No longer do they hear my plaintive song,
While on this sight our master gazed,His head was growing well-nigh crazed:What words for all could he e'er find,Could such a medley be combined?Could he continue with delightFor evermore to sing and write?When lo, from out a cloud's dark bedIn at the upper window spedThe Muse, in all her majesty,As fair as our loved maids we see.With clearness she around him threwHer truth, that ever stronger grew.
1828.-----SUCH, SUCH IS HE WHO PLEASETH ME.
Where these old beeches hide me from man's view:Love seeks in solitude a home,
And glared with hundred gloomy eyes.
Receives she the flying reward.
Mayors disputing,There turns the ear ere long,
[Addressed, during the Swiss tour already mentioned, to a presentLily had given him, during the time of their happy connection,which was then about to be terminated for ever.]