Winter Journey Over The Hartz Mountains.

Like the vulture     Who on heavy morning clouds     With gentle wing reposing     Looks for his prey,     Hover, my song!     For a God hath     Unto each prescribed     His destined path,     Which the happy one     Runs o'er swiftly     To his glad goal:     He whose heart cruel     Fate hath contracted,     Struggles but vainly     Against all the barriers     The brazen thread raises,     But which the harsh shears     Must one day sever.     Through gloomy thickets     Presseth the wild deer on,     And with the sparrows     Long have the wealthy     Settled themselves in the marsh.     Easy 'tis following the chariot     That by Fortune is driven,     Like the baggage that moves     Over well-mended highways     After the train of a prince.     But who stands there apart?     In the thicket, lost is his path;     Behind him the bushes     Are closing together,     The grass springs up again,     The desert engulphs him.     Ah, who'll heal his afflictions,     To whom balsam was poison,     Who, from love's fullness,     Drank in misanthropy only?     First despised, and now a despiser,     He, in secret, wasteth     All that he is worth,     In a selfishness vain.     If there be, on thy psaltery,     Father of Love, but one tone     That to his ear may be pleasing,     Oh, then, quicken his heart!     Clear his cloud-enveloped eyes     Over the thousand fountains     Close by the thirsty one     In the desert.     Thou who createst much joy,     For each a measure o'erflowing,     Bless the sons of the chase     When on the track of the prey,     With a wild thirsting for blood,     Youthful and joyous     Avenging late the injustice     Which the peasant resisted     Vainly for years with his staff.     But the lonely one veil     Within thy gold clouds!     Surround with winter-green,     Until the roses bloom again,     The humid locks,     Oh Love, of thy minstrel!     With thy glimmering torch     Lightest thou him     Through the fords when 'tis night,     Over bottomless places     On desert-like plains;     With the thousand colours of morning     Gladd'nest his bosom;     With the fierce-biting storm     Bearest him proudly on high;     Winter torrents rush from the cliffs,     Blend with his psalms;     An altar of grateful delight     He finds in the much-dreaded mountain's     Snow-begirded summit,     Which foreboding nations     Crown'd with spirit-dances.     Thou stand'st with breast inscrutable,     Mysteriously disclosed,     High o'er the wondering world,     And look'st from clouds     Upon its realms and its majesty,     Which thou from the veins of thy brethren     Near thee dost water.