Nor homage which the Muse demands

Nor beauties of far distant lands

Nor study, banquet, rout nor ball

His constant soul could ever tire,

Which glowed with virginal desire.

XXI.

When but a boy he Olga loved

Unknown as yet the aching heart,

He witnessed tenderly and moved

Her girlish gaiety and sport.

Beneath the sheltering oak tree's shade

He with his little maiden played,

Whilst the fond parents, friends thro' life,

Dreamed in the future man and wife.

And full of innocent delight,

As in a thicket's humble shade,

Beneath her parents' eyes the maid

Grew like a lily pure and white,

Unseen in thick and tangled grass

By bee and butterfly which pass.

XXII.

'Twas she who first within his breast

Poetic transport did infuse,

And thoughts of Olga first impressed

A mournful temper on his Muse.

Farewell! thou golden days of love!

'Twas then he loved the tangled grove

And solitude and calm delight,

The moon, the stars, and shining night -

The moon, the lamp of heaven above,

To whom we used to consecrate

A promenade in twilight late

With tears which secret sufferers love -

But now in her effulgence pale

A substitute for lamps we hail!