“It makes me tow’rd my loved one fly,
As if she could restore me;
Yet when I gaze upon her eye,
My sorrows rise before me.
“I clamber up the mountain now,
In lonely sorrow creeping,
And standing silent on its brow,
I cannot cease from weeping.”
III.
Poor Peter slowly totters by,
Pale as a corpse, and stealthily;
The very people in the street
Stand still, when his sad form they meet.
The maidens whisper’d as they pitied:
“The grave he has this moment quitted.”
Ah no, my dear young maidens fair,
He’s just about to lie down there!
As he is of his love bereft,
The grave’s the best place that is left,
Where he his aching heart may lay,
And sleep until the Judgment Day.
5. THE PRISONER’S SONG.
When my grandmother once had bewitch’d a poor girl,
The mob would have burnt her quite readily;
But though fiercely the judge his mustachios might twirl,
She refused to confess her crime steadily.
And when in the caldron they held her fast,
She shouted and yell’d like a craven;
But when the black vapour arose, she at last
Flew up in the air as a raven.
My black and feathery grandmother dear,
O visit me soon in this tower!
Quick, fly through the grating, and come to me here,
And bring me some cakes to devour!