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HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE.

How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes bless'd!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

TRUE BEAUTY.

MEN call you fair, and you do credit it,
For that yourself you daily such do see;
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit

And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me.
For all the rest, however fair it be,

COLLINS.

Shall turn to naught, and lose that glorious hue;
But only that is permanent and free

From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue.
That is true beauty, that doth argue you

To be divine, and born of heavenly seed;

Derived from that fair spirit from whom all true

And perfect beauty did at first proceed.

He only fair, and what he fair hath made;
All other fair, like flowers untimely fade.

ODA BOG, OR ODE TO THE ALMIGHTY.

SPENSER.

G. R. DERZHAVIN.

GABRIEL ROMANOVITCH DERZHAVIN, the greatest lyric poet that Russia has yet produced, was born at Kasan, in 1743. He entered the army when young, and rose successively from the rank of Lieutenant to that of Governor of Olonetz and Tambov. He left the army in 1791, on being appointed Secretary of State by Catherine; and after filling various posts in the government, he retired to his estate at Novgorod, where he died in 1816. The "Oda Bog," has been translated into several Eastern and European languages, and is justly considered as perhaps unrivalled by any similar composition.

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! Mighty 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.

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 councils, infinite and dark;

And thought is lost ere thought can mount so high, E'en like past moments in eternity.

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call

First chaos, then existence. Lord! on Thee Eternity had its foundation; all

Spring forth from Thee; of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin-all life, all beauty, Thine.

Thy word created all, and doth create;

Thy splendour fills all space with rays divine;
Thou art, and wert, and shalt be glorious! great
Life-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.

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 those art as the noon to night!

Yes! as a drop of water in the sea,

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All this magnificence in Thee is lost :What are a thousand worlds compared to Thee? And what am I, when heaven's unnumbered host, Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed In all the glory of sublimest thought, Is but an atom in the balance weighed Against Thy greatness-is a cypher brought Against infinity? What am I then? Nought.

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 fashioned by Thy hand.
I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth,
On the last verge of mortal being stand,

Close to the realm where angels have their birth,
Just on the boundary 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, & god;
Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously

Constructed and conceived!-unknown? This clod

Lives surely through some higher energy;
From out 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
Filled 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 the little sphere,
Even to its source, to Thee, its author, Thee.
O thought ineffable! O vision blest!

(Though worthless our conception 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!
Mid'st Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore,
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears its gratitude.

THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.

KEATS.

These charming little poems are singular examples of different modes of viewing the same subject by two men of original minds.

THE poetry of earth is never dead:

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead:
That is the grasshopper's-he takes the lead
In summer luxury-he has never done

With his delights, for, when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost,
The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

LEIGH HUNT.

GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class

With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth,

Both have your sunshine; both, though small are strong
At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth
To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song--
In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

THE DYING SAILOR,

CRABBE.

YES! there are real mourners.-I have seen
A fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,
And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd:
Neatly she drest, nor vainly seem'd t' expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;
But, when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate and weep:
Then to her mind was all the past display'd,
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid:
For then she thought on one regretted youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;
In ev'ry place she wander'd, where they'd been,
And sadly-sacred held the parting scene,
Where last for sea he took his leave-that place
With double interest would she nightly trace;
For long the courtship was, and he would say,
Each time he sail'd," This once, and then the day:"
Yet prudence tarried; but, when last he went,
He drew from pitying love a full consent.

Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know,

Was her's to buy, to make, and to bestow:
For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold,
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood:
His messmates smil'd at flushings on his cheek,
And he too smil'd, but seldom would he speak ;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain;
Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,
But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.

He call'd his friend, and prefac'd with a sigh
A lover's message-"Thomas, I must die:
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing go!-if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake;
Yes! I must die-blow on sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look, before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,
One last fond look-and now repeat the prayer."

He had his wish, had more; I will not paint
The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint,-
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
"Yes! I must die;" and hope for ever fled.

Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts, meantime,
Were interchang'd, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day

She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,
Sooth'd the faint heart, and held the aching head;
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart, she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,
Yet said not so-" "perhaps he will not sink: "
A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard ;-
She had been reading in the book of prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,
But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all;

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