The Poems of Goethe Part 33

High o'er our heads have soar'd!

How fair and pleasant looks,

On yonder beauteous spot, Embraced by poplar-brooks,

The newly-finish'd cot!

Who is it there that sits

In that glad home above?

Is't not our darling Fritz

With his own darling love?

Beside yon precipice,

Whence pent-up waters steal, And leaving the abyss,

Fall foaming through the wheel, Though people often tell

Of millers' wives so fair, Yet none can e'er excel

Our dearest daughter there!

Yet where the thick-set green

Stands round yon church and sad, Where the old fir-tree's seen

Alone tow'rd heaven to nod,-- 'Tis there the ashes lie

Of our untimely dead; From earth our gaze on high

By their blest memory's led.

See how yon hill is bright

With billowy-waving arms!

The force returns, whose might

Has vanquished war's alarms.

Who proudly hastens here

With wreath-encircled brow?

'Tis like our child so dear

Thus Charles comes homeward now.

That dearest honour'd guest

Is welcom'd by the bride; She makes the true one blest,

At the glad festal tide.

And ev'ry one makes haste

To join the dance with glee; While thou with wreaths hast graced

The youngest children three.

To sound of flute and horn

The time appears renew'd, When we, in love's young morn,

In the glad dance upstood; And perfect bliss I know

Ere the year's course is run, For to the font we go

With grandson and with son!

1803.*

----- SONG OF FELLOWs.h.i.+P.

[Written and sung in honour of the birthday of the Pastor Ewald at the time of Goethe's happy connection with Lily.]

IN ev'ry hour of joy

That love and wine prolong, The moments we'll employ

To carol forth this song!

We're gathered in His name,

Whose power hath brought us here; He kindled first our flame,

He bids it burn more clear.

Then gladly glow to-night,

And let our hearts combine!

Up! quaff with fresh delight

This gla.s.s of sparkling wine!

Up! hail the joyous hour,

And let your kiss be true; With each new bond of power

The old becomes the new!

Who in our circle lives,

And is not happy there?

True liberty it gives,