Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust Some clod like those that here we spurn; Some thing that sprang like thee from dust, And shall like thee to dust return? Dost thou rate statesmen, heroes, wits, At one sear leaf, or wandering feather? Behold the black, damp, narrow pits, Where they and thou must lie together. Dost thou beneath the smile or frown Of some vain woman bend thy knee? Whate'er thy losses or thy gains, The plots and feats of those that press We check, and take; exult, and fret; How worthless is the victor's prize. Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night: Say will it not be then the same, Whether we played the black or white, Whether we lost or won the game? Dost thou among these hillocks stray, Of hearts once wretched as thy own. Here for the living, and the dead, The weepers The same dark night, the same long sleep; Why shouldest thou writhe, and sob, and rave O'er those, with whom thou soon must be? Death his own sting shall cure— -the grave Shall vanquish its own victory. Here learn that all the griefs and joys, Here learn that glory and disgrace, That all we hope, and all we fear, TRANSLATION FROM A. V. ARNAULT. Fables: Livre v., Fable 16. (1826.) THOU, poor leaf, so sear and frail, Green, and broad, and fair to view; De ta tige détachée, Pauvre feuille desséchée Où vas-tu ?-Je n'en sais rien. L'orage a frappé le chêne Qui seul etait mon soutien. De son inconstante haleine, Le zéphyr ou l'aquilon Depuis ce jour me promène De la forêt à la plaine, De la montagne au vallon. Je vais où le vent me mène, Sans me plaindre ou m'effrayer, Je vais où va toute chose, Où va la feuille de rose Et la feuille de laurier. DIES IRE. (1826.) ON that great, that awful day, This vain world shall pass away. Thus the sibyl sang of old, Thus hath Holy David told. There shall be a deadly fear When the Avenger shall appear, And unveiled before his eye All the works of man shall lie. Hark! to the great trumpet's tones Pealing o'er the place of bones: Hark! it waketh from their bed All the nations of the dead,In a countless throng to meet, At the eternal judgment seat. Nature sickens with dismay, Death may not retain his prey; And before the Maker stand All the creatures of his hand. The great book shall be unfurled, Whereby God shall judge the world: What was distant shall be near, What was hidden shall be clear. To what shelter shall I fly? To what guardian shall I cry? Oh, in that destroying hour, Source of goodness, Source of power, Show thou, of thine own free grace, Help unto a helpless race. |