Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/230

200 Thou, who on each bestowest Joys, a superabundant share, Bless the brothers of the chase, Out in search of wild beasts, With danger-loving zeal of youth, Eager to take life, Late avengers of mischief, Which for years hath defied the Farmer's threatening cudgel.

But the lone wanderer wrap In thy golden cloud-fleeces; And wreathe with evergreen, Till the summer roses be blowing, The dripping ringlets, O Love, of this thy poet!

With thy flickering torch thou Lightest him on Through the fords, in the night, Over treacherous footing On desolate commons. With the thousand tints of the moon, thou Smilest to his heart so! With the bitter cold blast Bearest him gloriously up. Winter torrents down from the rocks roll Into his anthems. An altar of cheerfulest thanks Seems to him the terrible summit's Snow-hung, hoary crown, Wreathed vdth rows of pale spirits By the marvellous people.

Thou standest, with unexplored bosom Mysteriously prominent,