Lord! on Thee Eternity had its foundation; all Sprung forth from Thee:--of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin:--all life, all beauty Thine.
Thy word created all, and doth create; Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine.
Thou wert, and art, and shalt be! Glorious! Great! Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate! Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround: Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath! Thou the beginning with the end has bound, And beautifully mingled life and death! As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze, So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee; And as the spangles in the sunny rays Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.
A million torches lighted by Thy hand Wander unwearied through the blue abyss: They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command; All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them?
Piles of crystal light-- A glorious company of golden streams-- Lamps of celestial ether burning bright-- Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams?
But Thou to these art as the noon to night.
Yes, as a drop of water in the sea, All this magnificence in Thee is lost:-- What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee?
And what am _I_ then?
Heaven's unnumber'd host, Though multiplied by myriads, and array'd in all the glory of sublimest thought; Is but an atom in the balance weighed Against Thy greatness; is a cypher brought Against infinity! What am I, then?
Naught! Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine, Pervading worlds, hath reach'd my bosom, too; Yes! In my spirit doth Thy spirit shine As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.
Naught! But I live, and on hope's pinions fly Eager towards Thy presence; for in Thee I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high, Even to the throne of Thy divinity.
I am, O God! and surely _Thou_ must be! Thou art! directing, guiding all, Thou art! Direct my understanding then to Thee: Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart: Though but an atom midst immensity, Still I am something fashioned by Thy hand! I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, On the last verge of mortal being stand, Close to the realms where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land! The chain of being is complete in me: In me is matter's last gradation lost, And the next step is spirit--Deity! I can command the lightning, and am dust! A monarch, and a slave; a worm, a god! Whence came I here, and how?
so marvelously Constructed and conceived?
Unknown! This clod Lives merely through some higher energy; For from itself alone it could not be! Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and thy word Created me! Thou source of light and good! Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude Fill'd me with an immortal soul, to spring O'er the abyss of death, and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, Even to its source--to Thee--its author there.
O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast, And waft its homage to Thy Deity.
God! Thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar; Thus seek Thy presence--Being wise and good! Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore; And when the tongue is eloquent no more, The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.
But the literary activity of Katherine II.'s reign was not confined to its two most brilliant representatives--Von Vizin and Derzhavin; many less prominent writers, belonging to different parties and branches of literature, were diligently at work.

Naturally, there was as yet too little independent Russian literature to permit of the existence of criticism, or the establishment of a fixed standard of taste.
Among the worthy writers of the second class in that brilliant era, were Kheraskoff, Bogdanovitch, Khemnitzer, and Kapnist.
Mikhail Matvyeevitch Kheraskoff (1733-1801), the author of the epic "The Rossiad," and of other less noteworthy works, was known during his lifetime only to the very restricted circle of his friends.

In his convictions and views on literature he belonged to the epoch of Lomonosoff and Sumarokoff; by birth and education to the highest nobility.

More faithfully than any other writer of his century does Kheraskoff represent the pseudo-classical style in Russian epic, lyric, and dramatic poetry, for he wrote all sorts of things, including sentimental novels.

To the classical enthusiasts of his day he seemed the "Russian Homer," and his long poems, "The Rossiad" (1789) and "Vladimir" (1786), were confidently believed to be immortal, being the first tolerable specimens of the epic style in Russian literature.