I murmuring glide away,
A thousand turns I make, in vain,
’Neath many a birchen-spray;
But through the meadows I must glide—
Ah! were it in my power,
A blue-lake swan, loved by her side,
I’d spread, nor quit her bower.
The Shepherd.
Companion of my luckless love,
Farewell! But may, ere long,