"Turn again to me, ye poor deserted;
Hard as steel is now your mother's bosom;
Shut so fast it cannot throb with pity!"
Thus he spoke; and when the lady heard him,
Pale as death she dropped upon the pavement,
And the life fled from her wretched bosom,
As she saw her children turning from her.
IDYLL.
A village Chorus is supposed to be assembled, and about to commence its festive procession.
[Written for the birthday of the Duchess Louisa of Weimar.]
CHORUS.
The festal day hail ye
With garlands of pleasure,
And dances' soft measure,
With rapture commingled
And sweet choral song.
DAMON.
Oh, how I yearn from out the crowd to flee!
What joy a secret glade would give to me!
Amid the throng, the turmoil here,
Confined the plain, the breezes e'en appear.
CHORUS.
Now order it truly,
