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POEMS OF GOETHE
The coward foe trembled
When rattled our shot:
What bliss e'er resembled
A soldier's glad lot!
ACT III.
Clara sings.
Gladness
And sadness
And pensiveness blending;
Yearning
And burning
In torment ne'er ending;
Sad unto death.
Proudly soaring above;
Happy alone
Is the soul that doth love!
He that with tears did never eat his bread,
He that hath never lain through night's long hours,
Weeping in bitter anguish on his bed—
He knows ye not, ye dread celestial powers.
Ye lead us onward into life. Ye leave
The wretch to fall; then yield him up, in woe,
Remorse, and pain, unceasingly to grieve;
For every sin is punished here below.
