“My greatest foeman from that day,
Ye led my dearest friends astray,—­

As ye had fallen, man must fall. 
To kill him evermore ye sought,
‘They all shall die the death,’ ye thought;

But howl! for Me I won them all. 
For them alone did I descend,

For them pray’d, suffer’d, perish’d I.
Ye ne’er shall gain your wicked end;

Who trusts in Me shall never die.

“In endless chains here lie ye now,
Nothing can save you from the slough.

Not boldness, not regret for crime. 
Lie, then, and writhe in brimstone fire! 
’Twas ye yourselves drew down Mine ire,

Lie and lament throughout all time! 
And also ye, whom I selected,

E’en ye forever I disown,
For ye My saving grace rejected

Ye murmur? blame yourselves alone!

“Ye might have lived with Me in bliss,
For I of yore had promis’d this;

Ye sinn’d, and all My precepts slighted
Wrapp’d in the sleep of sin ye dwelt,
Now is My fearful judgment felt,

By a just doom your guilt requited.”—­
Thus spake He, and a fearful storm

From Him proceeds, the lightnings glow,
The thunders seize each wicked form,

And hurl them in the gulf below.

The God-man closeth Hell’s sad doors,
In all His majesty He soars

From those dark regions back to light. 
He sitteth at the Father’s side;
Oh, friends, what joy doth this betide!

For us, for us He still will fight! 
The angels sacred quire around

Rejoice before the mighty Lord,
So that all creatures hear the sound: 

“Zebaoth’s God be aye ador’d!”

1765.
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Antiques.

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Leopold, Duke of Brunswick.

[Written on the occasion of the death, by drowning, of the Prince.]

Thou wert forcibly seized by the hoary lord of the river,—­

Holding thee, ever he shares with thee his streaming domain,
Calmly sleepest thou near his urn as it silently trickles,

Till thou to action art roused, waked by the swift-rolling flood. 
Kindly be to the people, as when thou still wert a mortal,

Perfecting that as a god, which thou didst fail in, as man.

1785.
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To the husbandman.

Smoothly and lightly the golden seed by the furrow is cover’d;

Yet will a deeper one, friend, cover thy bones at the last. 
Joyously plough’d and sow’d!  Here food all living is budding,

E’en from the side of the tomb Hope will not vanish away.

1789.*
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Anacreon’s grave.

Here where the roses blossom, where vines round the laurels are twining,

Where the turtle-dove calls, where the blithe cricket is heard,
Say, whose grave can this be, with life by all the Immortals