Translated from the German

Take here the tender harp again,
O Muse! which thou hast lent to me;
I wake no more the glowing strain
To youthful love or social glee.

Forgive the weak and sickly shell
That could so ill my soul express:
What most I felt I dared not tell,
And chose my themes from idleness.

Oft when I told of peace and pleasure,
I marked the hostile sabre shine;
And water, doled in scanty measure,
I drank, when wont to sing of wine.

Might peace, might love's auspicious fire
But gild at last my closing day,
Then, goddess, then return the lyre,
To wake, perhaps, a loftier lay.