High o'er our heads have soar'd!
A hundred thousand fold
AT first awhile sits he,
Straightway to their fiery grave.Then hears she the priests and the funeral song,Then madly she runs, and she severs the throng:"Why press tow'rd the pile thus? Why scream thus, and rave?"
Fullness waxes in my breastOf emotions social, blest;Friendship's nurtured膌ove awakes,--And the silence Phoebus breaksOf his mountains, of his vales,Sweetly blow the balmy gales;All for whom he shows affection,Who are worthy his protection,Gladly follow his direction.
Till thou to action art roused, waked by the swift-rolling flood.Kindly be to the people, as when thou still wert a mortal,
He saw three lights pass by;He sought in their pursuit to go,
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