Now at length is come the Summer,And the early fly so busyDraws me from my pleasing slumbersAt the first-born morning-glimmer.Mercilessly then returns she,Though the half-aroused one oftenScares her from him with impatience,And she lures her shameless sisters,So that from my weary eyelidsKindly sleep ere long is driven.From my couch then boldly spring I,And I seek the darling Muses,in the beechen-grove I find them,Full of pieasure to receive me;And to the tormenting insectsOwe I many a golden hour.Thus be ye, unwelcome beings,Highly valued by the poet,As the flies my numbers tell of.
Crush'd them with like art,And the Dragon's life-blood spilt
As he, bow-like, rose? How each eye dweltOn the glorious scene! I felt, I felt,Thousand times, as life's days fleeted by,Borne with him, the coming one, on high.
Love not the subtle and old; Mother, observe what I say!Still was new the Antique, when yonder blest ones were living;
Behold a wooden new erection,So that, if sparks and wind but choose,God's self at such a game must lose!
Wille wau wau wau!
And let the lover rejoice, finding the bliss that he craves.For from the gods ye received what they ever denied unto mortals,
[The following explanation is necessary, in order to make thisode in any way intelligible. The Poet is supposed to leave hiscompanions, who are proceeding on a hunting expedition in winter,in order himself to pay a visit to a hypochondriacal friend, andalso to see the mining in the Hartz mountains. The odealternately describes, in a very fragmentary and peculiar manner,the naturally happy disposition of the Poet himself and theunhappiness of his friend; it pictures the wildness of the roadand the dreariness of the prospect, which is relieved at one spotby the distant sight of a town, a very vague allusion to which ismade in the third strophe; it recalls the hunting party on whichhis companions have gone; and after an address to Love, concludesby a contrast between the unexplored recesses of the highest peakof the Hartz and the metalliferous veins of its smallerbrethren.]
1789.-----THE SHEPHERD'S LAMENT.
Which not to all its holy sense explained,When 'mid the crowd, their icy shadows flinging,
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