CANTO XXII.

FREY’S PLAINT AT THE FOUNTAIN.

O Swain! who sighest sad with cheek so pale, And to the gentle Freya dost complain, Because thy vows and ardour naught avail The love of a proud maiden’s heart to gain: Because to thee no joys the vernal gale Affords: Ah! blame not Freya! she thy pain Beholds and shares; forlorn, a pray to woe Herself, her golden tears incessant flow.[80]

Naught surely can compete with love’s delight; But love resembles much a northern spring: For one day’s pure and genial solar light, Nine days of sleet and cloud discomfort bring. Many the birds whose screams the ear affright, But few there are, that can melodious sing: While lapwings, sparrows, owlets never fail, Seldom is heard the voice of nightingale.

A graceful maid is rarely to be found; But should the object of thy fond pursuit Shine forth to view with matchless beauty crown’d, She may be silly, harsh, or dissolute; But e’en if beauty, virtue, judgment sound, All in thy choice unite, what doth it boot? She for another feels a sympathy, And with indiff’rence turns her eyes from thee.

To guarantee the zest complete of love, How many things must be on earth combined! First, two hearts which a mutual passion prove: Then grace and beauty, with a soul refined: Then the moon shining through the beechen grove, When the spring greets the earth with zephyrs kind: Then meeting without danger or suspense: Then the embrace; and with that--innocence.