Thou, who on each bestowest
Joys, a superabundant share,
Bless the brothers of the chase,
Out in search of wild beasts,
With danger-loving zeal of youth,
Eager to take life,
Late avengers of mischief,
Which for years hath defied the
Farmer's threatening cudgel.
But the lone wanderer wrap
In thy golden cloud-fleeces;
And wreathe with evergreen,
Till the summer roses be blowing,
The dripping ringlets,
O Love, of this thy poet!
With thy flickering torch thou
Lightest him on
Through the fords, in the night,
Over treacherous footing
On desolate commons.
With the thousand tints of the moon, thou
Smilest to his heart so!
With the bitter cold blast
Bearest him gloriously up.
Winter torrents down from the rocks roll
Into his anthems.
An altar of cheerfulest thanks
Seems to him the terrible summit's
Snow-hung, hoary crown,
Wreathed vdth rows of pale spirits
By the marvellous people.
Thou standest, with unexplored bosom
