AFTER these vernal rainsThat we so warmly sought, Dear wife, see how our plainsWith blessings sweet are fraught!
We cast our distant gazeFar in the misty blue;Here gentle love still strays,Here dwells still rapture true.
Thou seest whither goYon pair of pigeons white, Where swelling violets blowRound sunny foliage bright.
'Twas there we gather'd firstA nosegay as we roved;There into flame first burstThe passion that we proved.
Yet when, with plighted troth,The priest beheld us fare Home from the altar both,With many a youthful pair,--Then other moons had birth,And many a beauteous sun, Then we had gain'd the earthWhereon life's race to run.
A hundred thousand foldThe mighty bond was seal'd;In woods, on mountains cold,In bushes, in the field, Within the wall, in caves,And on the craggy height, And love, e'en o'er the waves,Bore in his tube the light.
Contented we remain'd,We deem'd ourselves a pair;'Twas otherwise ordain'd,For, lo! a third was there;A fourth, fifth, sixth appear'd,And sat around our board;And now the plants we've rear'dHigh o'er our heads have soar'd!
How fair and pleasant looks,On yonder beauteous spot, Embraced by poplar-brooks,The newly-finish'd cot!
Who is it there that sitsIn that glad home above?
Is't not our darling FritzWith his own darling love?
Beside yon precipice,Whence pent-up waters steal, And leaving the abyss,Fall foaming through the wheel, Though people often tellOf millers' wives so fair, Yet none can e'er excelOur dearest daughter there!
Yet where the thick-set greenStands round yon church and sad, Where the old fir-tree's seenAlone tow'rd heaven to nod,--'Tis there the ashes lieOf our untimely dead;From earth our gaze on highBy their blest memory's led.
See how yon hill is brightWith billowy-waving arms!
The force returns, whose mightHas vanquished war's alarms.
Who proudly hastens hereWith wreath-encircled brow?
'Tis like our child so dearThus Charles comes homeward now.
That dearest honour'd guestIs welcom'd by the bride;She makes the true one blest,At the glad festal tide.
And ev'ry one makes hasteTo join the dance with glee;While thou with wreaths hast gracedThe youngest children three.
To sound of flute and hornThe time appears renew'd, When we, in love's young morn,In the glad dance upstood;And perfect bliss I knowEre the year's course is run, For to the font we goWith grandson and with son!
1803.*
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