Chapter IV: Introduction (3)

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.

OVER THE GRAVE OF BOGDANOVICH,

AUTHOR OF THE BEAUTIFUL POEM PSYCHE.

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!

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

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!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Original, _diuzhenna_--one of a dozen--a frequent expression for what is very common and useless.

Krĭlov.

THE ASS AND THE NIGHTINGALE[1].

An ass a nightingale espied,
And shouted out, “Holla! holla! good friend!
“Thou art a first-rate singer, they pretend:--
Now let me hear thee, that I may decide;
I really wish to know--the world is partial ever--
If thou hast this great gift, and art indeed so clever.”

The nightingale began her heavenly lays;
Through all the regions of sweet music ranging,
Varying her song a thousand different ways;
Rising and falling, lingering, ever changing:
Full of wild rapture now--then sinking oft
To almost silence--melancholy, soft
As distant shepherd’s pipe at evening’s close:--
Strewing the wood with lovelier music;--there
All nature seems to listen and repose:
No zephyr dares disturb the tranquil air:--
All other voices of the grove are still,
And the charm’d flocks lie down beside the rill.

The shepherd like a statue stands--afraid
His breathing may disturb the melody,
His finger pointing to the harmonious tree,
Seems to say, “Listen!” to his favourite maid.

The singer ended:--and our critic bow’d
His reverend head to earth, and said aloud:--

“Now that’s so so;--thou really hast some merit;
Curtail thy song, and critics then might hear it;
Thy voice wants sharpness:--but if Chanticleer
Would give thee a few lessons, doubtless he
Might raise thy voice and modulate thy ear;
And thou in spite of all thy faults mayst be
A very decent singer.”----
The poor bird
In silent modesty the critic heard,
And winged her peaceful flight into the air,
O’er many and many[2] a field and forest fair.

There are too many such critics now-a-days.
Merciful heaven! protect us from their praise.

THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB.

If harmony be wanting to your plans,
Vain are your efforts, yours, or any man’s;
They end in disappointment all alike.

I once observed a Swan, a Crab, a Pike,
Drawing a treasure; all their power, their will
Exerted, yet it stood unmoved and still.
’Tis not its weight, its weight was very little;
Three powers at work, it budges not a tittle:
The Swan would fain soar upwards in its pride,
The Crab draws back, the Pike to the water side.

Who of the three was wrong? and who was right?
It might be all--it might be none--it might!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Krĭlov gave me this fable in MS. It has been printed in his _Basni_.

[2] Literally--“three times nine.”

Khemnitzer.

THE HOUSE-BUILDER.

Whate’er thou purposest to do,
With an unwearied zeal pursue;
To-day is thine--improve to-day,
Nor trust to-morrow’s distant ray.

A certain man a house would build,
The place is with materials fill’d;
And every thing is ready there--
Is it a difficult affair?
Yes! till you fix the corner stone;
It won’t erect itself alone.
Day rolls on day, and year on year,
And nothing yet is done--
There’s always something to delay
The business to another day.

And thus in silent waiting stood
The piles of stone and piles of wood;
Till Death, who in his vast affairs
Ne’er puts things off--as men in theirs--
And thus, if I the truth must tell,
Does his work _finally_ and _well_--
Winked at our hero as he past,
“Your house is finish’d, Sir, at last;
A narrower house--a house of clay--
Your palace for _another day_!”

THE RICH AND THE POOR MAN.

So goes the world:--if wealthy, you may call
_This_ friend, _that_ brother;--friends and brothers all:
Though you are worthless--witless--never mind it;
You may have been a stable-boy--what then?
’Tis wealth, good Sir, makes _honourable men_.
You seek respect, no doubt, and _you_ will find it.

But if you are poor, heaven help you! though your sire
Had royal blood within him, and though you
Possess the intellect of angels too,
’Tis all in vain;--the world will ne’er inquire
On such a score:--Why should it take the pains?
’Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains.

I once saw a poor devil, keen and clever,
Witty and wise:--he paid a man a visit,
And no one noticed him, and no one ever
Gave him a welcome. “Strange,” cried I, “whence is it?”
He walked on this side, then on that,
He tried to introduce a social chat;
Now here, now there,--in vain he tried;
Some formally and freezingly replied,
And some
Said by their silence--“Better stay at home.”

