On the footstool sits the maiden,
On my knee her arms repose;
Eyes are like two stars all azure,
Mouth is like the purple rose.
And the stars so sweet and azure,
Large as heaven, she on me throws,
And she puts her lily-finger
Mocking on the purple rose.
No, we’re seen not by the mother,
For with industry she spins;
The guitar the father playing,
Some old melody begins.
And the maiden whispers softly,
Softly, in a tone suppress’d;
Many a most important secret
She to me hath soon confess’d:
“Since the death of aunt, however,
“We can’t go to see the sight
“Of the shooting-match at Goslar,
“Which was such a great delight.
“Whereas here ’tis very lonely
“On the mountain-top, you know;
“All the winter we’re entirely
“As though buried in the snow.
“And I am a timid maiden,
“And as fearful as a child
“Of the wicked mountain spirits,
“Who at night roam fierce and wild”—
Sudden is the sweet one silent,
Terrified by what she said,
And her little eyes she covers
With her little hands in dread.
Louder roars outside the fir-tree,
And the spinning-wheel loud hums;
Meanwhile the guitar is tinkling,
And the olden tune it strums:
“Fear thee not, my little darling,
“At the wicked spirits’ might;
“Angels keep, my little darling,
“Safe watch o’er thee, day and night.”