Or else she may
With fluttering hair
And gloomy looks
Sigh in the wind
Round rocky cliffs,
And thousand-hued. 
Like morn and even. 
Ever changing,
Like moonbeam’s light,
To mortals appear.

Let us all, then,
Adore the Father! 
The old, the mighty,
Who such a beauteous
Ne’er-fading spouse
Deigns to accord
To perishing mortals!

To us alone
Doth he unite her,
With heavenly bonds,
While he commands her,
in joy and sorrow,
As a true spouse
Never to fly us.

All the remaining
Races so poor
Of life-teeming earth. 
In children so rich. 
Wander and feed
In vacant enjoyment,
And ’mid the dark sorrows
Of evanescent
Restricted life,—­
Bow’d by the heavy
Yoke of Necessity.

But unto us he
Hath his most versatile,
Most cherished daughter
Granted,—­what joy!

Lovingly greet her
As a beloved one! 
Give her the woman’s
Place in our home!

And oh, may the aged
Stepmother Wisdom
Her gentle spirit
Ne’er seek to harm!

Yet know I her sister,
The older, sedater,
Mine own silent friend;
Oh, may she never,
Till life’s lamp is quench’d,
Turn away from me,—­
That noble inciter,
Comforter,—­Hope!

1781.
-----
Winter journey over the Hartz mountains.

[The following explanation is necessary, in order to make this ode in any way intelligible.  The Poet is supposed to leave his companions, who are proceeding on a hunting expedition in winter, in order himself to pay a visit to a hypochondriacal friend, and also to see the mining in the Hartz mountains.  The ode alternately describes, in a very fragmentary and peculiar manner, the naturally happy disposition of the Poet himself and the unhappiness of his friend; it pictures the wildness of the road and the dreariness of the prospect, which is relieved at one spot by the distant sight of a town, a very vague allusion to which is made in the third strophe; it recalls the hunting party on which his companions have gone; and after an address to Love, concludes by a contrast between the unexplored recesses of the highest peak of the Hartz and the metalliferous veins of its smaller brethren.]

Like the vulture
Who on heavy morning clouds
With gentle wing reposing
Looks for his prey,—­
Hover, my song!

For a God hath
Unto each prescribed
His destined path,
Which the happy one
Runs o’er swiftly
To his glad goal: 
He whose heart cruel
Fate hath contracted,
Struggles but vainly
Against all the barriers
The brazen thread raises,
But which the harsh shears
Must one day sever.

Through gloomy thickets
Presseth the wild deer on,
And with the sparrows
Long have the wealthy
Settled themselves in the marsh.