Then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word, A word of holiest import-Innocence. Years fled and brought with them a subtle change, Upon the canvas that had touched men's souls, One day, in tossing o'er his folio's leaves, He chanced upon the picture of the child, Which he had sketched that bright morn long before, And then forgotten. Now, as he paused to gaze, A ray of inspiration seemed to dart Straight from those eyes to his. He took the sketch, Placed it before his easel, and with care That seemed but pleasure, painted a fair theme. Touching and still retouching each bright lineament, Until all seemed to glow with life divine 'Twas innocence personified. But still The artist could not pause. He needs must have And every wicked deed that he had done, Were visibly written on his lineaments; Even the last, worst deed of all, that left him here, A parricide within a murderer's cell. Here then the artist found him; and with hand Transferred unto his canvas that vile face, And brought the wretch before them. With a shriek Of souls forever doomed to woe, Prostrate upon the stony floor he fell, And hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish. That innocent and happy little child! These very hands were raised to God in prayer, Great Heaven! can such things be? Almighty power, He rose, laid hold upon the artist's arm And grasped it with demoniac power, The while he cried: "Go forth, I say, go forth And tell my history to the tempted youth. I looked upon the wine when it was red, That led me onward, step by step, to this, He ceased at last. The artist turned and fled; Were borne the awful echoes of despair, Which the lost wretch flung on the empty air, GOD BY G. R. DERZHAVIN O Thou Eternal One! whose presence bright Whom none can comprehend and none explore; Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone: Embracing all-supporting-ruling o'erBeing whom we call God-and know no more! In its sublime research, philosophy May measure out the ocean deep-may count The sands or the sun's rays-but God! for Thee There is no weight nor measure:-none can mount Up to Thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark, Tho kindled by Thy light, in vain would try And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, Thou from primeval nothingness didst call Eternity had its foundation:-all Sprung forth from Thee:-of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin-all life, all beauty Thine. Thy word created all, and doth create; Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround, So suns are born, so worlds sprung forth from Thee: And as the spangles in the sunny rays Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise. A million torches lighted by Thy hand Lamps of celestial ether, burning bright Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? But Thou to these art as the noon to night. Yes! as a drop of water in the sea, All this magnificence in Thee is lost: What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee? And what am I then? Heaven's unnumbered host, Tho 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! Oh, what am I then? Nought! Nought! yet the effluence of Thy light divine, As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. I am, O God! and surely Thou must be! 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 marvelously Constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod Lives surely through some higher energy; For from itself alone it could not be! |