WEEP, maiden, weep here o'er the tomb of Love;
Now that here we're gather'd round,
1815.-----THE SUBLIME TYPE.
Overcome the voice of wailing and of woeHe might have sought the Lasting, safe at rest
My Grief no Mortals know
With her food-basket in her hand!Oh what a croaking, what a squeaking!Alive all the trees and the bushes appear,While to her feet whole troops draw near;The very fish within, the water clearSplash with impatience and their heads protrude;And then she throws around the foodWith such a look!--the very gods delighting(To say nought of beasts). There begins, then, a biting,A picking, a pecking, a sipping,And each o'er the legs of another is tripping,And pushing, and pressing, and flapping,And chasing, and fuming, and snapping,And all for one small piece of bread,To which, though dry, her fair hands give a taste,As though it in ambrosia had been plac'd.
Yes! we've oft, when waking, dream'd,
Thus increased her torments are
IN the drizzling mist, with the snow high-pil'd,In the Winter night, in the forest wild,I heard the wolves with their ravenous howl,I heard the screaming note of the owl:
To quench love's thirst I'd try;And could my torments not be quell'd,
To and fro our restless natures sway;First we feel, and then we find each feeling
Rejoicing in His suffering;But he in triumph comes again