Читать книгу The Greatest German Classics (Vol. 1-14) - Various - Страница 325

'Tis heard

By every one, born 'neath whatever clime,

Within whose bosom flows the stream of life,

Pure and unhinder'd.—What thy thought? O king,

What silent purpose broods in thy deep soul?

Is it destruction? Let me perish first!

For now, deliv'rance hopeless, I perceive

The dreadful peril into which I have

With rash precipitancy plung'd my friends.

Alas! I soon shall see them bound before me!

How to my brother shall I say farewell?

I, the unhappy author of his death.

Ne'er can I gaze again in his dear eyes!