FROM LERMONTOF.
THE ANGEL.
Thro’ the midnight heavens an angel flew,
And a soft low song sang he,
And the moon and the stars and the rolling clouds
Heard that holy melody.
He sang of the bliss of sinless souls
’Neath the tents of Eden-bowers;
Of God—the Great One—he sang; and unfeigned
Was his praise of the Godhead’s powers.
A little babe in his arms he bore,
For this world of woe and tears,
And the sound of his song in the soul of the child
Kept ringing, though wordless, for years.
And long languished she on this earth below,
With a wondrous longing filled,
But the world’s harsh songs could not change for her
The notes which that angel trilled.
THE VOYAGE.
Glitters a white, a lonely sail,
Where stoops the grey mist o’er the sea.
What does his distant search avail?
At home, unfound, what leaveth he?
Whistles the wind; the waves at play
Sport round the bending, creaking mast;
Ah! not for Fortune does he stray,
Nor yet from Fortune flees he fast.
’Neath him, like sapphire, gleams the sea;
O’er him, like gold, the sunlight glows;
But storms, rebellious, wooeth he,
As if in storms he’d find repose.
PRAYER.
In moments of life’s trial,
When sorrows crowd the soul,
A single prayer of wondrous power
From fervent lips I roll.
There dwells a force God-given
In harmony of sound;
In living words there breathes a charm
All holy and profound.
From soul, like burden, leaping,
Far off all doubting flies;
From prayers of faith with weeping
How light, how light we rise!
THANKSGIVING.
For all, for all, I render thanks to Thee—
For passion’s secret pangs and misery,
For burning tears, the poison of the kiss,
For warmth of soul wasted on emptiness,
For foeman’s hate, for friends’ malicious spleen,
For all by which in life I’ve cheated been.
But oh! dispose it so, that from this day
I may not long have need such thanks to pay.
ON DEATH OF PUSHKIN.
Silent the sounds of wondrous songs;
Their latest notes have pealed;
Narrow and dim his resting-place,
The singer’s lips are sealed.
DREAM.[1]
’Neath midday heat, in Dagestána’s Vale,
With leaden ball in breast I lifeless lay;
From a deep wound smoke rose upon the gale,
And drop by drop my life-blood ebbed away.
Alone I lay upon the sandy slopes;
The craggy cliffs around me crowded steep;
The sunlight burned upon their yellow tops,
And burned on me who slept no mortal sleep.
A dream I dreamed, and saw in sparkling bowers
An evening feast in my home—far away—
Where young and lovely women, crowned with flowers,
Conversed of me in accents light and gay.
But, in their happy talk not joining, one
Sat far apart, and plunged in thought she seemed;
And oh!—the mystery knows God alone—
This was the dream her young soul sadly dreamed.
She saw in vision Dagestána’s Vale,
Where on the slope a well-known body lay;
From the black wound smoke rose upon the gale,
And in cold streams the life-blood ebbed away.