Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/116

94 To our king the next toast give, Honour is his merit, 'Gainst each in and outward foe He's our rock and tower. Of his maintenance thinks he though, More that grows his power.

Next to her good health I drink, Who has stirred my passion; Of his mistress let each think, Think in knightly fashion. If the beauteous maid but see Whom 'tis I now call so, Let her smiling nod to me: "Here's my love's health also."

To those friends,—the two or three,— Be our next toast given. In whose presence revel we, In the silent even,— Who the gloomy mist so cold Scatter gently, lightly; To those friends, then, new or old, Let the toast ring brightly.

Broader now the stream rolls on, With its waves more swelling, While in higher, nobler tone, Comrades, we are dwelling,— We who with collected might Bravely cling together, Both in fortune's sunshine bright, And in stormy weather.

Just as we are gathered thus, Others are collected;