Recovery,—­daughter of Creation too,
  Though not for immortality designed,—­
      The Lord of life and death
      Sent thee from heaven to me! 
  Had I not heard thy gentle tread approach,
  Not heard the whisper of thy welcome voice,
      Death had with iron foot
      My chilly forehead pressed. 
  ’Tis true, I then had wandered where the earths
  Roll around suns; had strayed along the paths
      Where the maned comet soars
      Beyond the armed eye;
  And with the rapturous, eager greet had hailed
  The inmates of those earths and of those suns;
      Had hailed the countless host
      That throng the comet’s disc;
  Had asked the novice questions, and obtained
  Such answers as a sage vouchsafes to youth;
      Had learned in hours far more
      Than ages here unfold! 
  But I had then not ended here below
  What, in the enterprising bloom of life,
      Fate with no light behest
      Required me to begin. 
  Recovery,—­daughter of Creation too,
  Though not for immortality designed,—­
      The Lord of life and death
      Sent thee from heaven to me!

From the German of FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK.

Translation of W. TAYLOR.

* * * * *

THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE.

  Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
    That of our vices we can frame
  A ladder, if we will but tread
    Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

  All common things, each day’s events,
    That with the hour begin and end,
  Our pleasures and our discontents,
    Are rounds by which we may ascend.

  The low desire, the base design,
    That makes another’s virtues less;
  The revel of the ruddy wine,
    And all occasions of excess;

  The longing for ignoble things;
    The strife for triumph more than truth;
  The hardening of the heart, that brings
    Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

  All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
    That have their root in thoughts of ill;
  Whatever hinders or impedes
    The action of the nobler will:—­

  All these must first be trampled down
    Beneath our feet, if we would gain
  In the bright fields of fair renown
    The right of eminent domain.

  We have not wings, we cannot soar;
    But we have feet to scale and climb
  By slow degrees, by more and more,
    The cloudy summits of our time.

  The mighty pyramids of stone
    That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
  When nearer seen, and better known,
    Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

  The distant mountains, that uprear
    Their solid bastions to the skies,
  Are crossed by pathways, that appear
    As we to higher levels rise.

  The heights by great men reached and kept
    Were not attained by sudden flight,
  But they, while their companions slept,
    Were toiling upward in the night.