Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/248

218 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,— 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 drowned. 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 the 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