Sudden it comes to me, Youth so fair seeming, That all the night of thee I have been dreaming. Tears then on tears do run For my false lover; Thus has the day begun-- Would it were over! * * * * * WEYLA'S SONG[26] (1831) Thou art Orplede, my land Remotely gleaming; The mist arises from thy sun-bright strand To where the faces of the gods are beaming. Primeval rivers spring renewed Thy silver girdle weaving, child! Before the godhead bow subdued Kings, thy worshipers and watchers mild. * * * * * SECLUSION[27] (1832) Let, oh world, ah let me be! Tempt me not with gifts of pleasure. Leave alone this heart to treasure All its joy, its misery. What my grief I can not say, 'Tis a strange, a wistful sorrow; Yet through tears at every morrow I behold the light of day. When my weary soul finds rest Oft a beam of rapture brightens All the gloom of cloud, and lightens This oppression in my breast. Let, oh world, all, let me be! Tempt me not with gifts of pleasure. Leave alone this heart to treasure All its joy, its misery. * * * * * THE SOLDIER'S BETROTHED[28] (1837) Oh dear, if the king only knew How brave is my sweetheart, how true! He would give his heart's blood for the king, But for me he would do the same thing. My love has no ribbon or star, No cross such as gentlemen wear, A gen'ral he'll never become; If only they'd leave him at home! For stars there are three shining bright O'er the Church of St. Mary each night; We are bound by a rose-woven band, And a house-cross is always at hand. * * * * * THE OLD WEATHERCOCK: AN IDYLL[29] (1840, 1852) At Cleversulzbach in the Underland A hundred and thirteen years did I stand Up on the tower in wind and rain, An ornament and a weathervane. Through night and tempest gazing down, Like a good old cock I watched the town. The lightning oft my form has grazed, The frost my scarlet comb o'erglazed, And many a warm long summer's day, In times when all seek shade who may, The scorching sun with rage unslaked My golden body well has baked. So in my age all black I'd grown, My beauteous glint and gleam was gone, Till I at length, despised by all, Was lifted from my pedestal. Ah well! 'tis thus we run our race, Another now must have my place. Go strut, and preen, but don't forget What court the wind will pay you yet!