Woman.

Up, still up!

Wanderer.

Lo, a mossy architrave is here! 
I discern thee, fashioning spirit! 
On the stone thou hast impress’d thy seal.

Woman.

Onward, stranger!

Wanderer.

Over an inscription am I treading! 
’Tis effaced! 
Ye are seen no longer,
Words so deeply graven,
Who your master’s true devotion
Should have shown to thousand grandsons!

Woman.

At these stones, why
Start’st thou, stranger? 
Many stones are lying yonder
Round my cottage.

Wanderer.

Yonder?

Woman.

Through the thicket,
Turning to the left,
Here!

Wanderer.

Ye Muses and ye Graces!

Woman.

This, then, is my cottage.

Wanderer.

’Tis a ruin’d temple! *

Woman.

Just below it, see,
Springs the fountain
Whence I drink.

Wanderer.

Thou dost hover
O’er thy grave, all glowing,
Genius! while upon thee
Hath thy master-piece
Fallen crumbling,
Thou Immortal One!

Woman.

Stay, a cup I’ll fetch thee
Whence to drink.

Wanderer.

Ivy circles thy slender
Form so graceful and godlike. 
How ye rise on high
From the ruins,
Column-pair
And thou, their lonely sister yonder,—­
How thou,
Dusky moss upon thy sacred head,—­
Lookest down in mournful majesty
On thy brethren’s figures
Lying scatter’d
At thy feet! 
In the shadow of the bramble
Earth and rubbish veil them,
Lofty grass is waving o’er them
Is it thus thou, Nature, prizest
Thy great masterpiece’s masterpiece? 
Carelessly destroyest thou
Thine own sanctuary,
Sowing thistles there?

Woman.

How the infant sleeps! 
Wilt thou rest thee in the cottage,
Stranger?  Wouldst thou rather
In the open air still linger? 
Now ’tis cool! take thou the child
While I go and draw some water. 
Sleep on, darling! sleep!

Wanderer.

Sweet is thy repose! 
How, with heaven-born health imbued,
Peacefully he slumbers! 
Oh thou, born among the ruins
Spread by great antiquity,
On thee rest her spirit! 
He whom it encircles
Will, in godlike consciousness,
Ev’ry day enjoy. 
Full, of germ, unfold,
As the smiling springtime’s
Fairest charm,
Outshining all thy fellows! 
And when the blossom’s husk is faded,
May the full fruit shoot forth
From out thy breast,
And ripen in the sunshine!

Woman.

God bless him!—­Is he sleeping still? 
To the fresh draught I nought can add,
Saving a crust of bread for thee to eat.

Wanderer.