Chapter 34

A WOOD, IN THE CENTRE OF WHICH IS SEEN A MOUNTAIN, FROM WHICH POLONIA DESCENDS.

POLONIA.

POLONIA. To Thee, O Lord, my spirit climbs, To Thee from every lonely hill I burn to sacrifice my will A thousand and a thousand times. And such my boundless love to Thee I wish each will of mine a living soul could be.

Would that my love I could have shown, By leaving for Thy sake, instead Of that poor crown that press'd my head, Some proud, imperial crown and throne -- Some empire which the sun surveys Through all its daily course and gilds with constant rays.

This lowly grot, 'neath rocks uphurled, In which I dwell, though poor and small, A spur of that stupendous wall, The eighth great wonder of the world, Doth in its little space excel The grandest palace where a king doth dwell.

Far better on some natural lawn To see the morn its gems bestrew, Or watch it weeping pearls of dew Within the white arms of the dawn; Or view, before the sun, the stars Drive o'er the brightening plain their swiftly-fading cars.

Far better in the mighty main, As night comes on, and clouds grow grey, To see the golden coach of day Drive down amid the waves of Spain. But be it dark, or be it bright, O Lord! I praise Thy name by day and night.

Than to endure the inner strife, The specious glare, but real weight Of pomp, and power, and pride, and state, And all the vanities of life; How would we shudder could we deem That life itself, in truth, is but a fleeting dream.

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