Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/205

Rh Turn again to me, ye poor deserted; Hard as steel is now your mother's bosom; Shut so fast it cannot throb with pity!"

Thus he spoke; and when the lady heard him, Pale as death she dropped upon the pavement, And the life fled from her wretched bosom, As she saw her children turning from her.

 IDYLL.

A village Chorus is supposed to be assembled, and about to commence its festive procession.

Now order it truly, That ev'ry one duly 