Say where hides the blushing rose, Pride of fragrant morning; Garland meet for beauty's brows, Hill and dale adorning? Gentle maid the summer's fled And the hopeless Rose is dead!
Bear me then to yonder rill, Late so freely flowing; Wat'ring many a daffodil, On its margin glowing-- Sun and wind exhaust its store: Yonder riv'let glides no more!
Lead me to the bow'ry shade, Late with roses flaunting; Lov'd resort of youth and maid, Am'rous ditty chanting-- Hail and storm with fury show'rs, Leafless mourn with rifled bow'rs!
Say where hides the village maid, Late yon cot adorning; Oft I've met her in the glade, Fair and fresh as morning? Swain how short is beauty's bloom, Seek her in the grassy tomb!
Whither roves the tuneful swain Who of rural pleasures, Rose and vi'let, rill and plain, Sung in deftest measures? Maiden, swift life's vision flies, Death has clos'd the Poet's eyes.
_Companion and Weekly Misc._, I-104, Jan. 26, 1805, Balto.
[J. G. Jacobi, _Vergänglichkeit_. W. Taylor of Norwich, _op. cit._ II-106, _Elegy_. (Variants in stanza V).]
The following is a German drinking song, popular in the Rhingau, and probably the inspiration of the _old Hock_, which it celebrates.
Bekranzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher, Und trinkt ihn frölich leer; In ganz Europa, ihr herren recher, Ist solch ein wein nicht mehr.
Ihn bringt das vatterland aus seiner fülle, Wie war er sonst so gut? Wie war er sonst so edel stille, Und doch voll kraft und muth?
Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben; Gesegnet sey der Rhein! Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben Uns diesen lieben wein.
So trinkt hin dann, and last uns alle wege Uns freun und frölich seyn; Und, wisten wir wo jemand traurig läge, Wir gäben ihm den wein.
The brimful goblet crown with wines, And drink the cordial juice, Europe itself can't boast such vines As these bless'd hills produce.
Yes, Germany's the copious source Of wines that all excel; So mild, so generous, full of force, None cheer the heart so well.
Rhingau alone such grapes can boast, Huzza! here's to the Rhine! And may the wretch, who slights the toast, Forget the taste of wine.
Come, drink about, and let's be gay, With nectar so divine, Is any man to grief a prey? We'll comfort him with wine.