Dmitriev.

It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow! Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above: Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now; That hand which scatters peace and joy and love. Almighty! trembling like a timid child, I hear Thy awful voice—alarmed—afraid— I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild, And in the very grave would hide my head. Lord! what is man? Up to the sun he flies— Or feebly wanders through earth’s vale of dust: There is he lost midst heaven’s high mysteries, And here in error and in darkness lost: Beneath the storm-clouds, on life’s raging sea, Like a poor sailor—by the tempest tost In a frail bark—the sport of destiny, He sleeps—and dashes on the rocky coast. Thou breathest:—and th’ obedient storm is still: Thou speakest;—silent the submissive wave: Man’s shatter’d ship the rushing waters fill, And the husht billows roll across his grave. Sourceless and endless God! compared with Thee, Life is a shadowy momentary dream: And Time, when view’d through Thy eternity, Less than the mote of morning’s golden beam.

The tzar has wandered from the city-gate, To seek seclusion from the cares of state; And thus he mused; “What troubles equal mine! That I accomplish when I purpose this:— In vain I bid the sun of concord shine, And toil unwearied for my subjects’ bliss; Its brightness lasts a moment, and the tzar For the state’s safety is compell’d to war, God knows I love my subjects—fain would bless them, But oft mistake—and injure and oppress them. I seek for truth, but courtiers all deceive me; They fill their purses and deluded leave me! My people sigh and groan:—I share their pain, And struggle to relieve them, but in vain.” Thus mused the lord of many nations; then Looked up, and saw wide scatter’d o’er the glen The poor lean flocks:—the sheep had lost their lambs, And the stray’d lambkins bleated for their dams:— They fled from place to place, alarm’d, afraid; The lazy dogs were sleeping in the shade! How busy is the shepherd!—now he hies To the grove’s verge:—now to the valley flies:— Seeks to assemble here the sheep that stray, And there a favourite lamb he hurries on: But lo! the wolf!—he springs upon his prey; The shepherd hastens, but the thief is gone: He cries—he beats his breast—he tears his hair, Invoking death in agonized despair. “Behold my picture!” said his majesty, “Here is another sovereign, just like me:— I’m glad to know vexations travel far, And plague a shepherd as they plague a tzar.” And on he moved in more contented mood— Whither he knew not;—but beyond the wood He saw the loveliest flock that ever grazed, And linger’d, mute with wonder, as he gazed:— How strong, how sleek, how satisfied, how fair! Wool soft as silk, and piled in luxury there, Its golden burthen seemed too great to bear. The lambs, as if they ran for wagers playing, Or near their dams, or far—securely straying— The shepherd, ’neath the linden-tree, Tuned his pipe most joyfully! “Ah!” said the tzar, “ye little think How close ye stand on danger’s brink, The uncharitable wolf is near:— And he for music has no ear.” And so it was—as if the wolf had heard, Advancing in full gallop he appear’d. But the dogs, the wily traitor knew, Sprung up, and at the robber flew:— His blood has for his daring paid; And the lambkin that through fear had stray’d, Is gather’d into the fold anew; And the shepherd’s pipe was echoed still, Down the vale and up the hill. The monarch lost all patience now:— “What! dost thou sit there like a rock, While wolves are ravaging thy flock? A very pretty shepherd thou!” “Tzar! here no evil can betide my sheep, My dogs are faithful—and they do not sleep.”

A wretched⁠[1] fiddle fell, in fragments,—these Though once discordant, by the hand divine Of music fashioned, breathed sweet harmonies: So is man tuned by sufferings’ discipline.

Here Love unseen, when sinks the evening sun, Wets the cold urn with tears, and mournful thinks, While his sad spirit, sorrow-broken, sinks,— None now can sing my angel Psyche—none!

Fair sister! “Infant brother dear! On the wing, on the wing?” Wandering the wide world over In search of a lover—there is no lover: Lost as if the plague had been there! “I’ve been seeking a friend!—there’s none below, The world must soon to ruin go! Written in sand are the oaths now spoken, ’Tis all lip-service, and promise broken; My name is a cloak for thirst of gain!” And mine for passion impure, profane!