At length they arrive near the brow of the hill,
In whose shades on the moss they resign them to rest,
Now fearless of fate as unconscious of ill.
Not long in soft slumbers the fond mother lay,
Ere arous'd by a dream which dire horrors betide,
But, O God, who can paint her wild grief and dismay,
When she saw her lov'd baby lie drown'd by her side!
On the proud steep of Ottenberg still may be found,
That spring which arose his sad doom to complete;
And oft on its verge sit the villagers round,