THE STORM.
BY DERJAVIN.
As my bark in restless ocean
Mounts its rough and foaming hills,
Whilst its waves in dark commotion
Pass me, hope my bosom fills.
Who, when warring clouds are gleaming,
Quenches the destructive spark?
Say what hand, where safety's beaming,
Guides through rocks my little bark?
Thou Creator! all o'erseeing,
In this scene preserv'st me dread,
Thou, without whose word decreeing
Not a hair falls from my head.
Thou in life hast doubly blest me,
All my soul to thee's revealed,
Thou amongst the great hast placed me,
Be midst them my guide and shield!
TO MY HEART.
Why, poor heart, so ceaseless languish?
Why with such distresses smart?
Nought alleviates thy anguish,
What afflicts thee so, poor heart?
Heart, I comprehend not wrongly,
Thou a captive art confest,
Near Eliza thou beat'st strongly
As thou'dst leap into her breast.
Since 'tis so then, little throbber,
You and I, alas! must part,
I'd not be thy comfort's robber;
To her I'll resign thee, heart.
Yet the maid in compensation
Must her own bestow on me,
And with such remuneration
Never shall I grieve for thee.
But should she, thy sorrows spurning,
This exchange, poor heart, deny,
Then I'll bear thee, heart, though mourning,
From her far and hasty fly.
But, alas! no pain assuaging,
That would but increase thy grief;
If kind Death still not its raging,
Granting thee a kind relief.
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