While at work had slumber stolen o’er her;
For her knitting and her needle found I
Resting in her folded bands so tender;
And I placed myself beside her softly,
And held counsel, whether I should wake her.

Then I looked upon the beauteous quiet
That on her sweet eyelids was reposing
On her lips was silent truth depicted,
On her cheeks had loveliness its dwelling,
And the pureness of a heart unsullied
In her bosom evermore was heaving. 
All her limbs were gracefully reclining,
Set at rest by sweet and godlike balsam. 
Gladly sat I, and the contemplation
Held the strong desire I felt to wake her
Firmer and firmer down, with mystic fetters.

“Oh, thou love,” methought, “I see that slumber,
Slumber that betrayeth each false feature,
Cannot injure thee, can nought discover
That could serve to harm thy friend’s soft feelings.

“Now thy beauteous eyes are firmly closed,
That, when open, form mine only rapture. 
And thy sweet lips are devoid of motion,
Motionless for speaking or for kissing;
Loosen’d are the soft and magic fetters
Of thine arms, so wont to twine around me,
And the hand, the ravishing companion
Of thy sweet caresses, lies unmoving. 
Were my thoughts of thee but based on error,
Were the love I bear thee self-deception,
I must now have found it out, since Amor
Is, without his bandage, placed beside me.”

Long I sat thus, full of heartfelt pleasure
At my love, and at her matchless merit;
She had so delighted me while slumbering,
That I could not venture to awake her.

Then I on the little table near her
Softly placed two oranges, two roses;
Gently, gently stole I from her chamber. 
When her eyes the darling one shall open,
She will straightway spy these colourd presents,
And the friendly gift will view with wonder,
For the door will still remain unopen’d.

If perchance I see to-night the angel,
How will she rejoice,—­reward me doubly
For this sacrifice of fond affection!

1765.
-----
The magic net.

Do I see a contest yonder? 
See I miracles or pastimes? 
Beauteous urchins, five in number,
’Gainst five sisters fair contending,—­
Measured is the time they’re beating—­
At a bright enchantress’ bidding. 
Glitt’ring spears by some are wielded,
Threads are others nimbly twining,

So that in their snares, the weapons
One would think, must needs be captured,
Soon, in truth, the spears are prison’d;
Yet they, in the gentle war-dance,
One by one escape their fetters
In the row of loops so tender,
That make haste to seize a free one
Soon as they release a captive.

So with contests, strivings, triumphs,
Flying now, and now returning,
Is an artful net soon woven,
In its whiteness like the snow-flakes,
That, from light amid the darkness,
Draw their streaky lines so varied,
As e’en colours scarce can draw them.