The robbers who, from beyond the Dniester, came to plunder the fields of the Cossacks, are driven back, scattered like dust; no longer dare they venture on that soil where the fruits of the earth and the blessings of peace together flourish. In safety the merchant pursues his traffic, and the mariner sees a boundary to the waves; no obstacles impede his course. The old and the young are happy; he who wished for the hour of death now prays for lengthened life; his heart is gladdened by his country’s triumphs. The shepherd drives his flocks into the meadow, and enters the forest without fear; there, with his friend who tends his sheep, he sings the song of joy, his theme the bravery of the soldier; he blesses the passing moments of his life, and implores endless peace on the spot where he sleeps in quiet. Thus, in the simple sincerity of his heart, he glorifies her who shields him from his enemies. O thou great Empress! The love of Russia, the dread of thy foes, the heroine of the northern world, the hope, the joy, the goddess of the shores of seven wide seas, thou shinest in the cloudless lights of goodness and beneficence. Forgive thy slave that he has chosen thy glory for his lay, and that his rugged verse, in token of submission to thy rule, has thus dared to attempt to magnify thy power.--Given in F. R. Grahame’s _The Progress of Science, Art and Literature in Russia_. MORNING MEDITATIONS O’er the wide earth yon torch of heavenly light Its splendour spreads and God’s proud works unveils; My soul, enraptured at the marvellous sight, Unwonted peace, and joy, and wonder feels, And with uplifted thoughts of ecstasy Exclaims, “How great must their Creator be!” Or, if a mortal’s power could stretch so high-- If mortal sight could reach that glorious sun, And look undazzled at its majesty, ’T would seem a fiery ocean burning on From time’s first birth, whose ever-flaming ray Could ne’er extinguished be by time’s decay. There waves of fire ’gainst waves of fire are dashing, And know no bounds; there hurricanes of flame, As if in everlasting combat flashing, Roar with a fury which no time can tame: There molten mountains boil like ocean-waves, And rain in burning streams the welkin laves. But in Thy presence all is but a spark, A little spark: that wondrous orb was lighted By Thy own hand, the dreary and the dark Pathway of man to cheer--of man benighted; To guide the march of seasons in their way, And place us in a paradise of day. Dull Night her sceptre sways o’er plains and hills, O’er the dark forest and the foaming sea; Thy wondrous energy all nature fills, And leads our thoughts, and leads our hopes to Thee. “How great is God!” a million tongues repeat, And million tongues re-echo, “God, how great!”