Honour and pleasure he finds, when to his garden he looks.-----AH, my maiden is going! she mounts the vessel! My monarch,
1808.-----THE WALKING BELL
Removed from thee, friend-sever'd, in distress,
All my peace for aye has fleeted,
KLOPSTOCK would lead us away from Pindus; no longer for laurelMay we be eager--the homely acorn alone must content us;Yet he himself his more-than-epic crusade is conductingHigh on Golgotha's summit, that foreign gods he may honour!Yet, on what hill he prefers, let him gather the angels together,Suffer deserted disciples to weep o'er the grave of the just one:There where a hero and saint hath died, where a bard breath'd his numbers,Both for our life and our death an ensample of courage resplendentAnd of the loftiest human worth to bequeath,--ev'ry nationThere will joyously kneel in devotion ecstatic, reveringThorn and laurel garland, and all its charms and its tortures.
Vapour, smoke, as from a fire,
Therefore in each heavy hour,
Well nigh feel I vanquish'd by my shame.
A godlike woman hov'ring to and fro.In life I ne'er had seen a form so fair--She gazed at me, and still she hover'd there.
GOD gave to mortals birth,
And mute, alas! each sweet responsive lay.My strains but to the careless crowd belong,
Been bidden?Ah love, that thou art immortal I see!Nor knavish cunning nor treachery