A rich man burst the door,
As Crœsus rich I’m sure,
He could not pride himself upon his wit
Nor wisdom--for he had not got a bit:
He had what’s better;--he had wealth.
What a confusion!--all stand up erect--
These crowd around to ask him of his health;
These bow in _honest_ duty and respect;
And these arrange a sofa or a chair,
And these conduct him there.
“Allow me, Sir, the honour;”--then a bow
Down to the earth--Is’t possible to show
Meet gratitude for such kind condescension?

The poor man hung his head,
And to himself he said,
“This is indeed beyond my comprehension:”
Then looking round
One friendly face he found,
And said--“Pray tell me why is wealth preferr’d
To wisdom?”--“That’s a silly question, friend!”
Replied the other--“Have you never heard,
A man may lend his store
Of gold or silver ore,
But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?”

THE LION’S COUNCIL OF STATE.

A lion held a court for state affairs:
Why? That is not your business, Sir, ’twas theirs!
He called the elephants for counsellors--still
The council-board was incomplete;
And the king deemed it fit
With asses all the vacancies to fill.
Heaven help the state--for lo! the bench of asses
The bench of elephants by far surpasses.

He was a fool--the foresaid king--you’ll say;
Better have kept those places vacant surely,
Than fill them up so poorly.
O no! that’s not the royal way;
Things have been done for ages thus--and we
Have a deep reverence for antiquity:
Nought worse, Sir, than to be, or to appear
Wiser and better than our fathers were.

The list must be complete, even though you make it
Complete with asses; for the lion saw
Such had for ages been the law--
He was no radical to break it!

“Besides,” he said, “my elephants’ good sense
Will soon my asses’ ignorance diminish,
For wisdom has a mighty influence.”
They made a pretty finish!
The asses’ folly soon obtained the sway;
The elephants became as dull as they!

THE WAGGONS.

I saw a long, long train
Of many a loaded, lumbering wain;
And one there was of most gigantic size,
It look’d an elephant midst a swarm of flies;
It roll’d so proudly that a passenger
Curiously asked--“Now what may _that_ contain?”
“Nothing but bladders, Sir!”

Such masses (misnamed _men_!) are little rare,
Inflated, bullying, proud, and full of--_air_.

BOBROV.

ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

_From the Khersonida, p. 41-3._

O thou unutterable Potentate!
Through nature’s vast extent sublimely great!
Thy lovely form the flower-decked field discloses,
Thy smiles are seen in nature’s sunny face:
Milk-coloured lilies and wild-blushing roses
Are bright with Thee:--Thy voice of gentleness
Speaks in the light-winged whispering zephyrs playing
Midst the young boughs, or o’er the meadows straying:
Thy breath gives life to all; below, above,
And all things revel in Thy light and love.
But here, on these gigantic mountains, here
Thy greatness, glory, wisdom, strength and spirit,
In terrible sublimity appear;
Thy awe-imposing voice is heard,--we hear it!
Th’ Almighty’s fearful voice; attend, it breaks
The silence, and in solemn warnings speaks:
His the light tones that whisper midst the trees;
His, his the whistling of the busy breeze;
His, the storm-thunder roaring, rattling round[1],
When element with element makes war
Amidst the echoing mountains: on whose bound,
Whose highest bound he drives his fiery car
Glowing like molten-iron; or enshrin’d
In robes of darkness, riding on the wind
Across the clouded vault of heaven:--What eye
Has not been dazzled by Thy majesty?
Where is the ear that has not heard Thee speak?
Thou breathest!--forest-oaks of centuries
Turn their uprooted trunks towards the skies.
Thou thunderest!--adamantine mountains break,
Tremble, and totter, and apart are riven;
Thou lightenest! and the rocks inflame; Thy power
Of fire to their metallic bosom driven,
Melts and devours them;--Lo! they are no more:--
They pass away like wax in the fierce flame,
Or the thick mists that frown upon the sun,
Which he but glances at and they are gone;
Or like the sparkling snow upon the hill,
When noon-tide darts its penetrating beam.
What do I say? At GOD’S almighty will,
The affrighted world falls headlong from its sphere,
Planets and suns and systems disappear!
But Thy eternal throne--Thy palace bright,
Zion--stands steadfast in unchanging might;
Zion--Thy own peculiar seat--Thy home!
But here, O GOD! here is Thy temple too:
Heaven’s sapphire arch is its resplendent dome;
Its columns--trees that have for ages stood;
Its incense is the flower-perfumed dew;
Its symphony--the music of the wood;
Its ornaments--the fairest gems of spring;
Its altar is the stony mountain proud!
Lord! from this shrine to Thy abode I bring
Trembling, devotion’s tribute--though not loud.
Nor pomp-accompanied: Thy praise I sing,
And Thou wilt deign to hear the lowly offering.

