Like precious stones or gold. Thy wreath adorns the fairest face But still thou'rt not the flower whose grace I honour here in silence. THE LILY. The rose is wont with pride to swell, And ever seeks to rise; But gentle sweethearts love full well The lily's charms to prize, The heart that fills a bosom true, That is, like me, unsullied too, My merit values duly. COUNT. In truth, I hope myself unstain'd, And free from grievous crime; Yet I am here a prisoner chain'd, And pass in grief my time, To me thou art an image sure Of many a maiden, mild and pure, And yet I know a dearer. THE PINK. That must be me, the pink, who scent The warder's garden here; Or wherefore is he so intent My charms with care to rear? My petals stand in beauteous ring, Sweet incense all around I fling, And boast a thousand colours. COUNT. The pink in truth we should not slight, It is the gardener's pride It now must stand exposed to light, Now in the shade abide. Yet what can make the Count's heart glow Is no mere pomp of outward show; It is a silent flower. THE VIOLET. Here stand I, modestly half hid, And fain would silence keep; Yet since to speak I now am bid, I'll break my silence deep. If, worthy Knight, I am that flower, It grieves me that I have not power To breathe forth all my sweetness. COUNT. The violet's charms I prize indeed, So modest 'tis, and fair, And smells so sweet; yet more I need To ease my heavy care. The truth I'll whisper in thine ear: Upon these rocky heights so drear, I cannot find the loved one. The truest maiden 'neath the sky Roams near the stream below, And breathes forth many a gentle sigh, Till I from hence can go. And when she plucks a flow'ret blue, And says "Forget-me-not!"--I, too, Though far away, can feel it. Ay, distance only swells love's might, When fondly love a pair; Though prison'd in the dungeon's night, In life I linger there And when my heart is breaking nigh, "Forget-me-not!" is all I cry, And straightway life returneth. 1798. ----- SIR CURT'S WEDDING-JOURNEY. WITH a bridegroom's joyous bearing, Mounts Sir Curt his noble beast, To his mistress' home repairing, There to hold his wedding feast; When a threatening foe advances From a desert, rocky spot; For the fray they couch their lances, Not delaying, speaking not. Long the doubtful fight continues, Victory then for Curt declares; Conqueror, though with wearied sinews, Forward on his road he fares. When he sees, though strange it may be, Something 'midst the foliage move; 'Tis a mother, with her baby, Stealing softly through the grove! And upon the spot she beckons-- "Wherefore, love, this speed so wild? Of the wealth thy storehouse reckons, Hast thou nought to give thy child!" Flames of rapture now dart through him, And he longs for nothing more, While the mother seemeth to him Lovely as the maid of yore. But he hears his servants blowing,