E'en the floods that through the channel rushMust not fail in fulness or in gush;And as Senderud, from mountain high,Rises pure, in pureness must it die.
And, from the firmament clear, thrice did it thunder; then tearsStream'd from mine eyes in torrents, thou weptest, I wept, both were weeping,
We must a full and true account supplyOf ev'ry useless word we dropp'd in play.
Through pastures, plains, and bushes.
Fled on every side away;Each on some far-distant trace,
In my breast, a yearning still
Ere the dark Lethe's sad wave wetteth thy fugitive foot.-----THESE few leaves, oh ye Graces, a bard presents, in your honour,
Golden phantasy!I became a hero true,
And so, my friends, ere long ye see
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