Then earthly pleasures cease to charm; He scorns the babbling crowd; No more beneath their Idol’s feet His haughty head is bowed. He flies--and wild and stern his moods, His notes, now grave, now gay-- To shores where lonely billows play, To depths of whispering woods. FROM NADSON. ⁂ Pity the stately cypress trees; How freshly green they spring! Ah! why amidst their branches, child, Have you put up your swing? Break not a single fragrant bough. Oh, take thy swing away To heights where thick acacias bloom; Mid dusty olives play! Thence you can see the Ocean, And, as your swing ascends, Through greening boughs a sunny glimpse The sea in laughter sends Of white sails in the distance dim, Of white gulls far away, Of white flakes foaming on the sands, A fringe of snowy spray. FROM NEKRASOF. _TE DEUM._ In our village there’s cold and there’s hunger; Through the mist the sad morn rises chill; Tolls the bell--the parishioners calling From afar to the church on the hill; Austere and severe and commanding Pealed that dull tone thro’ the air. I spent in the church that wet morning; I can never forget the scene there. For there knelt the village hamlet, Young and old in a weeping crowd; To be saved from the grievous famine The people prayed aloud. Such woe I had seldom witnessed, Such agony of prayer, And unconsciously I murmured, “O God, the people spare!” * * * * * “Spare their friends, too, in Thy mercy! Oh, hear our heartfelt cry! For those who strove to free the serf We lift the prayer on high; For those who bore the battle’s brunt And lived to win the day, For those who’ve heard the serf’s last song, To Thee, O God, we pray.” _THE PROPHET._ Ah! tell me not he prudence quite forgot; That he himself for his own fate’s to blame. Clearer than we, he saw that man cannot Both serve the good and save himself from flame. But men he loved with higher, broader glow; His soul for worldly honours did not sigh; For self alone he could not live below, But for the sake of others he could die. Thus thought he--and to die, for him, was gain. He will not say that “life to him was dear;” He will not say that “death was useless pain;” To him, long since, his destiny was clear. ⁂ Offer my Muse a friendly hand, For I can sing no other song. Who feels no woe, nor flames at wrong, Loves not his Fatherland. _DREAM._