Piercing my very bone?The sorrows that my bosom fill,Its trembling, its aye-yearning will,
Was it possible that yeThus your godlike dignityShould forget? The Thyrsus rude
THAT thou can't never end, doth make thee great,And that thou ne'er beginnest, is thy fate.Thy song is changeful as yon starry frame,End and beginning evermore the same;And what the middle bringeth, but containsWhat was at first, and what at last remains.Thou art of joy the true and minstrel-source,From thee pours wave on wave with ceaseless force.A mouth that's aye prepared to kiss,
If she in water can inflame
Oh, the beech trees in yon grove!And behind we'll build a cot,
But, Satan, endless woe to thee!Thou thought'st to overcome Him then,
IN search of prey once raised his pinionsAn eaglet;A huntsman's arrow came, and reftHis right wing of all motive power.Headlong he fell into a myrtle grove,For three long days on anguish fed,In torment writhedThroughout three long, three weary nights;And then was cured,Thanks to all-healing Nature'sSoft, omnipresent balm.He crept away from out the copse,And stretch'd his wing--alas!Lost is all power of flight--He scarce can lift himselfFrom off the groundTo catch some mean, unworthy prey,And rests, deep-sorrowing,On the low rock beside the stream.Up to the oak he looks,Looks up to heaven,While in his noble eye there gleams a tear.Then, rustling through the myrtle boughs, behold,There comes a wanton pair of doves,Who settle down, and, nodding, strutO'er the gold sands beside the stream,And gradually approach;Their red-tinged eyes, so full of love,Soon see the inward-sorrowing one.The male, inquisitively social, leapsOn the next bush, and looksUpon him kindly and complacently."Thou sorrowest," murmurs he:"Be of good cheer, my friend!All that is needed for calm happinessHast thou not here?Hast thou not pleasure in the golden boughThat shields thee from the day's fierce glow?Canst thou not raise thy breast to catch,On the soft moss beside the brook,The sun's last rays at even?Here thou mayst wander through the flowers' fresh dew,Pluck from the overflowThe forest-trees provide,Thy choicest food,--mayst quenchThy light thirst at the silvery spring.Oh friend, true happinessLies in contentedness,And that contentednessFinds everywhere enough.""Oh, wise one!" said the eagle, while he sankIn deep and ever deep'ning thought--"Oh Wisdom! like a dove thou speakest!"
"But from out my coffin's prison-bounds
That we so warmly sought,Dear wife, see how our plains
I hoped it, I deserved it ne'er!
But God, its modest boldness to reward,Strength to the drop and firm endurance gave.Its form the mussel captive took,
Such love-round cheeks as she?Ah, when the eye her beauties meet,
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