⁂
Play, my Kathleen;
No sorrow know.
The Graces flowers
Around thee throw.
Thy little cot
They softly swing,
And bright for thee
Dawns life’s fresh spring.
For all delights
Thou hast been born;
Catch, catch wild joys,
In life’s young morn!
Thy tender years
To love devote;
While hums the world,
Love my pipe’s note.
A MONUMENT.[7]
I’ve raised myself no statue made with hands;
The People’s path to it no weeds will hide.
Rising with no submissive head, it stands
Above the pillar of Napoleon’s pride.
No! I shall never die; in sacred strains
My soul survives my dust, and flies decay—
And famous shall I be, while there remains
A single Poet ’neath the light of day.
Through all great Russia will go forth my fame,
And every tongue in it will name my name;
And by the nation long shall I be loved,
Because my lyre their nobler feelings moved;
Because I strove to serve them with my song,
And called forth mercy for the fallen throng.
Hear God’s command, O Muse, obediently,
Nor dread reproach, nor claim the Poet’s bay;
To praise and blame alike indifferent be,
And let fools say their say!