I'd wish to be slain,
Than all the gladness
Of life to sustain
All the fond yearning
That heart feels for heart,
Only seems burning
To make them both smart.
How shall I fly?
Forestwards hie?
Vain were all strife!
Bright crown of life.
Turbulent bliss,—
Love, thou art this!
1789. ——- THE SHEPHERD'S LAMENT.
ON yonder lofty mountain
A thousand times I stand,
And on my staff reclining,
Look down on the smiling land.
My grazing flocks then I follow,