In the sunshine of summer I ne'er lament,Because the winter it cannot prevent;And when the white snow-flakes fall around,I don my skates, and am off with a bound.Though I dissemble as I will,The sun for me will ne'er stand still;The old and wonted course is run,Until the whole of life is done;Each day the servant like the lord,In turns comes home, and goes abroad;If proud or humble the line they take,They all must eat, drink, sleep, and wake.So nothing ever vexes me;Act like the fool, and wise ye'll be!
ONE OF THE PEOPLE.
But the excellent maiden, by words of such irony wounded,(As she esteem'd them to be) and deeply distress'd in her spirit,Stood, while a passing flush from her cheeks as far as her neck wasSpreading, but she restrain'd herself, and collected her thoughts soon;Then to the old man she said, not fully concealing her sorrow"Truly I was not prepared by your son for such a reception,When he described his father's nature,--that excellent burgher,And I know I am standing before you, a person of culture,Who behaves himself wisely to all, in a suitable manner.But it would seem that you feel not pity enough for the poor thingWho has just cross'd your threshold, prepared to enter your serviceElse you would not seek to point out, with ridicule bitter,How far removed my lot from your son's and that of yourself is.True, with a little bundle, and poor, I have enter'd your dwelling,Which it is the owner's delight to furnish with all things.But I know myself well, and feel the whole situation.Is it generous thus to greet me with language so jeering,Which was well nigh expelled me the house, when just on the threshold?"
ON Petrarch's heart, all other days before,
Thus spake the father. The son exclaim'd with jubilant gesture"Ere the ev'ning arrives, you shall have the dearest of daughters,Such as the man desires whose bosom is govern'd by prudenceAnd I venture to think the good creature is fortunate also.Yes, she will ever be grateful that I her father and motherHave restored her in you, as sensible children would wish it.But I will loiter no longer; I'll straightway harness the horses,And conduct our friends on the traces of her whom I love so,Leave the men to themselves and their own intuitive wisdom,And be guided alone by their decision--I swear it,--And not see the maiden again, until she my own is."Then he left the house; meanwhile the others were eagerlySettling many a point, and the weighty matter debating.
Gladly up the mountain go,While your strains repentant rise,
Spirits raised by me
What bears he along in his flight?A daughter it is, and she gently sleeps on"--
The space thou doubtless filledst up in sport.And sent it me, to make my joy grow bright.