(_TO HIS WIFE._) No! not for me the wild tumultuous gladness, The rapturous rush, the transports, and the madness, The moans, the cries, the young Bacchante makes, When, clinging close in coilings like a snake’s, With wounding kiss, and gush of hot caresses, For the last moments’ thrills she quiveringly presses. Far dearer thou, my gentle one, to me, And happy I--distracted more by thee-- When yielding to long prayers with gentle grace, You press me softly in your meek embrace; Modestly cold, to love with passion fraught You scarce respond; you conscience seem of naught; Yet warm and warmer glowing, till at last, As ’twere against your will, you share my blast. ⁂ Let me not lose my senses, God; Better the pilgrim’s scrip and rod, Or toil and hunger sad. Not that I prize this mind of mine, Or that my reason to resign I should not be right glad, If only then they’d set me free. At large! How sportively I’d flee To where the dark wood gleams! I’d sing in raving ecstasies, Forgetting self in fantasies Of changeful wondrous dreams. To the wild waves I’d lend an ear, And glancing upward, full of cheer, Would scan the open sky; And strong and free I’d rush amain, A whirlwind sweeping o’er the plain, Crashing through woods I’d fly. But there’s the rub! You lose your sense-- Are dreaded like a pestilence, And clapped in prison drear. They chain you to the idiot’s yoke, And, through the cage-bars, to provoke The wild beast they draw near. No more the nightingale to hear At midnight singing sweet and clear, Nor greenwood’s rustling strains, But only brother-madmen’s cries, The nightly keeper’s blasphemies, And shrieks, and clang of chains. ⁂ I’ve overlived aspirings, My fancies I disdain; The fruits of hollow-heartedness, Sufferings alone remain. ’Neath cruel storms of Fate, Withers my crown of bay, A sad and lonely life I lead, Waiting my latest day. Thus, struck by latter cold, While howls the wintry wind, Trembles upon the naked bough The last leaf left behind. _PETER THE GREAT._ With autocratic hand He boldly sowed the light; He did not scorn his native land-- He knew her destined might. A carpenter, a seaman, A scholar, hero, he, With mighty genius on the throne, A labourer was incessantly. _THE PROPHET._