It is but seldom that the Muses of the North sing more sweetly than in the following strain:
SONG—FROM THE GERMAN.
Scarce sixteen summers had I seen,
And rov'd my native bow'rs;
Nor stray'd my thoughts beyond the green,
Bedew'd with shrubs and flow'rs.
When late a stranger youth appear'd;
I neither wish'd nor sought him;
He came, but whence I never heard,
And spake what love had taught him.
His hair in graceful ringlets play'd,
All eyes are charm'd that view them,
And o'er his comely shoulders stray'd,
Where wanton zephyrs blew them.
His speaking eye of azure hue
Seem'd ever softly suing,
And such an eye, so clear and blue,
Ne'er shone for maid's undoing.
His face was fair, his cheek was red,
With blushes ever burning;
And all he spoke was deftly said,
Though far beyond my learning.
Where'er I stray'd, the youth was nigh,
His look soft sorrows speaking;
Sweet maid! he'd say, then gaze and sigh,
As if his heart were breaking.
And once, as low his head he hung,
I fain would ask the meaning;
When round my neck his arms he flung,
Soft tears his grief explaining.
Such freedom ne'er was ta'en till now,
And now 'twas unoffending;
Shame spread my cheek with ruddy glow,
My eyes kept downward bending.