At another time he has clasped it, but he trembles lest it should escape him.

LOVE-DOUBTS.

No. 19.

    With so sweet a promise given
      All my bosom burneth;
    Hope uplifts my heart to heaven,
      Yet the doubt returneth,
    Lest perchance that hope should be
    Crushed and shattered suddenly.

    On one girl my fancy so,
      On one star, reposes;
    Her sweet lips with honey flow
      And the scent of roses: 
    In her smile I laugh, and fire
    Fills me with her love’s desire.

    Love in measure over-much
      Strikes man’s soul with anguish;
    Anxious love’s too eager touch
      Makes man fret and languish: 
    Thus in doubt and grief I pine;
    Pain more sure was none than mine.

    Burning in love’s fiery flood,
      Lo, my life is wasted! 
    Such the fever of my blood
      That I scarce have tasted
    Mortal bread and wine, but sup
    Like a god love’s nectar-cup.

The village dance forms an important element in the pleasures of the season.  Here is a pretty picture in two stanzas of a linden sheltering some Suabian meadow.

THE VILLAGE DANCE.

No. 20.

    Wide the lime-tree to the air
    Spreads her boughs and foliage fair;
      Thyme beneath is growing
    On the verdant meadow-where
      Dancers’ feet are going.

    Through the grass a little spring
    Runs with jocund murmuring;
      All the place rejoices;
    Cooling zephyrs breathe and sing
      With their summer voices.

I have freely translated a second, which presents a more elaborate picture of a similar scene.

LOVE AMONG THE MAIDENS.

No. 21.

    Yonder choir of virgins see
      Through the spring advancing,
    Where the sun’s warmth, fair and free,
      From the green leaves glancing,
    Weaves a lattice of light gloom
      And soft sunbeams o’er us,
    ’Neath the linden-trees in bloom,
      For the Cyprian chorus.

    In this vale where blossoms blow,
      Blooming, summer-scented,
    ’Mid the lilies row by row,
      Spreads a field flower-painted. 
    Here the blackbirds through the dale
      Each to each are singing,
    And the jocund nightingale
      Her fresh voice is flinging.

    See the maidens crowned with rose
      Sauntering through the grasses! 
    Who could tell the mirth of those
      Laughing, singing lasses? 
    Or with what a winning grace
      They their charms discover,
    Charms of form and blushing face,
      To the gazing lover?