its deep notes sorrowing: Sighs from his bosom burst, and tears are shed Upon the sleeping hero’s sculptured bed. And ere the morning gilds the distant hill, And o’er the golden tomb the sunbeams play; While yet the wild deer sleeps; and night winds shrill Wind round the mountain’s side; the old man gray Hangs o’er the monument in secret gloom, And reads, “Potemkin’s consecrated tomb!” Manes of Alcibiades! so low, That even the earth-worm joys in their decay: There lies the casque that bound Achilles’ brow; The shepherd finds it—bears that casque away On his base forehead! Does it matter? Nay! The victor sleeps—his glory? wrapt in clay! But gratitude still lives and loves to cherish The patriot’s virtues, while the soul of song In sacred tones, that never never perish, Fame’s everlasting thunder bears along; The lyre has an eternal voice—of all That’s holy, holiest is the good man’s pall. List then, ye worldly waterfalls! Vain men, Whose brains are dizzy with ambition; bright Your swords—your garments flow’ry like a plain In the spring time—if truth be your delight And virtue your devotion, let your sword Be bared alone at wisdom’s sacred word. Roar, roar, thou waterfall! lift up thy voice Even to the clouded regions of the skies: Thy brightness and thy beauty may rejoice, Thy music charms the ears, thy light the eyes; Joy-giving torrent! sweetest memory Receives a freshness and a strength from thee. Roll on! no clouds shall on thy waters lie Darkling: no gloomy thunder-tempest break Over thy face: let the black night-dews fly Thy smiles, and sweetly let thy murmurs speak In distance and in nearness: be it thine To bless with usefulness, with beauty shine. Thou parent of the waterfall! proud river! Thou northern thunderer, Suna! hurrying on In mighty torrent from the heights, and ever Sparkling with glory in the gladdened sun, Now dashing from the mountain to the plain, And scattering purple fire and sapphire rain. ’Tis momentary vehemence: thy course Is calm and soft and silent; clear and deep Thy stately waters roll: in the proud force Of unpretending majesty, they sweep The sideless marge, and brightly, tranquilly, Bear their rich tributes to the grateful sea. Thy stream, by baser waters unalloyed, Washes the golden banks that o’er thee smile; Until the clear Onega drinks its tide, And swells while welcoming the glorious spoil: O what a sweet and soul-composing scene, Clear as the cloudless heavens, and as serene!

The God of heaven stood up, and loudly Thus to the gods of earth he spoke: “How long shall folly triumph proudly, And virtue wear its heavy yoke? ’Tis yours, however high the wronger, The wrongs of misery to redress; Defend the weaker from the stronger, Widow and orphan shield and bless. To guard the naked head of sorrow, To make the path of wisdom light; To free the prisoner; and to borrow My attributes for truth and right.” They will not hear, see, know—O never; Dark mists are on their vision thrown. And shall the sick earth groan for ever? Wilt Thou not tire, long-suffering one? Kings! gods of earth! no earthly being May bid you at his bar appear; Yet there is One all-knowing—seeing— Who sits in sternest judgement there. Proud as ye are, your gems imperial Shall fall like leaves:—your kingdoms—graves; Your martial pomp—a pall funereal; Your throne—looked down on by your slaves. God of the righteous! God, arise Thee! Hear the faint prayers Thy children bring! Judge, scatter all who dare despise Thee, And be the earth’s unrivalled King!

What do I hear? An eagle from heaven’s cloudy sea, Midst the high-towering hosts that swam Before Minerva’s steps, when she To earth from proud Olympus came: That eagle, sailing in its state, Heralding Russia’s naval might, Pierced by the fatal spear of fate, Falls rustling from the glorious height! Alas! alas! whither his flight through heaven’s blue vault? Where is his path on ocean’s deep? Where is his fearful thunderbolt? Where do his forked lightnings sleep? Where is the bosom nought could fright, The piercing, penetrating mind; ’Tis all, ’tis all enshrined in night; He left us but his fame behind!

Golden bee! for ever sighing, Round and round my Delia flying; Ever in attendance near her: Dost thou really love her, fear her, Dost thou love her, Golden bee? Erring insect! he supposes, That her lips are morning roses: Breathing sweets from Delia’s tresses, He would probe their fair recesses. Purest sugar Is her breast! Golden bee! for ever sighing, Ever round my Delia flying; Is it thou so softly speaking? Thine the gentle accents breaking, “Drink I dare not, Lest I die!”