d!
For when he came and found his bride in doubt,
Then, from sheer spite, he would not show his sorrow;
He played and laughed and drank, day in, day out,--
To weep from night until the morrow!

'Tis true, an angel whispered in her heart,
"He's faithful still; oh lay thy hand in his!"
And he too felt, 'midst grief and bitter smart,
"She loves thee! After all, thy love she is;
Let but a gentle word pass on each side,
The spell that parts you now will then be broken!"
They came--each looked on each--oh, evil pride!--
That single word remained unspoken!

They parted then. As in a church one oft
Extinguished sees the altar lamps' red fires,
Their light grows dim, then once more flares aloft
In radiance bright,--and thereupon expires,--
So died their love; at first lamented o'er,
Then yearned for ardently, and then--forgotten,
Until the thought that they had loved before
Of mere delusion seemed begotten!

But sometimes when the moon shone out at night,
Each started from his couch! Ah, was it not
Bedewed with tears? And tears, too, dimmed their sight,
Because these two had dreamed--I know not what!
And then the dear old times woke in their heart,
Their foolish doubts, their parting, that had driven
Their souls so far, so very far apart,--
Oh God! let both now be forgiven!

Translation of Frances Hellman. Copyright 1892.

GONDOLIERA

Oh, come to me when through the night
The starry legions ride!
Then o'er the sea, in the moonshine bright,
Our gondola will glide.
The air is soft as a lover's jest,
And gently gleams the light;
The zither sounds, and thy soul is blest
To join in this delight.
Oh, come to me when through the night
The starry legions ride!
Then o'er the sea, in the moonshine bright,
Our gondola will glide.

This is the hour for lovers true,
Darling, like thee and me;
Serenely smile the heavens blue
And calmly sleeps the sea.
And as it sleeps, a glance will say
What speech in vain has tried;
The lips then do not shrink away,
Nor is a kiss denied.
Oh, come to me when through the night
The starry legions ride!
Then o'er the sea, in the moonshine bright,
Our gondola will glide.

Translation of Frances Hellman. Copyright 1892.

THE WOODLAND

The wood grows