And all for me the flowerets grew,
That on each meadow richly flourished.
Though I had nothing then, I had a treasure,
The thirst for truth, and in illusion pleasure.
Give me the free, unshackled pinion,
The height of joy, the depth of pain,
Strong hate, and stronger love’s dominion;
O give me back my youth again!
Merryfellow.
The fire of youth, good friend, you need, of course,
Into the hostile ranks to break,
Or, when the loveliest damsels hang by force,
With amorous clinging, from your neck,
When swift your wingèd steps advance
To where the racer’s prize invites you,
Or, after hours of whirling dance,
The nightly deep carouse invites you.
But to awake the well-known lyre
With graceful touch that tempers fire,
And to a self-appointed goal,
With tuneful rambling on to roll,
Such are your duties, aged sirs; nor we
Less honor pay for this, nor stint your fee;
Old age, not childish, makes the old; but they
Are genuine children of a mellower day.
Manager.
Enough of words: ’tis time that we
Were come to deeds; while you are spinning
Fine airy phrases, fancy-free,
We might have made some good beginning.
What stuff you talk of being in the vein!
A lazy man is never in the vein.
If once your names are on the poet’s roll,
The Muses should be under your control.
You know our want; a good stiff liquor
To make their creeping blood flow quicker;
Then brew the brews without delay;
What was not done to-day, to-morrow
Will leave undone for greater sorrow.
Don’t stand, and stare, and block the way,
But with a firm, set purpose lay
Hold of your bright thoughts as they rise to view,
And bid them stay;
Once caught, they will not lightly run away,
Till they have done what in them lies to do.
Among the sons of German play,
Each tries his hand at what he may;
Therefore be brilliant in your scenery,
And spare no cost on your machinery.
Let sun and moon be at your call,
