What vocation leads thee,While the day is burning,Up this dusty path?Bring'st thou goods from out the townRound the country?Smil'st thou, stranger,At my question?
When strange contending feelings dimly cover,Now us, and now the forms that round us hover;One's feelings by no other are supplied,'Tis dark without, if all is bright inside;An outward brightness veils my sadden'd mood,When Fortune smiles,--how seldom understood!Now think we that we know her, and with mightA woman's beauteous form instils delight;The youth, as glad as in his infancy,The spring-time treads, as though the spring were heRavish'd, amazed, he asks, how this is done?He looks around, the world appears his own.With careless speed he wanders on through space,Nor walls, nor palaces can check his race;As some gay flight of birds round tree-tops plays,So 'tis with him who round his mistress strays;He seeks from AEther, which he'd leave behind him,The faithful look that fondly serves to bind him.
MAY each honest effort be
As at the door, on meeting lingerd she,
"Then comes there a princely knight galloping by,She stretches her hand out, as soon as he's nigh,
Let a funeral pile be straightway dress'd;Open then my cell so sad and drear,
Him she clasps with silent smile,
'Neath the shadow of the lindens yonder,--
Surely we for wine may languish!
Seized upon Phoebus's heart, seized on the heart of each Muse.
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