TH£ MOSELLE BOATMAN AND HIS DAUGHTER.
Not high nor full enough to show things clear,
The half moon hung above the mountain-lines—
But, glancing on the waters, kindled there
A lamp of gold beneath the unseen vines ;
The night was fair, but, as our port we near'd,
We sigh'd to lose the boatman and his mate,
Between whose patient faces we had sate,
The old man rowing, while his daughter steer'd ;
' Father,' she oft would say in accents mild,
Whene'er she asked advice, or craved reply
To some brief question, while, with loving eye.
He smiled and nodded to his wistful child.
Over his close-join'd hands and labouring oar —
'Twas sad to think we ne'er might see them more !
When first we took the stream, the maiden held
The oar, to keep her father's strength unworn
For midday labour ; but the sight compell'd
Our pity, and the aid of pity born —
For at each stroke, whose ripples reach'd the land,
She rose up bodily, with toil and pain,
And often paused, and dipp'd her little hand,
To cool her brow, yet did she not complain ;
Full oft, in day-dreams of that sweet Moselle,
I seek my gentle Gretchen, and persuade
My questing memory that all goes well
At Alf, by Bertrich, with that village-maid,
Who, when the task her slender force outweigh'd,
Rose from her seat, to make her rowing tell.
Not high nor full enough to show things clear,
The half moon hung above the mountain-lines—
But, glancing on the waters, kindled there
A lamp of gold beneath the unseen vines ;
The night was fair, but, as our port we near'd,
We sigh'd to lose the boatman and his mate,
Between whose patient faces we had sate,
The old man rowing, while his daughter steer'd ;
' Father,' she oft would say in accents mild,
Whene'er she asked advice, or craved reply
To some brief question, while, with loving eye.
He smiled and nodded to his wistful child.
Over his close-join'd hands and labouring oar —
'Twas sad to think we ne'er might see them more !
When first we took the stream, the maiden held
The oar, to keep her father's strength unworn
For midday labour ; but the sight compell'd
Our pity, and the aid of pity born —
For at each stroke, whose ripples reach'd the land,
She rose up bodily, with toil and pain,
And often paused, and dipp'd her little hand,
To cool her brow, yet did she not complain ;
Full oft, in day-dreams of that sweet Moselle,
I seek my gentle Gretchen, and persuade
My questing memory that all goes well
At Alf, by Bertrich, with that village-maid,
Who, when the task her slender force outweigh'd,
Rose from her seat, to make her rowing tell.