“THOUGH NONE THY NAME SHOULD CHERISH” [34]

  Though none Thy Name should cherish,
    My faith shall be the same,
  Lest gratitude should perish
    And earth be brought to shame. 
  With meekness Thou did’st suffer
    The pangs of death for me,
  With joy then I would offer
    This heart for aye to Thee.

[Illustration:  #THE QUEEN OF NIGHT# From the painting by Moritz von Schwind]

  I weep with strong emotion
    That death has been Thy lot,
  And yet that Thy devotion
    Thy people have forgot. 
  The blessings of salvation
    Thy perfect love has won,
  Yet who in any nation
    Regards what Thou hast done 3

  With love Thou hast protected
    Each man his whole life through;
  Though all Thy care rejected,
    No less would’st Thou be true. 
  Such love as Thine must vanquish
    The proudest soul at last,
  ’Twill turn to Thee in anguish
    And to Thy knees cling fast.

  Thine influence hath bound me;
    Oh, if it be Thy will,
  Be evermore around me,
    Be present with me still! 
  At length too shall the others
    Look up and long for rest,
  And all my loving brothers
    Shall sink upon Thy breast.

TO THE VIRGIN[35]

  A thousand hands, devoutly tender,
    Have sought thy beauty to express,
  But none, oh Mary, none can render,
    As my soul sees, thy loveliness.

  I gaze till earth’s confusion fadeth
    Like to a dream, and leaves behind
  A heaven of sweetness which pervadeth
    My whole rapt being—­heart and mind.

FRIEDRICH HOeLDERLIN

* * * * *

HYPERION’S SONG OF FATE [36] (1799)

  Ye wander there in the light
  On flower-soft fields, ye blest immortal Spirits. 
  Radiant godlike zephyrs
  Touch you as gently
  As the hand of a master might
  Touch the awed lute-string. 
  Free of fate as the slumbering
  Infant, breathe the divine ones. 
  Guarded well
  In the firm-sheathed bud
  Blooms eternal
  Each happy soul;
  And their rapture-lit eyes
  Shine with a tranquil
  Unchanging lustre. 
  But we, ’tis our portion,
  We never may be at rest. 
  They stumble, they vanish,
  The suffering mortals,
  Hurtling from one hard
  Hour to another,
  Like waves that are driven
  From cliff-side to cliff-side,
  Endlessly down the uncertain abyss.

EVENING PHANTASIE[36] (1799)

Before his but reposes in restful shade The ploughman; wreaths of smoke from his hearth ascend.  And sweet to wand’rers comes the tone of Evening bells from the peaceful village.

[Illustration:  #FRIEDRICH HOeLDERLIN# E. HADER]