LITMIR.BIZ

        On the footstool sits a maiden,

          On my lap her arms repose,

        With her eyes like blue stars beaming,

          And her mouth a new-born rose.

        And the dear blue stars shine on me,

          Wide like heaven's great arch their gaze;

        And her little lily finger

          Archly on the rose she lays.

        Nay, the mother cannot see us,

          For she spins the whole day long;

        And the father plays the cithern

          As he sings a good old song.

        And the maiden softly whispers,

          Softly, that none may hear;

        Many a solemn little secret

          Hath she murmured in my ear.

        "Since I lost my aunt who loved me,

          Now we never more repair

        To the shooting-lodge at Goslar,

          And it is so pleasant there!

        "Here above it is so lonely,

          On the rocks where cold winds blow;

        And in winter we are always

          Deeply buried in the snow.

        "And I'm such a timid creature,

          And I'm frightened like a child

        At the evil mountain spirits,

          Who by night are raging wild"

        Silent falls the winsome maiden,

          Frightened by her own surmise,

        Little hands, so white and dimpled,

          Pressing on her sweet blue eyes.

        Louder now the fir-trees rustle,

          Spinning-wheel more harshly drones;

        In their pauses sounds the cithern,

          And the old song's simple tones:

        "Do not fear, my tender nursling,

          Aught of evil spirits' might;

        For good angels still are watching

          Round thy pathway day and night."

        Now the fir-tree's dark-green fingers

          Tap upon the window low,

        And the moon, a yellow listener,

          Casts within her sweetest glow.

        Father, mother, both are sleeping,

          Near at hand their rest they take;

        But we two, in pleasant gossip,

          Keep each other long awake.

        "That thou prayest much too often,

          Seems unlikely, I declare;

        On thy lips there is a quiver

          Which was never born of prayer.

        "Ah! that heartless, cold expression

          All my being terrifies—

        Though my darkling fear is lessened

          By thy frank and honest eyes.

        "Yet I doubt if thou believest

          What is held for truth by most;

        Hast thou faith in God the Father,

          In the Son and Holy Ghost?"

        "Ah, my darling! when an infant

          By my mother's knee I stood,

        I believed in God the Father,

          In the Ruler great and good.

        "He who made the world so lovely,

          Gave man beauty, gave him force,

        And to sun and moon and planets

          Pre-appointed each its course.

        "As I older grew, my darling,

          And my way in wisdom won,

        I in reason comprehended,

          And believe now in the Son—

        "In the well-loved Son, who, loving,

          Oped the gates of Love so wide;

        And for thanks—as is the custom—

        By the world was crucified.

        "Now, that I in full-grown manhood

          Reading, travel, wisdom boast;

        Still my heart expands, and, truly

          I believe the Holy Ghost,

        "Who bath worked the greatest wonders—

          Greater still he'll work again;

        He bath broken tyrants' strongholds,

          Broken every vassal's chain.

        "Ancient deadly wounds he healeth,

          He renews man's ancient right;

        All to him, born free and equal,

          Are as nobles in his sight.

        "Clouds of evil flee before him,

          And those cobwebs of the brain

        Which forbade us love and pleasure,

          Scowling grimly on our pain.

        "And a thousand knights in armor

          Hath he chosen and required

        To fulfil his holy bidding—

          All with noblest zeal inspired.

        "Lo! I their precious swords are gleaming,

          And their banners wave in fight!

        What! Thou fain would'st see, my darling,

          Such a proud and noble knight?

        "Well, then, gaze on me, my dearest;

          I am of that lordly host,

        Kiss me! and you kiss a chosen

          Champion of the Holy Ghost!"

        Silently the moon conceals her

          Down behind the sombre trees,

        And the lamp which lights our chamber

          Flickers in the evening breeze.

        But the starry eyes are beaming

          Softly o'er the dimpled cheeks,

        And the purple rose is glowing,

          While the gentle maiden speaks.

        "Little

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