And oh, may the agedStepmother WisdomHer gentle spiritNe'er seek to harm!
Earnestly answer'd the son:--"You are wrong, dear-mother, one day isUnlike another. The youth soon ripens into his manhood.Ofttimes he ripens better to action in silence than livingThat tumultuous noisy life which ruins so many.And though silent I have been, and am, a heart has been fashion'dInside my bosom, which hates whatever unfair and unjust is,And I am able right well to discriminate secular matters.Work moreover my arms and my feet has mightily strengthen'd.All that I tell you is true; I boldly venture to say so.And yet, mother, you blame me with reason; you've caught me employingWords that are only half true, and that serve to conceal my true feelings.For I must need confess, it is not the advent of dangerCalls me away from my father's house, nor a resolute purposeUseful to be to my country, and dreaded to be by the foeman.Words alone it was that I utter'd,--words only intendedThose deep feelings to hide, which within my breast are contending.And now leave me, my mother! For as in my bosom I cherishWishes that are but vain, my life will be to no purpose.For I know that the Unit who makes a self-sacrifice, onlyInjures himself, unless all endeavour the Whole to accomplish."
Ye are pure, like the heart of the water,Ye are pure like the marrow of earth,Hov'ring round me, while I hoverOver water, o'er the earthLike the gods.
Met to taste my dishes!Food in plenty is prepar'd,
From the shore of Senderud ascendeth,Up to Darnawend its pinions bendeth,As He dawns, with joy to greet His light,You with endless blessings to requite.
Through him the gloomy winter night,
The pink in truth we should not slight,
A hasty glance with boldness round to throw;At first mine eyes had scarcely strength to see,
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