MEDINA.

_From the Khersonida._

Thou wondrous brother of the prophet, sun!
So brightly on Medina’s temple burning;
And scarce less beautiful the crescent moon,
When moving gently o’er the shadows dun
Of evening:--and their verge to silver turning.
O what a lovely, soft tranquillity
Rests on the earth and breathes along the sea!
Here is no cedar bent with misery;
No holy cypress sighs or weeps, as seen
In other lands, where his dark branches green
Mourn in the desert o’er neglected graves:
Here his all-sheltering boughs he calmly waves
In the dim light, the sacred vigils keeping
O’er the blest ashes on earth’s bosom sleeping.
Picture of God! upon the prophet’s shrine
Shine brightly--brightly, beautifully shine
Upon those holy fields where once he trod,
And flowers sprung up beneath his innocent feet,
Tulips and aloes and narcissus’ sweet,
A lovely carpet for the child of God!
There have our privileged, pilgrim footsteps been,
This have we seen--yes, brother! this have seen:
The grave, the life, the ashes, and the dome
Eternal and the heavens: and there have bought
The grace of God and found the joy we sought,
A certain entrance to our final home.
And now, be short our houseward way!
Our fathers’ habitations now appear!
O with what transports shall we hear them say,
With what loud greetings, “Welcome, welcome here!”
The swelling-bosom’d wife, the black-hair’d son
And black-eyed daughter greet our joyous train,
Rushing from our own doors they hither run,
And songs of rapture loudly hail us then.
Their trembling hands the fragrant aloe bear,
Which joyful o’er our wearied limbs they throw;
Home of our fathers! now appear,
Our houseward path be shortened now!

SHEIK-HUIABIS CREED,

AS DESCRIBED BY THE CHERIF.

_From the Khersonida._

’Tis Allah governs this terrestrial ball,
To all gives laws, as he gave life to all!
He rules the unnumbered circles bright with bliss,
That from the ends of heaven send forth their beams:
He rules the space, the infinite abyss,
The undefined and wandering ether-streams,
Where thousand, thousand stars and planets play--
What are the laws that guide them on their way?
They are no perishable records--laws
Written with pen and ink:--No! Allah spreads
The golden roll of nature: o’er our heads
Opens his glorious volume, and withdraws
The veil of ignorance: read the letters _there_,
That is the blazing, burning record, where
The letters are not idle _lines_, but _things_:
Read there the name of Allah, dazzling bright,
In _works_ of eloquence and _words_ of light!
Shut, shut all other books; and if thy soul,
Borne upward on devotion’s angel-wings,
Soar to the heaven, from earth and earth’s control,
Thou shalt perceive--shalt know the Deity.
His splendours then shall burst upon thy eye,
An effluence of noon-tide round thee roll,
Thy spirit glad with light and love;--a sun
Of pure philosophy to lead thee on.

THE GOLDEN PALACE.

CHERTOG TVOI VIZHDU.

SUNG AT MIDNIGHT IN THE GREEK CHURCHES THE LAST WEEK BEFORE EASTER.

_From the Sclavonic._

The golden palace of my God
Tow’ring above the clouds I see:
Beyond the cherubs’ bright abode,
Higher than angels’ thoughts can be:
How can I in those courts appear
Without a wedding garment on?
Conduct me, Thou life-giver, there,
Conduct me to Thy glorious throne!
And clothe me with Thy robes of light,
And lead me through sin’s darksome night,
My Saviour and my God!

MIDNIGHT HYMN

OF THE RUSSIAN CHURCHES, SUNG AT EASTER.

_Vskuiu mia esi oostavil?_
Why hast thou forsaken me?

