children smile upon us once again, When all the youthful splendor bright, When each melodious note of each sweet rapturous strain Awakens with it each delight:     How joyous then the stream that our whole soul pervades! What life from out our glances pours! Sweet Philomela's song, resounding through the glades, Ourselves, our youthful strength restores! Oh, may this whisper breathe—(let Rieger bear in mind The storm by which in age we're bent!)—    His guardian angel, when the evening's star so kind Gleams softly from the firmament! In silence be he led to yonder thundering height, And guided be his eye, that he, In valley and on plain, may see his friends aright. And that, with growing ecstacy, On yonder holy spot, when he their number tells, He may experience friendship's bliss, Now first unveiled, until with pride his bosom swells, Conscious that all their love is his. Then will the distant voice be loudly heard to say:     "And G—, too, is a friend of thine! When silvery locks no more around his temples play, G— still will be a friend of thine!"     "E'en yonder"—and now in his eye the crystal tear Will gleam—"e'en yonder he will love! Love thee too, when his heart, in yonder spring-like sphere, Linked on to thine, can rapture prove!" 

           EPITAPH. Here lies a man cut off by fate Too soon for all good men; For sextons he died late—too late For those who wield the pen. 

             QUIRL. You tell me that you feel surprise Because Quirl's paper's grown in size; And yet they're crying through the street That there's a rise in bread and meat. 

           THE PLAGUE. A PHANTASY. Plague's contagious murderous breath God's strong might with terror reveals, As through the dreary valley of death With its brotherhood fell it steals! Fearfully throbs the anguish-struck heart,     Horribly quivers each nerve in the frame; Frenzy's wild laughs the torment proclaim, Howling convulsions disclose the fierce smart. Fierce delirium writhes upon the bed—    Poisonous mists hang o'er the cities dead; Men all haggard, pale, and wan, To the shadow-realm press on. Death lies brooding in the humid air, Plague, in dark graves, piles up treasures fair, And its voice exultingly raises. Funeral silence—churchyard calm, Rapture change to dread alarm.—     Thus the plague God wildly praises! 

        MONUMENT OF MOOR THE ROBBER. 65          'Tis ended! Welcome! 'tis ended Oh thou sinner 

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