White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast—
A wish, that she had hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple trees to greet the maid,
And asked a draught from the spring that flowed