O wedding-guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide, wide sea:
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.
Oh, sweeter than the marriage-feast,
"Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company!
To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray;
While each to his great Father bends,
Old men and babes, and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay!
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou wedding-guest!
He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man, and bird, and beast.
He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
Nicht aus meinem Nektar hast du die Gottheit getrunken ; Deine Götterkraft war's, die dir den Nektar errang.
Mira loqvor, conviva; sed olim in marmore vasto
Solus eram mecum.
Tam solo in marmore soli
Vix est visus ibi praesens Deus. Ergo hymenaei
Dulcius est festis, longe mihi dulcius, ire
Ad delubra Dei, magna comitante caterva;
Ire pias una ante aras unaqve precari,
Dum genua aeterno flectunt sua qvisqve Parenti
Longaeviqve senes iunctiqve in amore sodales,
Infantes pueriqve hilares hilaresqve puellae.
Jamqve vale; sed crede mihi, conviva, monenti.
Concipit hic pia vota, pio qvi pectore curat
Humanumqve genus volucresqve et secla ferarum:
Optuma vota facit, cui sunt carissuma qvotqvot
Hunc habitant, seu magna sient, seu tenvia, mundum.
Nam bonus ille Deus, qvi nos amat, omnia fecit,
Constantiqve eadem servat, qvae fecit, amore.
Non capis aetherio dias e nectare vires;
Aetherium nectar vis tibi dia dedit.
The Beech-Tree's Petition.
Oh, leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Though bush or flowret never grow
My dark unwarming shade below;
Nor summer bud perfume the dew
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
The ambrosial amber of the hive;
Yet leave this barren spot for me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Thrice twenty summers I have seen
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wintry wind have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
Since childhood in my pleasant bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture made;
And on my trunk's surviving frame
Carved many a long-forgotten name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breathed upon this sacred ground;
By all that Love has whisper'd here,
Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;
As Love's own altar, honour me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Hos, precor, hos saltem steriles mihi linqve recessus ;
Laedere fagineas, rustice, parce comas.
Flore licet nunqvam tenerave adriserit herba
Frigida qvae nostra fronde nigrescit humus;
Nec roseo ridens luxu croceive coloris
Roscidus aestivo fragret odore calyx;
Si neqve sub foliis anno fugiente relictis
Edita de tenero germine poma rubent,
Nec mea mellificae qvaerunt per brachia gentes
Nectareas, cellis qvae cumulentur, opes:
Hos tamen, hos saltem steriles mihi linqve recessus ;
Laedere fagineas, rustice, parce comas.
Nunc ego centenos vidi inmutata per annos
Sole nitere polum, fronde virere nemus;
Et toties, ventos qvom fundit bruma sonantes,
Omni flore carens et sine honore fui,
Ex qvo prima mea lusit sub fronde iuventus,
Struxit et innocuos multa puella choros;
Umbraqve coniunctos ex qvo mea texit amantes,
Mutua qvi fido vota dedere sinu,
Et memori interdum trunco servanda notabant
Nomina, qvae longo iam periere die.
O ego blanda precor per te suspiria et omnes,
Conscia queis fuerunt haec loca sancta, sonos,
Vota per hic laetis toties audita puellis,
Qvaeqve susurravit verba fidelis amor,
Me precor ut sanctam venerere Cupidinis aram;
Laedere fagineas, rustice, parce comas.
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde,
That from the nunnerie
Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde
To war and arms I flie.
True, a new mistresse now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore:
I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Loved I not honoure more.
See'st thou yon pimpernel? An hour is past,
And he was holding dalliance with the sun,
All bared his crimson pride: now closed, downcast,
His blossoms seek their favourite skies to shun.
Young Edwin came, the warning change beheld,
Then hurried to his hinds; and hark! I hear
His loaded wagons creaking from the field;
For storms, he says, and angry hours, are near.
Oh! 'mid the flowers life's tortuous path that strew,
Is there not one like this? E'en as I speak,
Thy bosom-friend's estranged look review,
Remark his icy eye, his smileless cheek:
Adversity is nigh! Speed, counsel how
To soften as thou mayest th' inevitable blow.
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