With thee conversing, I forget all time,
All seasons, and their change; all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew: fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild; then silent night,
With this her solemn bird; and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train.
But neither breath of morn, when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun
On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers;
Nor grateful evening mild; nor silent night,
With this her solemn bird; nor walk by moon,
Or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet.
Theile mir mit, was du weißt; ich werd' es dankbar empfangen
Aber du gibst mir dich selbst: damit verschone mich,
Σοὶ δὴ ξυνοῦσαν ἐν λόγων κοινωνία
χρόνος διελθὼν λανθάνει μ', ὥρα δέ
ἅπασ ̓ ὁμοίως σοῦ παρόντος ἁνδάνει.
ἕω μὲν ἡδὺ πνεῦμ ̓, ὁπηνίκ ̓ ὀρνέων
ἀνέχουσα κινεῖ πρωιαίτατον μέλος
τερπνὸν δ ̓ ἄρ ̓ ἀντέλλοντος ἡλίου σέλας,
ὁπόταν ἑῴαν τῇδ ̓ ἐπιρραίνῃ χθονὶ
ἀκτῖνα, δένδροις, ἄνθεσιν, καρπῷ, χλόῃ,
λαμπρὰν δρόσον στάζουσιν· εὐώδης δ' ἄρα
ἡ παμφόρος γῆ μειλιχους ὄμβρους μέτα
ἡδεῖα δ ̓ ἀγανῆς ἑσπέρας ἐπήλυσις·
κάπειτα νὺξ ἄφωνος, ἥ τε νύκτερος
ὄρνις ξυνήθης, καὶ σεληναῖον φάος,
ξὺν τῇδ ̓ ὀπαδῶν μυρίων ὁμηγύρει,
τοῖς ἀστερωποῖς οὐρανοῦ ποικίλμασιν.
ἀλλ ̓ οὐθ ̓ ἑῷα πνεύμαθ ̓, ἡνίκ ̓ ὀρνέων
ξὺν πρωτομόλπων ὄρνυται μελωδία
οὐθ ̓ ἥλιος γῆν τήνδε προσγελῶν φάει,
οὐ καρπός, ἄνθη, δένδρα καὶ χλόη δρόσου
στίλβοντ ̓ ἐπιρροαῖσιν, οὐκ εὐοσμία
χθονὸς μετ ̓ ὄμβρον, οὐδ ̓ ἕκηλος ἑσπέρα,
οὐ νὺξ ἄφωνος ἠθάδι ξὺν ὀρνέῳ,
μοι σελήνη νυκτέρῳ πλανωμένῃ
οὐδ ̓ ἀστερωπὸν φῶς ἄνευ σέθεν γλυκύ.
Des mihi doctrinam, referam, doctissume, grates :
Sed teipsum mihi das; hoc tibi munus habe.
The rain had fallen; the Poet arose,
And pass'd by the town, and out of the street; A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat. And he sat him down in a lonely place,
And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet.
The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee,
The snake slipt under a spray,
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,
And stared with his foot on the prey;
And the nightingale thought: I have sung many songs,
But never a one so gay;
For he sings of what the world will be
When the years have died away.
Lines in a Lady's Album.
Small service is true service, while it lasts;
Of humblest friends, bright creature, scorn not one:
The daisy, by the shadow which it casts,
Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
Deciderant imbres: liqvit conclave poeta ;
Praeteriitqve urbem deseruitqve vias.
Adflat ubi levior solis de limine ventus,
Et tremit umbrarum fluctubus alta Ceres,
Huc veniens sola solus statione resedit,
Et cecinit longum dulcifluumqve melos;
Qvo stupet haerescens media inter nubila cygnus,
Et cadit ante ipsos vatis alauda pedes:
Qvin et apes agilis venandi cessat hirundo,
Sub frondis coluber tegmine delituit;
Constitit obductus falco lanugine rostrum,
Et stupuit, captam dum pede pressat avem.
Carmina multa qvidem, dixit philomela, profudi;
Sed nunqvam cecini tam geniale melos;
Scilicet hic cantat qvid sit tellure futurum,
Qvom vetus annorum clauserit orbis iter.
Amotus minumum ne temnat vultus amicum,
Exiguum vero munus amore iuvat.
Ipse brevi rorem defendit flosculus umbra,
Ne nimio sitiens sorbeat igne dies.
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour;
England hath need of thee; she is a fen
Of stagnant waters; altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men:
Oh! raise us up, return to us again,
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart;
Thou had'st a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free.
So didst thou travel on life's common way
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart.
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
Why is it that on Clara's face
The lily only has a place?
Is it that the absent rose
Is gone to paint her husband's nose?
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