’Tis well no power of speech hath night,
And that each forest tree is dumb.
Whene’er behind the bush, proud maid!
Thy limbs thou bathest in the flood;
Thou dost not then disdain, ’tis said,
To cool the water-demon’s blood.
ODIN.
This is too much. I’d have thee know,
The moon’s bright disk thou canst not stain;
That lily fair ’tis labour vain