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Then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word, A word of holiest import-Innocence.

Years fled and brought with them a subtle change,
Scattering Time's snow upon the artist's brow,
But leaving there the laurel wreath of fame,
While all men spake in words of praise his name;
For he had traced full many a noble work

Upon the canvas that had touched men's souls,
And drawn them from the baser things of earth,
Toward the light and purity of heaven.

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

A meet companion for his fairest theme;

And so he sought the wretched haunts of sin,
Through miry courts of misery and guilt,
Seeking a face which at the last was found.
Within a prison cell there crouched a man-
Nay, rather say a fiend-with countenance seamed
And marred by all the horrid lines of sin;
Each mark of degradation might be traced,
And every scene of horror he had known,

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
Made skilful by its oft-repeated toil,

Transferred unto his canvas that vile face,
And also wrote beneath it just one word,
A word of darkest import-it was Vice.
Then with some inspiration not his own,
Thinking, perchance, to touch that guilty heart,
And wake it to repentance e'er too late,
The artist told the tale of that bright morn,
Placed the two pictured faces side by side,

And brought the wretch before them. With a shriek
That echoed through those vaulted corridors,
Like to the cries that issue from the lips

Of souls forever doomed to woe,

Prostrate upon the stony floor he fell,

And hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish. "I was that child once-I, yes, even I—

In the gracious years forever fled,

That innocent and happy little child!

These very hands were raised to God in prayer,
That now are reddened with a mother's blood.

Great Heaven! can such things be? Almighty power,
Send forth Thy dart and strike me where I lie!"
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,
I heeded not my mother's piteous prayers,
I heeded not the warnings of my friends,
But tasted of the wine when it was red,
Until it left a demon in my heart

That led me onward, step by step, to this,
This horrible place, from which my body goes
Unto the gallows, and my soul to hell!"

He ceased at last. The artist turned and fled;
But even as he went, unto his ears

Were borne the awful echoes of despair,

Which the lost wretch flung on the empty air,
Cursing the demon that had brought him there.

GOD

BY G. R. DERZHAVIN

O Thou Eternal One! whose presence bright
All space doth occupy, all motion guide:
Unchanged through time's all devastating flight;
Thou only God! There is no God beside!
Being above all beings! Mighty One!

Whom none can comprehend and none explore; Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone:

Embracing all-supporting-ruling o'er—
Being 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
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark:

And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high,
Even like past moments in eternity.

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call
First chaos, then existence:-Lord! on Thee
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.

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be! Glorious! Great! Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround,
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath!
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death!
As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze,

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
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss:
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command,
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light-
A glorious company of golden streams-
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,
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom, too;
Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine,

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.
Nought! yet 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 throne of Thy divinity.

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!

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