Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart; And to the thicket wanders slow The hind beside the hart. The woodlark at his partner’s side Twitters his closing song— All meet whom day and care divide,— But Leonard tarries long!
ORPHEUS WITH HIS LUTE.
[ SONG]
Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing: To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring.
Everything that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.