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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.
By spiritual thirst opprest,
I hied me to the desert dim,
When lo! upon my path appeared
The holy six-winged seraphim.
My brow his fingers lightly pressed,
Soothing my eyelids into rest:
Open my inward vision flies,
As ope a startled eaglet’s eyes.
He touched my ears, and they were filled
With sounds that all my being thrilled.
I felt a trembling fill the skies,
I heard the sweep of angels’ wings,
Beneath the sea saw creeping things,
And in the valleys vines arise.
Over my lips awhile he hung,
And tore from me my sinful tongue—
The babbling tongue of vanity.
The sting of serpent’s subtlety
Within my lips, as chilled I stood,
He placed, with right hand red with blood.
Then with a sword my bosom cut,
And forth my quivering heart he drew;
A glowing coal of fire he put
Within my breast laid bare to view.
As corpse-like on the waste I lay,
Thus unto me God’s voice did say—
“Prophet, arise! confess My Name;
Fulfil My will; submit to Me!
Arise! go forth o’er land and sea,
And with high words men’s hearts inflame!”