)
Oft, when the watching stars grow pale,
And round me sleeps the moonlight scene,
To hear a flute through yonder vale
I from my casement lean.
"Come, come, my love!" each note then seems to say,
"Oh, come, my love! the night wears fast away!"
Never to mortal ear
Could words, tho' warm they be,
Speak Passion's language half so clear
As do those notes to me!
Then quick my own light lute I seek,
And strike the chords with loudest swell;
And, tho' they naught to others speak,
_He_ knows their language well.
"I come, my love!" each note then seems to say,
"I come, my love!--thine, thine till break of day."
Oh, weak the power of words,
The hues of painting dim
Compared to what those simple chords
Then say and paint to him!
WHEN THE FIRST SUMMER BEE.
(GERMAN AIR.)
When the first summer bee
O'er the young rose shall hover,
Then, like that gay rover,
I'll come to thee.
He to flowers, I to lips, full of sweets to the brim--
What a meeting, what a meeting for me and for him!
When the first summer bee, etc.
Then, to every bright tree
In the garden he'll wander;
While I, oh, much fonder,
Will stay with thee.
In search of new sweetness thro' thousands he'll run,
While I find the sweetness of thousands in one.
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