I.
Now that heaven smiles in favor,
Like a mute shall I still languish,—
I, who when unhappy, ever
Sang so much about mine anguish?
Till a thousand striplings haunted
By despair, my notes re-fluted,
And unto the woe I chanted,
Greater evils still imputed.
Oh ye nightingales' sweet choir,
That my bosom holds in capture,
Lift your joyous voices higher,
Let the whole world hear your rapture!