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I'll tear thee from thy parent root,
And fling thee to the winds to boot.
Come! come! my loved one to the shade
Beneath the o'erhanging pine—
I'll hasten o'er the sunny glade
On you white steed of mine:—
My steed shall wander at his ease,
Among the meadows and the trees.
But come my lov'd one! come with me,
Come, let us seek the shady plain:
Poor girl!—she came—and tenderly
Breath'd this unconscious strain:
"O hapless maid! to thee—to thee
Hard will thy mother's language be—
Said she not oft—Beware of men—
And oft repeated it again?
Yet why beware—if men there are
Generous and noble—why beware?"
I flew across the flowery mead,
I flew, upon my snowy steed;
