But speak! and, when yon hallow’d shrine
Hath heard the vows which make thee mine,
Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more
To tread thine own loved mountain shore,
But share and soothe, repining not,
The bitterness of exile’s lot?”
“Ulric! thou know’st how dearly loved
The scenes where first my childhood roved;
The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme
Above our own majestic stream,