L'ENVOI.
TO THE COUNTESS VON C---, BONN.
I
This is the Legend of the Drachenfels,—
Sweet theme, most feebly sung; and yet to me
My feeble song is grateful; for it tells
Of far-off smiles and voices. Though it be
Unmeet, fair Lady, for thy breast or bower,
Yet thou wilt wear, for thou didst plant, the flower
II
It had been worthier of such birth and death
If it had bloomed where thou hadst watched its rise
Fanned by the zephyr of thy fragrant breath,
Warmed by the sunshine of thy gentle eyes,
And cherished by the love, in whose pure shade
No evil thing can live, no good thing fade.
III
It will be long ere thou wilt shed again
Thy praise or censure on my childish lays,—
Thy praise, which makes me happy more than vain,
Thy censure, kinder than another's praise.
Huge mountains frown between us, and the swell
Of the hoarse sea is mocking my farewell.
IV
Yet not the less, dear Friend. thy guiding light
Shines through the secret chambers of my thought;
Or when I waken, with revived delight,
The lute young Fancy to my cradle brought,
Or when I visit with a studious brow
The less-loved task, to which I turn me now.
