The Poems of Goethe - BestLightNovel.com
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With the rhythm of the song!
Yes, they come; their course they're bending
Tow'rd the wood's green sward so bright.
CHORUS.
[Gradually becoming louder.]
Yes, we hither come, attending
With the harmony of song, As the hours their race are ending
On this day of blest delight.
ALL.
Let none reveal The thoughts we feel, The aims we own!
Let joy alone
Disclose the story!
She'll prove it right And her delight
Includes the glory, Includes the bliss Of days like this!
1813.
----- RINALDO.*
[This Cantata was written for Prince Frederick of Gotha, and set to music by Winter, the Prince singing the part of Rinaldo.--See the Annalen.]
(* See Ta.s.so's Gerusalemme Liberata, Canto XVI.)
CHORUS.
To the strand! quick, mount the bark!
If no favouring zephyrs blow,
Ply the oar and nimbly row, And with zeal your prowess mark!
O'er the sea we thus career.
RINALDO.
Oh, let me linger one short moment here!
'Tis heaven's decree, I may not hence away.
The rugged cliffs, the wood-encircled bay, Hold me a prisoner, and my flight delay.
Ye were so fair, but now that dream is o'er; The charms of earth, the charms of heaven are nought.
What keeps me in this spot so terror-fraught?
My only joy is fled for evermore.
Let me taste those days so sweet,
Heav'n-descended, once again!
Heart, dear heart! ay, warmly beat!
Spirit true, recall those days
Freeborn breath thy gentle lays
Mingled are with joy and pain.
Round the beds, so richly gleaming,
Rises up a palace fair; All with rosy fragrance teeming,
As in dream thou saw'st it ne'er.
And this s.p.a.cious garden round,
Far extend the galleries; Roses blossom near the ground,
High in air, too, bloom the trees.
Wat'ry flakes and jets are falling.
Sweet and silv'ry strains arise; While the turtle-dove is calling,
And the nightingale replies.
CHORUS.
Gently come! feel no alarm,
On a n.o.ble duty bent; Vanish'd now is ev'ry charm
That by magic power was lent.
Friendly words and greetings calm On his wounds will pour soft balm.
Fill his mind with sweet content.
RINALDO.
Hark! the turtle-dove is calling,
And the nightingale replies; Wat'ry flakes and jets are falling,
Mingling with their melodies.
