Derzhavin.

For whom these festal luxuries On Neva’s foaming banks—for whom? ‘Neath intertwining, shadowing trees, Where all is flowers, and fruits, and bloom; Gay Persian tents emboss’d in gold, And China vases manifold; And sparkling glass from Austria sent;— For whom—for what? O why abuse Fortune? Why dissipate and lose Gifts, which at best are only lent? The song is heard—the chorus blends Its louder tones;—’neath pines up-piled And fruits, the wearied table bends; And sweets—O silly, spendthrift child! The senses are all feasted:—Maids Pour forth the grape-juice—see, it spreads— The world contributes: ancient Rhine, Champagne, and Xeres, mingling come; And British streams, and streams from home, And Selzerswave and Moselle wine. In a cool grot, whose fountains flow Round alabaster piles and busts, Stretch’d on a bed where roses grow, The slave of thy unholy lusts, Thou liest: a maiden, bright and fair, And young, reposes near thee there— A nymph with laughter in her eye:— She sings—thou sinkest on her breast, And, strangely wilder’d, thou hast prest Her hand, in ecstasy of joy. Thou sleepest—and thy dreams foretel An everlasting heaven of bliss: Its flowery buds around thee swell With blossoms bright and blest as this. Thou hast thy treasures, hast thy fields; For thee Siberia’s bosom yields Of countless wealth a rich display: Thee, a proud stream of silver meets:— O blessed! whom the morrow greets As happy as the yesterday. O blessed! in life’s vale below, Who sees unmoved this shifting scene— Who, though the mighty storm-winds blow, But hears their rage, and is serene. The thunder-clouds may o’er him roar, The waves may spring the mountains o’er, Scattering the sand and foam—’tis nought To him—the torn and scatter’d wood May leave a desert solitude— He sits in calm and quiet thought. Ours are but foolish wishes—change, Change is the meteor we pursue: When nought is wanting, then we range And gasp, and grasp at something new. The time of sorrow comes—thy maid Betrays thee as she has betray’d Other admirers—then the song— Ay! all this noisy song will cease, And thou be left to think in peace— In sadness——Sorrow’s day is long. Look! even now her eyes are darting Less beams of love, of revelry. Hark! from yon gathering clouds is starting A fearful storm—thy ship’s at sea.— No! no!—while all seems fair and bright, O dream not thou of sorrow’s night! Feast, neighbour, feast—and dance and sing— Life’s sun has but a summer’s glow, And joy is innocent—but know, ’Tis but that joy which bears no sting.

The silver moon the clouds looks through, Her beams upon the waters float; And midst the gathering mist and dew The mariner has launch’d his boat. And in that moonlight’s placid ray His course across the deep he takes; The welcoming port before him lay, And in his bosom joy awakes. But oh! he dashes on a rock— His voice is choked—his eye is dim; A moment struggling ’gainst the shock, And then—the waves o’er-mantle him. ’Tis but life’s picture—for the tomb Drags all things to its desolate cell: Hope is a flower of morning’s bloom— And love and friendship——fare ye well!

The ass that looks upon the stars Is not less asinine;—the base And cowardly that boasts of scars, Or wears a crown, may take the place Of generous spirits, in the throng Where usurpation reigns; for men Confound the worthy with the strong, Nor weigh pretension’s clamor vain. The hollowest vessels sound the loudest, The richest treasures deepest lie; Yet piled up wealth, and rank the proudest, Are but tumultuous vanity. I am a prince—with princely spirit, A ruler—if I rule my heart; A titled heir—if I inherit Of virtue, wisdom, truth, a part.