5. Mere singer then that Pushkin is, he is accordingly at his best only in his lyrics. But the essence of a lyric is music, and the essence of music is harmony, and the essence of harmony is form; hence in beauty of form Pushkin is unsurpassed, and among singers he is peerless. His soul is a veritable Æolian harp. No sooner does the wind begin to blow than his soul is filled with music. His grace is only equalled by that of Heine, his ease by that of Goethe, and his melody by that of Tennyson. I have already said that Pushkin is not an eagle soaring in the heavens, but he is a nightingale perched singing on the tree. But this very perfection of form makes his lyrics well-nigh untranslatable, and their highest beauty can only be felt by those who can read them in the original. 6. In endeavoring therefore to present Pushkin to you, I shall present to you not the nine tenths of his works which were written only by his hands,--his dramas, his tales, his romances, whether in prose or verse,--but the one tithe of his works which was writ from his heart. For Pushkin was essentially a lyric singer, and whatever comes from this side of his being is truly original; all else, engrafted upon him as it is from without, either from ambition or from imitation, cannot be called _his_ writing, that which he alone and none others had to deliver himself of. What message Pushkin had to deliver at all to his fellow-men is therefore found in his lyrics. 7. Before proceeding, however, to look at this singer Pushkin, it is necessary to establish a standard by which his attainment is to be judged. And that we may ascertain how closely Pushkin approaches the highest, I venture to read to you the following poem, as the highest flight which the human soul is capable of taking heavenward on the wings of song. HYMN TO FORCE. BY WM. R. THAYER. I am eternal! I throb through the ages; I am the Master Of each of Life's stages. I quicken the blood Of the mate-craving lover; The age-frozen heart With daisies I cover. Down through the ether I hurl constellations; Up from their earth-bed I wake the carnations. I laugh in the flame As I kindle and fan it; I crawl in the worm; I leap in the planet. Forth from its cradle I pilot the river; In lightning and earthquake I flash and I quiver. My breath is the wind; My bosom the ocean; My form's undefined; My essence is motion. The braggarts of science Would weigh and divide me; Their wisdom evading, I vanish and hide me. My glances are rays From stars emanating; My voice through the spheres Is sound, undulating. I am the monarch Uniting all matter: The atoms I gather; The atoms I scatter. I pulse with the tides-- Now hither, now thither; I grant the tree sap; I bid the bud wither.