The convent stands high on the rocky steep, The Rhine beneath it glistens; The youthful nun doth eagerly peep Through the lattice window, and listens. A bark of fable is sailing past, By the evening glow tinged brightly; While chequer’d pennons stream from the mast, With laurels and flowers crown’d lightly. Amid-ship stands a beauteous youth, With flowing auburn tresses; Of very ancient cut, in truth, His gold and purple dress is. Before his feet nine women lie, Of marble-lovely graces; A tunic fair and loop’d up high Each slender form embraces. The golden-tress’d one sweetly sings, And likewise plays his lyre; The song the poor nun’s bosom stings, And sets it all on fire. She makes a cross, and once again The nun repeats the measure; The cross scares not her blissful pain, Nor checks her bitter pleasure. 2. I am the god of music bright, Revered in every nation; In Greece, on Mount Parnassus’ height, My temple had its station. In Greece I oft have sat and play’d On famed Parnassus’ mountain, Beneath the cypress’ pleasant shade, Beside Castalia’s fountain. My daughters sat around their Pa, And raised a vocal chorus; They sweetly sang: la-la, la-la! While laughter floated o’er us. The bugle rang: tra-ra, tra-ra! From out the forest loudly; There hunted Artemisia, My little sister, proudly. And whensoe’er I took some sips,-- I can’t describe it neatly,-- From out Castalia’s fount, my lips Burst into music sweetly. I sang--my lyre, as it replied, O’er its own chords seem’d sweeping; I felt as if I Daphne spied Behind the laurels peeping. I sang--ambrosial incense stream’d, And lightly o’er me hover’d; And the whole world around me seem’d By a bright halo cover’d. A thousand years from Grecia’s land Have I been sadly banish’d; Yet hath my heart in Grecia’s land Remain’d, though I have vanish’d. 3. In the costume of the Beguins, In the cloak with cap upon it Of the coarsest blackest serge, Is the youthful nun envelop’d. Hastily along the Rhine banks Paces she adown the highway On the road to Holland, asking Eagerly of every passer: “Hast thou chanced to see Apollo? “He a scarlet cloak is wearing, “Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre, “And he is my darling idol.” None will answer her inquiry, Many turn their backs in silence, Many stare upon her smiling, Many sigh: “Alas, poor creature!” But along the highway trotting Comes a slovenly old man; Making figures in the air, he Keeps on singing through his nose. He a clumsy wallet carries, And a little hat three-corner’d, And with sharp and smiling eyes he Listens to the nun’s inquiry: