"I, to ordain thee come," she spake:"So prosper, and my blessing take!The holy fire that slumb'ring liesWithin thee, in bright flames shall rise;Yet that thine ever-restless lifeMay still with kindly strength be rife,I, for thine inward spirit's calm.Have granted nourishment and balm,That rapture may thy soul imbue,Like some fair blossom bathed in dew."--Behind his house then secretlyOutside the doorway pointed she,Where, in a shady garden-nook,A beauteous maid with downcast lookWas sitting where a stream was flowing,With elder bushes near it growing,She sat beneath an apple tree,And nought around her seem'd to see.Her lap was full of roses fair,Which in a wreath she twined with care.And, with them, leaves and blossoms blended:For whom was that sweet wreath intended?Thus sat she, modest and retired,Her bosom throbb'd, with hope inspired;Such deep forebodings fill'd her mind,No room for wishing could she find,And with the thoughts that o'er it flew,Perchance a sigh was mingled too.
And swift and swift, in wondrous guise,
Then thou dost not believe? This sayest thou?
Cliffs projectingOppose its progress,--Angrily foams itDown to the bottom,Step by step.
And through the mist was seen a radiant light;Here sank it gently to the ground once more,
She feels the awful pangs inside her,Herself to slay endeavours she,
If ye, in repentant mood,
In exulting chorus scream.Nightingale and turtle dove
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