Yet Ulric lingered on the hills.
What unknown pain his bosom fills,
To mark that golden, blissful day,
From cloud and hill top fade away,
Each radiant stream, each hue depart,
Like hope and virtue from his heart.
And back and forth with many a sigh,
Till midnight stars ascend the sky,
Confounded and amazed he roved.
The die was cast—he loved—he loved.
And, for her lightest word, had given
His peace on earth—his hope in heaven.
And as he bent his fevered tread
To those wild spots where she had led,
To those dear haunts remembered well,
From his hot lips in murmurs fell
Tumultuous passions, eddying fears,
And burning hope the breast that tears.
"I knew it!—From the very first
A secret love her bosom .mw-parser-output .wst-tooltip{cursor:help;border-bottom:thin dotted cornflowerblue}.mw-parser-output .wst-tooltip-nodash{border-bottom:none}nurst—
She loves me—at the royal ball,
I marked her soft eyes' modest fall.
And when I met her on the hill,
That tender same expression still.
Oh grassy bank! where once she knelt,
What heaven on thee, my bosom felt!
When o'er my wound the band she drew,
And her cool fingers thrilled me through!
Oh steep—descending, hallowed hill!
My blissful senses tremble still,
With those sensations, new and sweet,
When pressed thy moss our mingling feet.
She loves me not—blind senseless fool!
No thought of love disturbs her soul,
With friendship beats her heart alone?—
Mine deems she guileless as her own?
Friendship! oh peaceful joy! no more
Can shine thy light my bosom o'er.
Beings there are who ne'er can know,
Together, friendship's tranquil flow.
Or cold and distant they must be,
Or linked in love's idolatry.
By heaven! she loves! each nameless grace,
Each transient color on her face,
Each look—each shrinking gesture proves,
Each tender, trembling word—she loves."
Thus racked with all the lover's pains,
A lofty hill abrupt he gains,
Commanding from its wooded height
Old Rudolstadt with blazing light.
And softly swelling on the breeze
Came up the music through the trees,
Mingling with wafts from heaps that lay,
Thick scattered round, of new-mown hay.
"Oh Emiline, why did I not
Kneel at thy feet?
There, in that hushed and lonely spot,
That moment sweet,
Then, when thou gav'st thy little flow'r,
My love confess?
And yield all heaven for that one hour
Of happiness?
Weak doubts away! this idle fear
I will not bear.
My burning passion she shall hear,
And my despair.
Yes, I will hold that struggling hand
This night in mine.
Oh what for me is Heaven's command,
To Emiline?"
And down the height he swiftly strode,
A moment at the gateway stood,
To listen to a voice that still
Back called him clearly from the hill,
But called in vain—and of the Schloss
The portal wide he scarce did cross,
And trod the entering chamber high,
When caught him Hubert's jesting eye.
"Ha! By the mass! And there thou art!
Where hast thou been? And why didst part
So early from our laughing crew?
St. Mary! pale and haggard too,
As Pilgrim just from Holy Land!
And dark thy brow and hot thy hand!
What is the matter, Ulric? tell!
Thou art unhappy, or unwell."
"Unhappy! From our party gay
I went, because I lost my way.
Confound your winding hills, I say!
Like lead I drag my heavy feet;
Am fevered, too, with thirst and heat!"
"Thirst! Ha! a malady, be sure,
At Rudolstadt, we know to cure!
Ho, wine here!"
Deep and long the draught
That Hubert poured and Ulric quaffed.
"Again!" He quaffed it. And again!
Till foamed his blood and flashed his brain,
And unabashed once more his glance.
"So! Bravo! now wilt join the dance?"
"Aye, that I will, my master fair,
And match me with the merriest there."
And now the gallant proud and brave,
A moment to his toilette gave,
And started with amaze to pass,
His image gleaming in the glass.
Was it the exercise—was it the wine—
Was it the thought of Emiline—
Which lent his form and gaze, that hour,
Such lofty grace, such magic power?
And so resolved, the festive throng
He sought, and slowly moved along,
With careless smile and jest.
And little did his open brow
The guilty hopes and fears avow,
That filled his beating breast.
And many a joyous graceful word,
With heart unmoved that night he heard,
Although from lips divine.
Each instant thrilled his soul to meet
That form so fair, that voice so sweet,
With fevered glance and breathless—yet
No Lady Emiline.
Vainly he sought her every where;
All sick with rapture and despair;
When lo! an open window there,
Contrasts the ball-room's dazzling blaze,
With the pale moon's ethereal rays,
A sea of azure light;
And many of the company,
Beneath that silent starry sky,
Wandered in groups of two and three,
Touched by the witching night.
And now he sought each distant glade,
Secret as if for lovers made;
"Oh be this blest hour given,
Once more—but once—with her to rove—
Alone—and tell my fatal love—
Aye, though the price be heaven."
And strange the thoughts that o'er him came,
Despair and triumph—hope and shame.
That his wild steps to ruin flew,
Too plain he felt—too well he knew—
But such a path of rapture through,
So tempting soft—so heavenly sweet,
He could not stay his winged feet.
On, on he roved, with wild desire;
His blood was warm, his brain on fire;
Hasted with many a murmur deep
Through grove and glade, by wood and steep.
Oh Ulric! Ulric! murmur not
That each enchanting, lonely spot,
Thou seek'st in vain.
To guard thy steps, angels of light,
Took careful heed ye should, that night,
Not meet again.