The daughter’s at home in the arm-chair And sleepily looks at the light, Her golden locks stray over Her face so lovely and bright. 32. ’Tis thought that I am tormented, By love’s bitter sorrow distress’d, And at length I myself believe it As well as all the rest. Thou great-eyed little maiden, I ever have whisper’d apart: I love thee beyond expression, While love is gnawing my heart. ’Twas but in my lonely chamber That I dared my love to proclaim, And, ah! I have ever been silent, When into thy presence I came. When there, the evil angels Appear’d, and my lips they held; And, ah! ’tis by evil angels That my joy hath now been dispell’d. 33. O thy tender lily-fingers, Could I once again but kiss them, Press them softly to my heart, And then die in silent weeping! O thy violet eyes so radiant Hover near me day and night, And I’m troubled: what forebodeth All this sweet, this blue enigma? 34. “Hath she then no word e’er spoken “Of thy passion, hapless lover? “In her sweet eyes couldst thou never “Signs of answering love discover? “Through her sweet eyes couldst thou never “Reach her soul, and so get at her? “Yet thou art not thought a blockhead, “Worthy friend, in such a matter.” 35. They loved each other, but neither Would be the first to confess; Like foes, they gaz’d at each other, And would die of their love’s distress. They parted at length, and thereafter, Except in vision, ne’er met; From life they long have departed, And scarcely know of it yet. 36. And when I to you my grief did confide, You only yawn’d, and nothing replied; But when I reduced my sorrow to rhyme, You praised me greatly, and call’d it sublime. 37. I call’d the devil, and he came, And with wonder his form did I closely scan; He is not ugly, and is not lame, But really a handsome and charming man. A man in the prime of life is the devil, Obliging, a man of the world, and civil; A diplomatist too, well skill’d in debate, He talks right glibly of church and state. He’s rather pale, but it’s really not strange, For his studies through Sanskrit and Hegel range. Fouqué is still his favourite poet; But criticism he’ll touch no more, But has handed that subject entirely o’er To his grandmother Hecate, that she may know it. My juridical works did he kindly praise, His favourite hobby in former days. He said that my friendship was not too dear, And then he nodded, and look’d severe, And afterwards asked if it wasn’t the case We had met at the Spanish ambassador’s rout? And when I look’d him full in the face I saw him to be an old friend without doubt. 38.