Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/111

Rh And, leaving the abyss, Fall foaming through the wheel,— Though people often tell Of millers' wives so fair, Yet none can e'er excel Our dearest daughter there!

Yet where the thick-set green Stands round yon church and sod, Where the old fir-tree's seen Alone tow'rd heaven to nod,— 'Tis there the ashes lie Of our untimely dead; From earth our gaze on high By their blest memory's led.

See how yon hill is bright With billowy-waving arms! The force returns, whose might Has vanquished war's alarms. Who proudly hastens here With wreath-encircled brow? 'Tis like our child so dear!— Thus Charles comes homeward now.

That dearest honoured guest Is welcomed by the bride; She makes the true one blest, At the glad festal tide. And every one makes haste To join the dance with glee; While thou with wreaths hast graced The youngest children three.

To sound of flute and horn The time appears renewed,