Why, thou never-setting light,
Is Thy brightness veiled from me?
Why does this unusual night
Cloud Thy blest benignity?
I am lost without Thy ray,
Guide my wandering footsteps, Lord!
Light my dark and erring way
To the noon-tide of Thy word!

IZHE KHERUVIMIJ,

OR SONG OF CHERUBIM.

THE HYMN CHANTED IN THE RUSSIAN CHURCHES DURING THE PROCESSION OF THE CUP.

See the glorious cherubim
Thronging round the Eternal’s throne;
Hark! they sing their holy hymn:
To the unknown Three in One.
‘All-supporting Deity--
‘Living spirit--praise to Thee!’

Rest, ye worldly tumults, rest!
Here let all be peace and joy:
Grief no more shall rend our breast,
Tears no more shall dew our eye.

Heaven-directed spirits rise
To the temple of the skies!
Join the ranks of angels bright,
Near th’ Eternal’s dazzling light.
Khvalim Boga[2].

CHILDREN’S OFFERING ON A PARENT’S BIRTH-DAY.

Not the first tribute of our lyre,
Not the first fruits of infant spring,
But flames from love’s long kindled fire,
And oft-repeated prayers we bring
To crown thy natal day.

’Tis not to-day that first we tell
(When was affection’s spirit mute?)
How long our hearts have loved--how well--
Nor tune our soft and votive flute,
Nor light the altar’s ray.

That altar is our household shrine--
Its flame--the bosom’s kindly heat:
Its offering, sympathy divine;
Its incense, as the may-dew sweet!
Accept thy children’s lay.

RULES FOR THE HEART AND THE UNDERSTANDING.

1.

O son of nature! let self-culture be
The object of thy earliest toils: as yet
Thy lamp burns bright--thy day shines gloriously--
Thou canst not labour when thy sun is set!

2.

Wouldst thou The Unseen Spirit see:
First learn to know thyself; and He
Will then be shadowed forth in thee!

3.

God is a spirit through creation’s whole,
As in this mortal tenement--the soul.

4.

The sun that gives the world its fairest light
Is not yon orb welcomed by the morning hour,
And by the eve expelled;--it is the power
Of an enlightening conscience pure and bright.

5.

Mark where thou standest first; and whence thou art come,
And whither goest, and straight speed thee home.

6.

The woe _to come_, the woe that’s _gone_,
Philosophy thinks calmly on:
But show me the philosopher
Who calmly bears the woes that _are_.

7.

How wise is he who marks the fleeting day
By acts of virtue as it rolls away!

8.

Be all thy views right forward, clear, and even:
The straightest line the soonest leads to heaven.

9.

Thou wouldst count all things, proud philosophy;
Now measure space and weigh eternity!

10.

Light first thy heart with virtue; then thy soul
With wisdom--purest joy shall o’er thee roll.

11.

The most perverted spirit has greatness in it,
The very savage bears a heart that’s noble.

12.

Virtue, though loveliest of all lovely things,
From modesty apart no more is fair;
And when her graceful veil aside she flings,
(Like ether opened to th’ intrusive air)
Loses her sweetest charms and stands a cypher there.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] I have endeavoured to imitate the singular adaptation of words to sound, of which the Russian language affords so many striking examples:

Original--

Tvoi dukh vsĭvaet vse boriushchii
V sikh--sikh svistjeshchikh vikhrei silakh
Srazhaiushchikhsa mezhdu Gor!

[2] Hallelujah.

BOGDANOVICH.

FROM THE DUSHENKA.--p. 8.

’Twere but vain daring thro’ dark time to range,
Chasing the shadowy forms of words, which change,
For ever restless, gave to beauty’s power:
All lived an hour, and perished with that hour:
The subject of the aspiring poet’s lay
Is that fair royal maiden, youngest child
Of the eastern monarch, whom with passion wild
Crowds honoured, loved and sigh’d for night and day,
She by the Greeks called Psyche--meaning
(According to our learned ones’ explaining)
A soul, or spirit:--our philosophers
Thinking that all that’s tender, fair and bright,
Must needs be hers,
Named her Dushenka[1];--thus
A word so sweet, so musical to us,
With all the charm of novelty,
O loveliest Psyche, was conferred on thee!
Conveyed from tongue to tongue, its throne it found
In memory’s archives:--its melodious sound
Now breathes the angel-harmony of love,
A music and a radiance from above.

