Thou modest from me, dearest one;And were I Helms e'en, the Great,
If no favouring zephyrs blow,
Should such torments grieve us, then?Doth not Timur's rule destroy
Is a most beauteous maid;Her shop is ever in mine eye,
With softness woven, graceful, light, and fair,Resembling Her, in the blue aether o'er us,
Fate's fav'rite in a moment so divine;I tremble at thy look that bids me go,Why should I care such wisdom vast to know?
But he hears his servants blowing,
Surely we for wine may languish!
Our Father's praises sing;
In its spectre length,
I'VE seen him before me!What rapture steals o'er me!
And sinking 'neath the main,His eyes then closed for ever,
A heart unsullied bring.
Where together we will go,And the streamlet watch each eve,