And thoult win her, take my word;He who's quick and saucy too,
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.
With creative joy possess'd.Then a heavy sigh arose,
His glances warm,
"My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide?""Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?""My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."
[Written on the occasion of the death, by drowning, of thePrince.]
ON bridges small and bridges greatStands Nepomucks in ev'ry state,Of bronze, wood, painted, or of stone,Some small as dolls, some giants grown;Each passer must worship before Nepomuck,Who to die on a bridge chanced to have the ill luck,When once a man with head and earsA saint in people's eyes appears,Or has been sentenced piteouslyBeneath the hangman's hand to die,He's as a noted person prized,In portrait is immortalized.Engravings, woodcuts, are supplied,And through the world spread far and wide.Upon them all is seen his name,And ev'ry one admits his claim;Even the image of the LordIs not with greater zeal ador'd.Strange fancy of the human race!Half sinner frail, half child of graceWe see HERR WERTHER of the storyIn all the pomp of woodcut glory.His worth is first made duly known,By having his sad features shownAt ev'ry fair the country round;In ev'ry alehouse too they're found.His stick is pointed by each dunce"The ball would reach his brain at once!"And each says, o'er his beer and bread:"Thank Heav'n that 'tis not we are dead!"
But he hears his servants blowing,
Thou hast'nest not to join the festal throng?No longer stay, but come with me,
"The way to follow up with skill
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