And now the joy was universal. The little swallow sat above in his nest, and sang as well as he possibly could, though at the same time he was sorely grieved, for he was so fond of Ellise that he wanted never to part from her again.
“You shall not be called _Ellise_ any more,” said the flower-angel, “for it is not at all a pretty name, and you are so pretty! But from this moment you shall be called Maja.”
“Farewell! Farewell!” cried the little swallow, and away he flew again, out of the warm land, far, far away, to the little Denmark, where he had his summer nest over the window of the good man, who knows how to tell stories, that he might sing his Quivit! Quivit! before him. And it is from him, the little swallow, that Granny learnt all this wonderful history.
Those eyes, they are so bright and blue, They seem as if just bathed in dew, And if they but reflect aright, Thy heart must joyous be and bright, Where cherished images must dwell, Oh! number mine with thine, _ma Belle_.
[Illustration: figure of a man sitting on a rock near the base of a tree and looking upward]
Come listen, ladies! listen, knights! Ye men of arms and glory! Ye who have done right noble deeds, Aye love the poet’s story. As minstrels love the warriors bold, And joyfully sing their fame, O’er warriors’ hearts the poet’s tale Shall peaceful triumphs claim.
From distant lands Arion came, From wandering far and long, With gifts and gold—for princely hearts Denied no gift to song. The song that cheered the saddest wo, The tale that sings of youth, Flowing sweetly, flowing on, Through labyrinths of truth.
Rich tributes had been poured on him, Arion far renowned, And fair and gentle loved the rule, Of one by nature crowned. But what can gifts and what can gold, Or Fame’s loud peal avail, Wandering from his childhood’s home, His own Corinthian vale?
Fair lady, on this day of love, My spirit, like a timid dove, Exulting flies to thee for rest, And nestles on thy gentle breast. Thou seemest of my life a part, A haunting presence in my heart, A glory in my day-dreams bright, An angel in my dreams at night, Like yon pure bow of airy birth A vision more of heaven than earth. Soft, lovely, beautiful, divine— But wilt thou be my Valentine?