FROM THE DUSHENKA.--p. 49.

Dushenka! Dushenka! the robes that thou wearest
Seem ever most lovely and fitting:
Whether clad like a queen of the east thou appearest,
Or plain as a shepherdess sitting
By the door of her cottage at evening’s calm tide,
Thou still art the charm of the world and its pride!
Thou fairest of saints that devotion has sainted,
Divinest of all the divine:--
All the pictures of beauty that art ever painted
Can give no idea of thine!

THE INEXPERIENCED SHEPHERDESS.

A POPULAR SONG.

I’m fourteen summers old, I trow,
’Tis time to look about me now:
’Twas only yesterday they said,
I was a silly, silly maid;--
’Tis time to look about me now.

The shepherd-swains so rudely stare,
I must reprove them, I declare;
This talks of beauty--_that_ of love--
I’m such a fool I can’t reprove--
I _must_ reprove them, I declare.

’Tis strange--but yet I hope no sin;
Something unwonted speaks within:
Love’s language is a mystery,
And yet I feel, and yet I see,--
O what is this that speaks within?

The shepherd cries, “I love thee, sweet;”
“And I love _thee_,” my lips repeat:
Kind words, they sound as sweet to me
As music’s fairest melody;
“I love thee,” oft my lips repeat.

His pledge he brings,--I’ll _not_ reprove;
O no! I’ll take that pledge of love;
To thee my guardian dog I’d give,
Could I without that guardian live:
But still I’ll take thy pledge of love.

My shepherd’s crook I’ll give to thee;--
O no! my father gave it me--
And treasures by a parent given,
From a fond child should ne’er be riven--
O no! my father gave it me.

But thou shalt have yon lambkin fair--
Nay! ’tis my mother’s fondest care;
For every day she joys to count
Each snowy lambkin on the mount;--
I’ll give thee then no lambkin fair.

But stay, my shepherd! wilt thou be
For ever faithful--fond to me?
A sweeter gift I’ll then impart,
And thou shalt have--a maiden’s heart,
If thou wilt give thy heart to me.

SONG FROM THE OLD RUSSIAN.

Hark! those tones of music stealing
Through yon wood at even:
Sweetest songs that breathe a feeling
Pure and bright as heaven.

Nightingales in chorus near thee,
All their notes are blending;
Then they stop their songs to hear thee,
Silent--unpretending.

SONG FROM THE OLD RUSSIAN.

What to the maiden has happened?
What to the gem of the village?
Ah! to the gem of the village.

Seated alone in her cottage.
Tremblingly turned to the window;
Ah! ever turned to the window.

Like the sweet bird in its prison,
Pining and panting for freedom;
Ah! how ’tis pining for freedom!

Crowds of her youthful companions
Come to console the lov’d maiden;
Ah! to console the lov’d maiden.

“Smile then, our sister! be joyful,
Clouds of dust cover the valley;
Oh! see, they cover the valley.

“Smile then, our sister! be joyful,
List to the hoof-beat of horses;
O! to the hoof-beat of horses.”

Then the maid looked through the window,
Saw the dust-clouds in the valley;
O! the dust-clouds in the valley:

Heard the hoof-beat of the horses,
Hurried away from the cottage;
O! to the valley she hurries.

“Welcome! welcome! thou lov’d one:”
See, she has sunk on his bosom;
O! she has sunk on his bosom.

Now all her grief is departed:
She has forsaken the window:
O! quite forsaken the window.

Now her eye looks on her lov’d one,
Beaming with brightness and beauty;
O! ’tis all brightness and beauty.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Dusha--Dushenka its diminutive, a word expressing great tenderness and fondness.

DAVĬDOV.

WISDOM.

While honouring the grape’s ruby nectar,
All sportingly, laughingly gay;
We determined--I, Silvia, and Hector,
To drive old dame Wisdom away.

“O my children, take care,” said the beldame,
“Attend to these counsels of mine:
Get not tipsy! for danger is seldom
Remote from the goblet of wine.”

“With thee in his company, no man
Can err,” said our wag with a wink;
“But come, thou good-natured old woman,
There’s a drop in the goblet--and drink!”

