This one comes with joyous bearing

And with open, radiant gaze;
That a sterner look is wearing,
This one, scarcely cured, with daring

Wakes the strength of former days;
For the sweet, destructive flame
Pierced his marrow and his frame. 
That which Amor stole before
Phoebus only can restore,
Peace, and joy, and harmony,
Aspirations pure and free.

Brethren, rise ye! 
Numbers prize ye! 
Deeds of worth resemble they.

Who can better than the bard
Guide a friend when gone astray?

If his duty he regard,
More he’ll do, than others may.

Yes! afar I hear them sing! 
Yes!  I hear them touch the string,
And with mighty godlike stroke

Right and duty they inspire,
And evoke,

As they sing, and wake the lyre,
Tendencies of noblest worth,
To each type of strength give birth.

Phantasies of sweetest power
Flower
Round about on ev’ry bough,
Bending now
Like the magic wood of old,
’Neath the fruit that gleams like gold.

What we feel and what we view

In the land of highest bliss,—­

This dear soil, a sun like this,—­
Lures the best of women too. 
And the Muses’ breathings blest
Rouse the maiden’s gentle breast,
Tune the throat to minstrelsy,
And with cheeks of beauteous dye,
Bid it sing a worthy song,
Sit the sister-band among;
And their strains grow softer still,
As they vie with earnest will.

One amongst the band betimes

Goes to wander
By the beeches, ’neath the limes,

Yonder seeking, finding yonder
That which in the morning-grove
She had lost through roguish Love,
All her breast’s first aspirations,
And her heart’s calm meditations,
To the shady wood so fair

Gently stealing,
Takes she that which man can ne’er

Duly merit,—­each soft feeling,—­
Disregards the noontide ray
And the dew at close of day,Ä

In the plain her path she loses. 
Ne’er disturb her on her way!

Seek her silently, ye Muses

Shouts I hear, wherein the sound
Of the waterfall is drown’d. 
From the grove loud clamours rise,
Strange the tumult, strange the cries. 
See I rightly?  Can it be? 
To the very sanctuary,
Lo, an impious troop in-hies!

O’er the land
Streams the band;
Hot desire,
Drunken-fire
In their gaze
Wildly plays,—­
Makes their hair
Bristle there. 
And the troop,
With fell swoop,
Women, men,
Coming then,
Ply their blows
And expose,
Void of shame,
All the frame. 
Iron shot,
Fierce and hot,
Strike with fear
On the ear;
All they slay
On their way. 
O’er the land
Pours the band;
All take flight
At their sight.

Ah, o’er ev’ry plant they rush! 
Ah, their cruel footsteps crush
All the flowers that fill their path! 
Who will dare to stem their wrath?