As of ancestors, he hears them,
Speaking of his son and grandsons. 
His great-grandsons stand around him,
Like a race of valiant mortals,
Him to honour,—­him, the youngest. 
And one token on another
Rises up, the proof completing;
The identity is proven
Of himself, and of his comrades.

Now returns he to the cavern,
With him go both king and people.—­
Neither to the king nor people
E’er returns that chosen mortal;
For the Seven, who for ages—­
Eight was, with the dog, their number—­
Had from all the world been sunder’d,
Gabriel’s mysterious power,
To the will of God obedient,
Hath to Paradise conducted,—­
And the cave was closed for ever.

1814-15.
-----

SONGS FROM VARIOUS PLAYS, ETC

-----
From Faust.

I.
Dedication.

Ye shadowy forms, again ye’re drawing near,

So wont of yore to meet my troubled gaze! 
Were it in vain to seek to keep you here?

Loves still my heart that dream of olden days? 
Oh, come then! and in pristine force appear,

Parting the vapor mist that round me plays! 
My bosom finds its youthful strength again,
Feeling the magic breeze that marks your train.

Ye bring the forms of happy days of yore,

And many a shadow loved attends you too;
Like some old lay, whose dream was well nigh o’er,

First-love appears again, and friendship true;
Upon life’s labyrinthine path once more

Is heard the sigh, and grief revives anew;
The friends are told, who, in their hour of pride,
Deceived by fortune, vanish’d from my side.

No longer do they hear my plaintive song,

The souls to whom I sang in life’s young day;
Scatter’d for ever now the friendly throng,

And mute, alas! each sweet responsive lay. 
My strains but to the careless crowd belong,

Their smiles but sorrow to my heart convey;
And all who heard my numbers erst with gladness,
If living yet, roam o’er the earth in sadness.

Long buried yearnings in my breast arise,

Yon calm and solemn spirit-realm to gain;
Like the aeonian harp’s sweet melodies,

My murmuring song breathes forth its changeful strain. 
A trembling seizes me, tears fill mine eyes,

And softer grows my rugged heart amain. 
All I possess far distant seems to be,
The vanish’d only seems reality.

II. 
Prologue in heaven.

The archangels’ song.

Raphael.

The sun still chaunts, as in old time,

With brother-spheres in choral song,
And with his thunder-march sublime

Moves his predestined course along. 
Strength find the angels in his sight,

Though he by none may fathomed be;
Still glorious is each work of might