“The Son of the Muses”
Through wood and vale I wander,’
And on my sonnets ponder,
At morn and eventime.
Oh, what internal pleasure,
My thoughts to write, in measure,
And all reduce to rhyme!
I wait no opening flower,
That decks field – garden – bower,
No buds that hidden lie.
Spring – flowerets haste to greet me:
When Winter’s tempests meet me,
I sing of joys, flown by.
I sing of frozen fountain,
Of Alps – of polar mountain,
Of avalanche – of snow!
When winter’s charms are over,
New themes I still discover,
From wood – hill – valley, flow.
Youth’s votaries of pleasure,
At my enlivening measure,
Flock to the linden-tree.
The shepherd is excited,
The shepherdess delighted;
They dance with heart-felt glee.
Thy Favourite doth revere thee,
Thy heavenly wing doth steer me
O’er mountain, vale, and plain.
Muse! – when shall I behold thee,
And, to my bosom fold thee,
Never to part again?