AFTER these vernal rains

That we so warmly sought,
Dear wife, see how our plains

With blessings sweet are fraught!
We cast our distant gaze

Far in the misty blue;
Here gentle love still strays,

Here dwells still rapture true.
Thou seest whither go Yon pair of pigeons white, Where swelling violets blow Round sunny foliage bright.
'Twas there we gather'd first A nosegay as we roved; There into flame first burst The passion that we proved.
Yet when, with plighted troth, The priest beheld us fare Home from the altar both, With many a youthful pair,-- Then other moons had birth, And many a beauteous sun, Then we had gain'd the earth Whereon life's race to run.
A hundred thousand fold The mighty bond was seal'd; In woods, on mountains cold, In bushes, in the field, Within the wall, in caves, And on the craggy height, And love, e'en o'er the waves, Bore in his tube the light.
Contented we remain'd, We deem'd ourselves a pair; 'Twas otherwise ordain'd, For, lo! a third was there; A fourth, fifth, sixth appear'd, And sat around our board; And now the plants we've rear'd High o'er our heads have soar'd! How fair and pleasant looks, On yonder beauteous spot, Embraced by poplar-brooks, The newly-finish'd cot! Who is it there that sits In that glad home above? Is't not our darling Fritz With his own darling love? Beside yon precipice, Whence pent-up waters steal, And leaving the abyss, Fall foaming through the wheel, Though people often tell Of millers' wives so fair, Yet none can e'er excel Our dearest daughter there! Yet where the thick-set green Stands round yon church and sad, Where the old fir-tree's seen Alone tow'rd heaven to nod,-- 'Tis there the ashes lie Of our untimely dead; From earth our gaze on high By their blest memory's led.
See how yon hill is bright With billowy-waving arms! The force returns, whose might Has vanquished war's alarms.
Who proudly hastens here With wreath-encircled brow? 'Tis like our child so dear Thus Charles comes homeward now.
That dearest honour'd guest Is welcom'd by the bride; She makes the true one blest, At the glad festal tide.
And ev'ry one makes haste To join the dance with glee; While thou with wreaths hast graced The youngest children three.
To sound of flute and horn The time appears renew'd, When we, in love's young morn, In the glad dance upstood; And perfect bliss I know Ere the year's course is run, For to the font we go With grandson and with son! 1803.

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