"There are, I see, who listen to my lay,
Who wretched sigh for virtue, but despair.
All may be done, (methinks I hear them say,,
Even death despised, by generous actions fair;
All, but for those who to these bowers repair,
Their every power dissolved in luxury,
To quit of torpid sluggishness the lair,
And from the powerful arms of Sloth get free.
"Tis rising from the dead—Alăs !—it cannot be !
"Would you then learn to dissipate the band
Of these huge threatening difficulties dire,
That in the weak man's way like lions stand,
His soul appal, and damp his rising fire?
Resolve, resolve, and to be men aspire.
Exert that noblest privilege, alone,
Here to mankind indulged; control desire;
Let godlike Reason, from her sovereign throne,
Speak the commânding word-I Will!-and it is done.
"Heavens! can you then thus waste, in shameful wise, Your few important days of trial here?
Heirs of eternity! yborn* to rise
Through endless states of being, still more near
To bliss approaching, and perfection clear,
Can you renounce a fortune so sublime
Such glorious hopes-your backward steps to steer, And roll, with vilest brutes, through mud and slime? No! no! your heaven-touched hearts disdain the sordid
The Ass and the Nightingale.-KRILOV.
[From Bowring's Russian Anthology.]
AN ǎss 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."
* Yborn, born,—pronounced e-born.
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 charmed 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 favorite maid.
The singer ended :—and our critic bowed
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 may'st be
A very decent singer."-
The poor
In silent modesty the critic heard,
And winged her peaceful flight into the air,
O'er
many and many a field and forest fair.
Many such critics you and I have seen :—
Heaven be our screen!
Soliloquy on the Immortality of the Soul.-ADDISON.
SCENE. CATO, alone, sitting in a thoughtful posture;-in his hand PLATO's book on the immortality of the soul ;—a drawn sword on the table by him.
Cato. Ir must be so-Plato, thou reasonest well!— Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or, whence this secret dread and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
Tis the divinity that stirs within us:
'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me:
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us,
(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Through all her works) he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures-this must end them.
Thus am I doubly armed: my death* and life,t
My bane* and antidotet are both before me.
This, in a moment, brings me to an end;
But thist informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth;
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
Address to the Deity.-BOBROV.
[From Bowring's Russian Anthology.]
O THOU unutterable Pōtentate!
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-colored lillies 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!
The Almighty's fearful voice; attend! it breaks
The silence, and in solemn warning 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,
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, enshrined
In robes of darkness, rides upon the wind
Across the clouded vault of heaven.
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 steadfăst 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.
ord! from this shrine to thy abode I bring,
embling, devotion's tribute-though not loud,
pomp-accompanied: thy praise I sing,
nd thou wilt deign to hear the lowly offering.
Battle of Flodden Field, and Death of Marmion.-From SCOTT.
BLOUNT and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon the hill;
On which, (for far the day was spent,)
The western sun-beams now were bent
The cry they heard, its meaning knew,
Could plain their distant comrades view:
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,
Unworthy office here to stay!
No hope of gilded spurs to-day-
But, see! look up-on Flodden bent,
The Scottish foe has fired his tent."
And sudden, as he spoke,
From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,
Was wreathed in sable smoke;
Volumed, and văst, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,
As down the hill they broke:
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone,
At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum,
Told England, from his mountain-throne
King James did rushing come.
Scarce could they hear, or see their foes,
Until at weapon-point they close.
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway, and with lănce's thrust;
And such a yell was there,
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air.
Long looked the anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness nought descry.
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