X.

X.

What is the thing esteemed by few? The monarch's hand it decks with pride, Yet it is made to injure too, And to the sword is most allied.

No blood it sheds, yet many a wound Inflicts,--gives wealth, yet takes from none; Has vanquished e'en the earth's wide round, And makes life's current smoothly run.

The greatest kingdoms it has framed, The oldest cities reared from dust, Yet war's fierce torch has ne'er inflamed; Happy are they who in it trust!

XI.

I live within a dwelling of stone, There buried in slumber I dally; Yet, armed with a weapon of iron alone, The foe to encounter I sally. At first I'm invisible, feeble, and mean, And o'er me thy breath has dominion; I'm easily drowned in a raindrop e'en, Yet in victory waxes my pinion. When my sister, all-powerful, gives me her hand, To the terrible lord of the world I expand.