What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee?
And what am I, then? Heaven's unnumbered host,
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed
In all the glory of sublimest thought,
Is but an atom in the balance, weighed

Against Thy greatness; is a cipher brought
Against infinity! What am I, then?-Naught!

Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine,
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too:
Yes, in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine,

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.
Naught! But I live, and on Hope's pinions fly
Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee
I live and breathe, and dwell, aspiring high,
Even to the eternal throne of Thy divinity;
I am, O God! and surely Thou must be !

Thou art directing, guiding all, Thou art!
Direct my understanding, then, to Thee;
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart.
Though but an atom 'mid immensity,
Still I am something fashioned by Thy hand;
I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth,
On the last verge of mortal being stand,

Close to the realm where angels have their birth,
Just on the boundary of the spirit land!

The chain of being is complete in me;
In me is matter's last gradation lost;

And the next step is Spirit-Deity!

I can command the lightning, and am dust!

A monarch and a slave; a worm, a god!

Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously Constructed and conceived? Unknown? This clod Lives surely through some higher energy; From out itself alone it could not be.

Creator! yes! Thy wisdom and thy word
Created me. Thou source of life and good!
Thou, spirit of my spirit, and my Lord!

Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude,

Filled me with an immortal soul to spring
O'er the abyss of death, and bade it wear
The garments of eternal day, and wing

Its heavenly flight, beyond this little sphere,
E'en to its source-to Thee-its Author-there!

O thought ineffable! O vision blest!

Though worthless our conception all of Thee, Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast, And waft its homage to Thy Deity.

God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar;
Thus seek Thy presence, Being wise and good-

Mid Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore;
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears its gratitude.
-Translation of BOWRING.

MONODY ON PRINCE MESTCHASKY.

O iron tongue of Time, with thy sharp metallic tone, The terrible voice affrights me :

Each beat of the clock summons me,

Calls me, and hurries me to the grave.

Scarcely have I opened my eyes upon the world,

Ere Death grinds its teeth,

And with his scythe that gleams like lightning,

Cuts off my days, which are but grass.

Not one of the horned beasts of the field,

Not a single blade of grass escapes,

Monarch and beggar alike are food for the worm.
The noxious elements feed the grave,

And Time effaces all human glory;

As the swift waters rush toward the sea,

So our days and years flow into Eternity,

And Empires are swallowed up by greedy Death.

We crawl along the edge of the treacherous abyss,

Into which we quickly fall headlong :

With our first breath of life we inhale death,
And are only born that we may die.

Stars are shivered by him,

And suns are momentarily quenched,

Each world trembles at his menace,
And Death unpityingly levels all.

The mortal scarcely thinks that he can die.
And idly dreams himself immortal,
When Death comes to him as a thief,
And in an instant robs him of his life.
Alas! where fondly we fear the least,
There will Death the sooner come;

Nor does the lightning-bolt with swifter blast
Topple down the towering pinnacle.

Child of luxury, child of freshness and delight,
Mestchasky, where hast thou hidden thyself?
Thou hast left the realms of light,

And withdrawn to the shores of the dead;
Thy dust is here, but thy soul is no more with us.
Where is it? It is there. Where is there?

not.

We can only weep and sob forth,

We know

Woe to us that we were ever born into the world!

They who are radiant with health,

Love, joy, and peace,

Feel their blood run cold

And their souls to be fretted with woe.

Where but now was spread a banquet, there stands a

coffin;

Where but now rose mad cries of revelry,

There resounds the bitter wailing of mourners;

And over all keeps Death his watch :

Watches us one and all-the mighty Czar

Within whose hands are lodged the destinies of a

world;

Watches the sumptuous Dives,

Who makes of gold and silver his idol-gods;

Watches the fair beauty rejoicing in her charms;

Watches the sage, proud of his intellect;

Watches the strong man, confident in his strength;

And, even as he watches, sharpens the blade of his scythe.

O Death, thou essence of fear and trembling!

O Man, thou strange mixture of grandeur and of nothingness!

To-day a god, and to-morrow a patch of earth:
To-day buoyed up with cheating hope,

And to-morrow, where art thou, man?

Scarce an hour of triumph allowed thee,

Ere thou hast taken thy flight to the realms of Chaos, And thy whole course of life, a dream, is run.

Like a dream, like some sweet vision,
Already my youth has vanished quite.
Beauty no longer enjoys her potent sway,
Gladness no more, as once entrances me,
My mind is no longer free and fanciful,
And all my happiness is changed.
I am troubled for a longing for fame;
I listen; the voice of fame now calls me.

But even so will manhood pass away,
And together with fame all my aspirations.
The love of wealth will tarnish all,

And each passion in its turn

Will sway the soul and pass.

Avaunt happiness, that boasts to be within our graspAll happiness is but evanescent and a lie :

I stand at the gate of eternity.

-Translation of CHARLES EDWARD TURNER.