Upon me they gazed, and to chatter And tell my dull tale I began; They ask’d me, what was the matter With me, poor sad-looking man.
The truth, I valiantly said it, No love in the world can I find; And as I have lost all my credit, With want of cash ’tis combin’d.
And over the pond are sailing Two swans all white as snow; Sweet voices mysteriously wailing Pierce through me as onward they go.
They sail along, and a ringing Sweet melody rises on high, And when the swans begin singing, They presently must die.
When in sorrow, they dare not show it, However mournful their mood, For the swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood.
And in their death-hour they waken The air, and break into song; And, unless my ears are mistaken, They sing now, while sailing along.
The cloudlets are lazily sailing O’er the blue Atlantic sea; And mid the twilight there hovers A shadowy figure o’er me.
Full deep in my soul it gazes, With old-time-recalling eye, Like a glimpse of joys long buried, And happiness long gone by.
Familiar the vision appeareth, Methinks I know it full well; ’Tis the much-loved shadow of Mary, Who on earth no longer doth dwell.
She beckons in friendly silence, And clasps me with gentle despair; But I seize hold of my glasses, To have a better stare!
The worst of worms: the dagger thoughts of doubt-- The worst of poisons: to mistrust one’s power-- These struggled my life’s marrow to devour; I was a shoot, whose props were rooted out. Thou pitiedst the poor shoot in that sad hour, And bad’st it climb thy kindly words about; To thee, great Master, owe I thanks devout, Should the weak shoot e’er blossom into flower. O still watch o’er it, as it grows apace, That as a tree the garden it may grace Of that fair fay, whose favourite child thou wert. My nurse used of that garden to assert That a strange ringing, wondrous sweet, there dwells, Each flower can speak, each tree with music swells.
Contented not with thine own property, The Rhine’s fair Nibelung-treasure thou didst steal, The wondrous gifts the Thames’ far banks conceal,-- The Tagus’ flowers were boldly pluck’d by thee, Thou mad’st the Tiber many a gem reveal, The Seine paid tribute to thine industry, Thou pierced’st e’en to Brama’s sanctuary, Pearls from the Ganges taking in thy zeal. Thou greedy man, I pray thee be content With that which seldom unto man is lent; Instead of adding more, to spend prepare! And with the treasures which thou with such ease From North and South accustom’d wert to seize, Enrich the scholar and the joyful heir.