Recovery,--daughter of Creation too, Though not for immortality designed,-- The Lord of life and death Sent thee from heaven to me! Had I not heard thy gentle tread approach, Not heard the whisper of thy welcome voice, Death had with iron foot My chilly forehead pressed. 'Tis true, I then had wandered where the earths Roll around suns; had strayed along the paths Where the maned comet soars Beyond the armèd eye; And with the rapturous, eager greet had hailed The inmates of those earths and of those suns; Had hailed the countless host That throng the comet's disc; Had asked the novice questions, and obtained Such answers as a sage vouchsafes to youth; Had learned in hours far more Than ages here unfold! But I had then not ended here below What, in the enterprising bloom of life, Fate with no light behest Required me to begin. Recovery,--daughter of Creation too, Though not for immortality designed,-- The Lord of life and death Sent thee from heaven to me! From the German of FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK. Translation of W. TAYLOR. * * * * * THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame! All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend. The low desire, the base design, That makes another's virtues less; The revel of the ruddy wine, And all occasions of excess; The longing for ignoble things; The strife for triumph more than truth; The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth; All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, That have their root in thoughts of ill; Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the nobler will:-- All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain. We have not wings, we cannot soar; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time. The mighty pyramids of stone That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs. The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies, Are crossed by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise. The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night. Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, We may discern--unseen before-- A path to higher destinies.