As was her wont, at that time walk’d with us Doretta fair, my sister, such an elf! My pride and Haydn’s pet, whose merry tones Would ring out, if our thoughts turn’d far from her, Like bells that homeward lure the wind-blown bees, And bring our flighty fancies back again. But Haydn liked this not, would ward it off, And turn her chafing overcharge of nerve From tongue to foot, with “Here, Doretta, imp! You cannot climb the ledge,” or “leap the brook,” Or “find the flowers”;—then bending down to me, Say: “I abhor our German prudery. We too should walk alone, or else have four, Or six. When two agree they make a match. A third is but a wedge with which to split The two apart.” And once he paused with me; And while Doretta linger’d, hid from view, We two sat languidly upon the turf. “Who feel like springing in the Spring?” he said, “Yet all life may spring on as bodies do That draw first back, or down, and then leap up. To feel relax’d, perchance, prepares one best To leap the hedge of each untested year; First action, then reaction—eh, not so?— And think—The same may form the law of souls: They stoop, then rise; they kneel, then know of heaven,— And say, Pauline, if once there rose in view An aim sublime, to make one proud, so proud, Say, would he not do thus?”— “Ha!” laugh’d a voice; And soon Doretta’s curls a shade shook down Between his face and mine. She smooth’d his brow; And with a wreath of heart’s-ease crown’d it then. “There, there, my sweet heart, be at ease,” we heard. “You take my head then for my heart,” he said. “Nay, nay,” she answer’d, “nay—would crown them both; Your music with your muse; your head, the home; The mistress there, your heart.” “With all one’s heart But mistress of his head alone, would love Gain much?” he ask’d. “Immortal fame,” said she; “Not so?” “And do you think,” he sigh’d, “that this Could set the heart at ease?—or think you none, If set at ease, can thrill with drum-like throbs That marshal on the spirit to success?— You may be right. In life’s unending strife, The wrestler the most fit to win the palm May be the strong soul’s restlessness, while rest, Like sweetmeats, all too sweet, when served ere meats, But surfeits appetite before it acts. “But look,” he added, starting suddenly; “The sun has touch’d the earth. See how its disk, Red-hot against the river, starts the mist, Like steam, to drive us home.” With that we all Walk’d home together; nor a chance was given For him to say the thing he would have said.