To breathe of comfort and of hope,
In tones as from the spirit-world —
'Twere better thou shouldst hear again
On Pultowa's ensanguined plain
The thunderbolts Czar Peter hurled !
When, trembling and with pallid mien,
Thou goest to breathe the summer balm,
On thine own sword, O Axel ! lean,
And not upon that rounded arm,
Which seems as 'twere by Cupid made
To be the pillow for his head.
Wonder of heaven and earth ! O, Love !
Thou breath from blissful realms above !
Spark of Divinity, that cheers
Our darkness in this vale of tears !
In Nature's breast the beating heart,
Comfort of Gods and men thou art !
Drop seeketh drop in ocean's bed,
And all the stars above us tread,