And he was there, to make us blest.
Oh, how they hop, and run, and rave,And their clipp'd pinions wildly wave,--Poor princes, who must all endureThe pangs of love that nought can cure.
At length, in a chariot of gold,
Hermann sped to the stable forthwith, where the spirited stallionsTranquilly stood and with eagerness swallow'd the pure oats before them,And the well-dried hay, which was cut from the best of their meadows.Then in eager haste in their mouths the shining bits placed he,Quickly drew the harness through the well-plated buckles,And then fastend the long broad reins in proper position,Led the horses out in the yard, where already the carriage,Easily moved along by its pole, had been push'd by the servant.Then they restrain'd the impetuous strength of the fast-moving horses,Fastening both with neat-looking ropes to the bar of the carriage.Hermann seized his whip, took his seat, and drove to the gateway.When in the roomy carriage his friends had taken their places,Swiftly he drove away, and left the pavement behind them,Left behind the walls of the town and the clean-looking towers,Thus sped Hermann along, till he reach'd the familiar highway,Not delaying a moment, and galloping uphill and downhill.When however at length the village steeple descried he,And not far away lay the houses surrounded by gardens,He began to think it was time to hold in the horses.
When scarce the Eastern sky is grey?Hath he just ceased, though cold it be,
Descends there to draw from the hoard.
Whom we for ages know!
Not by the elm-treeHim didst thou visit,With the pair of dovesHeld in his gentle arm,--With the beauteous garland of roses,--Caressing him, so blest in his flowers,Anacreon,Storm-breathing godhead!Not in the poplar grove,Near the Sybaris' strand,Not on the mountain'sSun-illumined browDidst thou seize him,The flower-singing,Honey-breathing,Sweetly noddingTheocritus.
Thee to salute, kindly star, earliest herald of day,--And to await, with impatience, the gaze of the ruler of heaven,--
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