E’en guilt itself can scarce destroy.
I thought upon my own fair towers,
My native Rhine’s gay vineyard bowers,
And in a father’s visions, press’d
Thee and thy brother to my breast.
—’Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet
Recall the moment when we met?
Thy step to greet me lightly sprung,
Thy arms around me fondly clung;
Scarce aught than infant seraph less