The second morn is risen, and now the third is come;
Where stays the Count of Greiers? has he forgot his home? 
Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air;
There’s thunder on the mountains, the storm is gathering there.

The cloud has shed its waters, the brook comes swollen down;
You see it by the lightning—­a river wide and brown. 
Around a struggling swimmer the eddies dash and roar,
Till, seizing on a willow, he leaps upon the shore.

“Here am I cast by tempests far from your mountain dell. 
Amid our evening dances the bursting deluge fell. 
Ye all, in cots and caverns, have ’scaped the water-spout,
While me alone the tempest o’erwhelmed and hurried out.

“Farewell, with thy glad dwellers, green vale among the rocks! 
Farewell the swift sweet moments, in which I watched thy flocks! 
Why rocked they not my cradle in that delicious spot,
That garden of the happy, where Heaven endures me not?

“Rose of the Alpine valley!  I feel, in every vein,
Thy soft touch on my fingers; oh, press them not again! 
Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward track,
And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy master back.”

THE SERENADE.

From the Spanish.

If slumber, sweet Lisena! 
  Have stolen o’er thine eyes,
As night steals o’er the glory
  Of spring’s transparent skies;

Wake, in thy scorn and beauty,
  And listen to the strain
That murmurs my devotion,
  That mourns for thy disdain.

Here by thy door at midnight,
  I pass the dreary hour,
With plaintive sounds profaning
  The silence of thy bower;

A tale of sorrow cherished
  Too fondly to depart,
Of wrong from love the flatterer,
  And my own wayward heart.

Twice, o’er this vale, the seasons
  Have brought and borne away
The January tempest,
  The genial wind of May;

Yet still my plaint is uttered,
  My tears and sighs are given
To earth’s unconscious waters,
  And wandering winds of heaven.

I saw from this fair region,
  The smile of summer pass,
And myriad frost-stars glitter
  Among the russet grass.

While winter seized the streamlets
  That fled along the ground,
And fast in chains of crystal
  The truant murmurers bound.

I saw that to the forest
  The nightingales had flown,
And every sweet-voiced fountain
  Had hushed its silver tone.

The maniac winds, divorcing
  The turtle from his mate,
Raved through the leafy beeches,
  And left them desolate.

Now May, with life and music,
  The blooming valley fills,
And rears her flowery arches
  For all the little rills.

The minstrel bird of evening
  Comes back on joyous wings,
And, like the harp’s soft murmur,
  Is heard the gush of springs.