That which in the morning-grove
She had lost through roguish Love,
All her breast's first aspirations,
And her heart's calm meditations.
To the shady wood so fair
Gently stealing,
Takes she that which man can ne'er
Duly merit,—each soft feeling,—
Disregards the noontide ray
And the dew at close of day,—
In the plain her path she loses.
Ne'er disturb her on her way!
Seek her silently, ye Muses!
Shouts I hear, wherein the sound
Of the waterfall is drowned.
From the grove loud clamours rise,
Strange the tumult, strange the cries.
See I rightly? Can it be?
To the very sanctuary,
Lo, an impious troop in-hies!
O'er the land
Streams the band;
Hot desire,
Drunken-fire
In their gaze
Wildly plays,—
Makes the hair
Bristle there.
And the troop,
With fell swoop,
Women, men,
Coming then,
Ply their blows
And expose,
Void of shame,
All the frame.
Iron shot.
Fierce and hot,
Strike with fear
On the ear;
All they slay
On their way,
O'er the land
Pours the band;
All take flight
