Ill satisfied keen nature's clamorous call,
Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep,
While, through the ragged roof and chinky wall,
Chill, o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap:—
"Think on the dungeon's grim confine,
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!
Guilt, erring man, relenting view!
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch, already crushèd low
By cruel Fortune's undeservèd blow?
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress,
A brother to relieve how exquisite the bliss!"
I heard no more; for Chanticleer
Shook off the powdery snow,
And hailed the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing crow.
But deep this truth impressed my mind-
Through all his works abroad,
The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles God.
LESSON CLXVII.
The Waterfall.-DERZHAVIN.
Lo! like a glorious pile of diamonds bright,
Built on the steadfast cliffs, the waterfall
Pours forth its gems of pearl and silver light:
They sink, they rise, and sparkling, cover all
With infinite refulgence; while its song,
Sublime as thunder, roiis the woods along-
Rolls through the woods-they send its accents back,
Whose last vibration in the desert dies⚫
Its radiance glances o'er the watery track,
Till the soft wave, as wrapt in slumber, lies
Beneath the forest-shade; then sweetly flows
A milky stream, all silent as it goes.
Its foam is scattered on the margent bound,
Skirting the darksome wood. But list! the hum
Of industry, the rattling hammer's sound,
Files whizzing, creaking sluices, echoed come
On the fast-traveling breeze! O no! no noise
Is heard around, but thy majestic voice!
When the mad storm-wind tears the oak asunder,
In thee its shivered fragments find their tomb;
When rocks are riven by the bolt of thunder,
As sands they sink into thy mighty womb:
The ice that would imprison thy proud tide,
Like bits of broken glass is scattered wide.
The fierce wolf prowls around thee - there he stands
Listening not fearful, for he nothing fears:
His red eyes burn like fury-kindled brands,
Like bristles o'er him his coarse fur he rears;
Howling, thy dreadful roar he oft repeats,
And, more ferocious, hastes to bloodier feats.
The wild stag hears thy falling waters' sound,
And tremblingly flies forward- o'er his back
He bends his stately horns-the noiseless ground
His hurried feet impress not—and his track
Is lost amidst the tumult of the breeze,
And the leaves falling from the rustling trees.
The wild horse thee approaches in his turn:
He changes not his proudly rapid stride,
His mane stands up erect his nostrils burn—
He snorts - he pricks his ears - and starts aside;
Then madly rushing forward to thy steep,
He dashes down into thy torrents deep.
Beneath the cedar, in abstraction sunk,
Close to thine awful pile of majesty,
On yonder old and mouldering moss-bound trunk,
That hangs upon the cliff's rude edge, I see
An old man, on whose forehead winter's snow
Is scattered, and his hand supports his brow.
The lance, the sword, the ample shield beneath,
Lie at his feet obscured by spreading rust;
His căsque is circled by an ivy wreath
Those arms were once his country's pride and trust: And yet upon his golden breastplate plays
The gentle brightness of the sunset rays.
He sits, and muses on the rapid stream,
While deep thoughts struggling from his bosom rise :
"Emblem of man! here brightly pictured seem
The world's gay scenery and its păgeantries;
Which, as delusive as thy shining wave,
Glow for the proud, the coward and the slave.
"So is our little stream of life poured out
In the wild turbulence of passion: so,
Midst glory's glănce and victory's thunder-shout,
The joys of life in hurried exile go -
Till Hope's fair smile, and Beauty's ray of light,
Are shrouded in the griefs and storms of night.
Day after day prepares the funeral shroud;
The world is gray with age: -the striking hour
Is but an echo of death's summons loud
The jarring of the dark grave's prison-door:
Into its deep abyss--devouring all-
Kings and the friends of kings alike must fall "
O glory! glory! mighty one on earth!
How justly imaged in this waterfall!
So wild and furious in thy sparkling birth,
Dashing thy torrents down, and dazzling all;
Sublimely breaking from thy glorious height,
Majestic, thundering, beautiful and bright.
How many a wondering eye is turned to thee,
In admiration lost; short-sighted men!.
Thy furious wave gives no fertility;
Thy waters, hurrying fiercely through the plain,
Bring naught but devastation and distress,
And leave the flowery vale a wilderness.
O fairer, lovelier is the modest rill,
Watering with steps serene the field, the grove
Its gentle voice as sweet and soft and still,
As shepherd's pipe, or song of youthful love.
It has no thundering torrent, but it flows
Unwearied, scattering blessings as it goes.
To the wild mountain let the wanderer çome,
And, resting on the turf, look round and see,
With saddened eye, the green and grassy tomb,
And hear its monitory language: he-
He sleeps below, not famed in war alone;
The great, the good, the generous-minded one.
O! what is human glory, human pride?
What are man's triumphs when they brightest seem?
What art thou, mighty one! though deified?
Methuselah's long pilgrimage, a dream;
age is but a shade, our life a tale,
A vacant fancy, or a passing gale,
Or nothing! 'T is a heavy hollow ball,
Suspended on a slender, subtile* hair,
And filled with storm-winds, thunders, passions all
Struggling within in furious tumult there.
Strange mystery! man's gentlest breath can shake it, And the light zephyrs are enough to break it.
But a few hours, or moments, and beneath,
Empires are buried in a night of gloom :
The very elements are leagued with death,
A breath sends giants to their lonely tomb.
Where is the mighty one? He is not found,
His dust lies trampled in the noiseless ground!
But gratitude still lives, and loves to cherish
The patriot's virtues, while the soul of song
In sacred tones, that never, never perish,
Fame's everlasting thunder bears along.
Thy lyre has an eternal voice of all
That's holy, holiest is the good man's pall.
List then, ye worldly waterfalls! Vain men,
Whose brains are dizzy with ambition, bright
Your swords your garments flowery like a plain In the spring time if Truth be your delight,
And. Virtue your devotion, let your sword
Be bared alone at Wisdom's sacred word.
Roar, roar,
thou Waterfall! lift up thy voice
Even to the clouded regions of the skies:
Thy brightness and thy beauty may rejoice,
Thy music charms the ears, thy light the eyes,
Joy-giving torrent! sweetest memory
Receives a freshness and a strength from thee.
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