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THE FAVOR OF THE MOMENT. Friedrich Schiller


   Once more, then, we meet
    In the circles of yore;
   Let our song be as sweet
    In its wreaths as before,
   Who claims the first place
    In the tribute of song? 
   The God to whose grace
    All our pleasures belong. 
   Though Ceres may spread
    All her gifts on the shrine,
   Though the glass may be red
    With the blush of the vine,
   What boots-if the while
    Fall no spark on the hearth;
   If the heart do not smile
    With the instinct of mirth?-
   From the clouds, from God’s breast
    Must our happiness fall,
   ’Mid the blessed, most blest
    Is the moment of all! 
   Since creation began
    All that mortals have wrought,
   All that’s godlike in man
    Comes-the flash of a thought! 
   For ages the stone
    In the quarry may lurk,
   An instant alone
    Can suffice to the work;
   An impulse give birth
    To the child of the soul,
   A glance stamp the worth
    And the fame of the whole.
   On the arch that she buildeth
    From sunbeams on high,
   As Iris just gildeth,
    And fleets from the sky,
   So shineth, so gloometh
    Each gift that is ours;
   The lightning illumeth-
    The darkness devours!

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