"And everywhere around are pressing His merry men in jubilee, Their love find gratitude confessing To him with jocund tongue and free. "He scatters o'er the fields and valleys His innerlife in countless rays, And Love is sipping from his chalice, And pledged forever with him stays. "As spirit of the golden ages, The Poet alway he beguiles, Who everywhere in reeling pages Doth celebrate his pleasant wiles. "He gave him, his allegiance sealing, To every pretty mouth a right, And this the god through him revealing, That none the edict dare to slight." "A fine prophet!" exclaimed the girls. Swaning was heartily pleased. They made some objections, but all to no purpose. They were obliged to reach out their sweet lips to him. Henry blushed only on account of his earnest neighbor; otherwise he would have loudly rejoiced in the privilege of the poet. Veronika was among the garland bearers. She came suddenly back and said to Henry, "truly, is it not a fine thing to be a poet?" Henry did not trust himself to take advantage of this question. Excess of joy and the earnestness of first love were contending in his breast. The charming Veronika was joking with the others, and in the meanwhile he found time somewhat to quench his joy. Matilda told him that she played the guitar. "Ah!" said he, "how I should love to learn it from you. I have for a long time desired it." "My father instructed me; he plays it matchlessly," said she blushing. "I believe, however," said Henry, "that I can learn it more easily from you. How delighted I should be to hear you sing." "Do not expect too much." "O!" said Henry, "what may I not expect, since your speech merely is song, and your form is expressive of heavenly music."