While not a blade of grass was green. 
I laugh’d to see his piteous plight,

For it was well-deserved, I ween. 
And may this be the fate of all,

Who treat by day their true loves ill,
And, with foolhardy daring, crawl

By night to Cupid’s treacherous mill!

1798.
-----
The maid of the mill’s repentance.

Youth.

Away, thou swarthy witch!  Go forth

From out my house, I tell thee! 
Or else I needs must, in my wrath,

Expel thee! 
What’s this thou singest so falsely, forsooth,
Of love and a maiden’s silent truth?

  Who’ll trust to such a story!

Gipsy.

I sing of a maid’s repentant fears,

And long and bitter yearning;
Her levity’s changed to truth and tears

All-burning. 
She dreads no more the threats of her mother,
She dreads far less the blows of her brother,

  Than the dearly loved-one’s hatred.

Youth.

Of selfishness sing and treacherous lies,

Of murder and thievish plunder! 
Such actions false will cause no surprise,

Or wonder. 
When they share their booty, both clothes and purse,—­
As bad as you gipsies, and even worse,

  Such tales find ready credence.

Gipsy.

“Alas, alas! oh what have I done?

Can listening aught avail me? 
I hear him toward my room hasten on,

To hail me. 
My heart beat high, to myself I said: 
’O would that thou hadst never betray’d

  That night of love to thy mother!’”

Youth.

Alas!  I foolishly ventured there,

For the cheating silence misled me;
Ah, sweetest! let me to thee repair,—­

Nor dread me! 
When suddenly rose a fearful din,
Her mad relations came pouring in.

  My blood still boils in my body!

Gipsy.

“Oh when will return an hour like this?

I pine in silent sadness;
I’ve thrown away my only true bliss

With madness. 
Alas, poor maid!  O pity my youth! 
My brother was then full cruel in troth

  To treat the loved one so basely!”

The poet.

The swarthy woman then went inside,

To the spring in the courtyard yonder;
Her eyes from their stain she purified,

And,—­wonder!—­
Her face and eyes were radiant and bright,
And the maid of the mill was disclosed to the sight

  Of the startled and angry stripling!

The maid of the mill.

Thou sweetest, fairest, dearly-loved life!

Before thine anger I cower;
But blows I dread not, nor sharp-edged knife,—­

This hour
Of sorrow and love to thee I’ll sing,
And myself before thy feet I’ll fling,