Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/322

288 No longer has he strength to plume his wing, No longer strength to raise his head, poor thing! E'en in enjoyment's hour his life he loses, His little foot to bear his weight refuses; So on he sips, and ere his draught is o'er, Death veils his thousand eyes for evermore.

 BY THE RIVER.

 THE FOX AND THE HUNTSMAN.

'tis on a fox's traces To arrive, midst forest-glades; Hopeless utterly the chase is, If his flight the huntsman aids. 