She frown’d--but her scruples soon twisting,
Consented:--and smilingly said:
“So polite--there’s indeed no resisting,
For Wisdom was never ill-bred.”

She drank, but continued her teaching:
“Let the wise from indulgence refrain;”
And never gave over her preaching,
But to say “Fill the goblet again.”

And she drank, and she totter’d, but still she
Was talking and shaking her head:
Mutter’d “temperance”--“prudence”--until she
Was carried by Folly[1] to bed.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The original has _Love_.

KOSTROV.

THE VOW.

The rose is my favourite flower:
On its tablets of crimson I swore,
That up to my last living hour
I never would think of thee more.

I scarcely the record had made,
Ere Zephyr, in frolicsome play,
On his light, airy pinions convey’d
Both tablet and promise away.

HISTORY OF MAN.

ANONYMOUS.

What is man’s history? Born--living--dying--
Leaving the still shore for the troubled wave--
Struggling with storm-winds, over shipwrecks flying,
And casting anchor in the silent grave.

B.

NELEDINSKY MELETZKY.

SONG.

Under the oak-tree; near the rill,
Sits my fair maiden at evening still,
Singing her song, her song of love,
Sweetly it warbles through the grove.

The nightingale heard the heavenly tone,
And blended the music with his own:
My ears drink in the wondrous strain,
And my spirit re-echoes the song again.

How oft the zephyrs have brought to me
Delighted, those accents of harmony!
How oft have I blamed the jealous breeze
That scatter’d the music amidst the trees!

Listen awhile, thou nightingale!
Echo the song from hill to vale:
Though hill and vale enraptured be,
Sweeter the music sounds to _me_!

SONG.

To the streamlet I’ll repair,
Look upon its flight, and say:
“Bear, O fleeting streamlet! bear
All my griefs with thine away.”

Ah! I breathe the wish in vain!
In this silent solitude
Counted is each throb of pain;--
Rest is melancholy’s food.

Waves with waves unceasing blend,
Hurrying to their destiny:
Even so, thoughts with thoughts, and tend
All alike to misery.

And what grief so dark, so deep
As the grief interred within?
By the friend, for whom I weep,
All unnoticed, all unseen.

Yet, could I subdue my pain,
Soothe affection’s rankling smart,
Ne’er would I resume again
The lost empire of my heart.

Thou, my love! art sovereign there,
There thou hast a living shrine:
Let my portion be despair,
If the light of bliss be thine.

Loved by thee, O might I live,
’Neath the darkest, stormiest sky:
’Twere a blest alternative!
Grief is joy, if thou be nigh.

Every wish and every pray’r
Is a tribute paid to thee:
Every heart-beat--there, O there,
Thou hast mightiest sovereignty.

To thee, nameless one! to thee
Still my thoughts, my passions turn;
’Tis through thee alone I see,
Think, and feel, and breathe and burn.

If the woe in which I live,
Ever reach thy generous ear;
Pity not--but O forgive
Thy devoted worshipper!

In some hour of careless bliss,
Deign my bosom’s fire to prove;
Prove it with an icy kiss--
Thou shalt know how much I love!

SONG.

He whom misery, dark and dreary,
Robs of all his spirit’s strength;
Hopeless--but that wasted, weary,
Nature shall repose at length:
Not a joy to sparkle o’er him,
Not a ray of promised light;
Till the deep grave yawns before him,
Till his eye is closed in night.

Such am I;--time’s changes borrow
All their interest from thee:
Life is but a midnight sorrow,
Thou, life’s sun-shine, veiled from me.
But those hopes, with angels seated,
Life and death can ne’er subdue;
And the heart to thee related,
Needs must be immortal too.

Can that spirit ever perish,
Which divine emotions fill?
Thee on earth I loved to cherish,
Thee in heaven must cherish still;
Like a shadow to thee clinging,
Ever following--ever nigh;
Up to thee each look is springing,
Every word, and thought, and sigh.

Up to thee, my saint, my lover!
Up to thee my soul is led:
Spirit, wilt thou deign to hover
O’er my green and grassy bed?
Wilt thou from thy throne descending,
Catch thy fond one’s dying breath?
Wilt thou, near his tomb attending,
Consecrate the dreams of death?

NATIONAL SONGS.