The child of a king in dream have I seen; How tear-stain’d and pallid her face is, As we quietly sit ’neath the linden green, Held fast in each other’s embraces! “Thy father’s throne is nothing to me, Nor yet his sceptre all golden, And diamond crown; for nothing but thee, Sweet love, will I be beholden.” “That may not be,” the maiden replied, For I in my grave am lying, And only by night can I be by thy side, To thy loving caresses replying.” 47. Sweet love, in fond converse together In the light canoe sat we, Still the night was, and calm was the weather, As we skimm’d o’er the wide-spreading sea. The fair spirit-islands before us In the glimmering moonlight lay; Sweet tones came floating o’er us, While the mists were dancing in play. On danced they with merrier motion, And sweeter still sounded the song; But over the boundless ocean We mournfully floated along. 48. From older legends springing, Appears a snow-white band With joyous strains, and singing, From some far magic-land, Where flowers in glowing splendour Pine in the evening sun, And bridal glances tender Cast sweetly every one; Where all the trees, uniting In chorus, shout below, And bubbling brooks delighting The ear, like music flow; And love-songs fierce and burning Unheard of bliss impart, Till sweet and wondrous yearning Befools the throbbing heart. Ah, could I thither travel, And ease my aching breast, And all my grief unravel, And there be free and blest! That land, whence care and trouble Are banish’d, that in dreams Oft see I, like a bubble Dissolves, when morning beams. 49. I’ve loved thee long, and I love thee still And e’en if the world were shatter’d, My glowing love would glisten and thrill, Though widely earth’s ruins were scatter’d. * * * * * And when I thus have loved thee so well Till the hour of death has sounded, I’ll take with me e’en to my tomb’s dark cell My love-pangs fierce and unbounded. 50. In the glimmering summer morning I pace the garden alone; The flowers are whisp’ring and speaking, But silently wander I on. The flowers are whisp’ring and speaking, My form with compassion they scan: O pray be kind to our sister, Thou mournful and pale-faced man! 51. Her dark attire thus wearing My love appears to my sight Like a tale of sorrow despairing That’s told in the long summer night: “In the magical garden there wander “Two lovers mute and alone; “Sweet sing the nightingales yonder, “The moonbeams are over them thrown.