Thee, my loved one, is my breast;This the bosom, where thy seals
From her father she fain would not part.The old man still wanders with ne'er-changing pace,
If so it is, arise in haste!
Poverty's the greatest curse,
There remains for reflection no time;On the ornaments Gothic the wight seizes now,
I weep, I weep, I weep,My very heart is breaking.
Mortal, all hail!Thou, of Earth's prison
And the rest already shoot.With each heavy storm of rain
1821.-----III. THE PARIAH'S THANKS.
At length with him preferr'd I not to play,
Spirit true, recall those days
Then, before all things, the grace filling thy motions was seen.Oft have I fear'd that the pitcher perchance was in danger of falling,