Evening Songs
LX
He who can strike the golden strings
Be highest honors given,
For God has shewn you such great love
That He sent him from heaven.
It’s dreadful when with barren fields
And plague God means to punish,
But greatest scorge visits the race
From whom its songs do vanish.
That nation has not perished yet
To whom its bards are singing:
For all song is of heaven’s birth
And life in death ’tis bringing.
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