And gazed on the summit so steep.
Who e'er can crush Thy light?
1796.-----HERMANN AND DOROTHEA.
With us sought to play.
Chorus of Spirits
Each Sunday and each feast as well,
Fullness waxes in my breastOf emotions social, blest;Friendship's nurtured膌ove awakes,--And the silence Phoebus breaksOf his mountains, of his vales,Sweetly blow the balmy gales;All for whom he shows affection,Who are worthy his protection,Gladly follow his direction.
Is heard the sigh, and grief revives anew;The friends are told, who, in their hour of pride,Deceived by fortune, vanish'd from my side.
YE black and roguish eyes,