When first we took the stream, the maiden held The oar, to keep her father's strength unworn For midday labour; but the sight compelled Our pity, and the aid of pity born - For at each stroke, whose ripples reached the land, She rose up bodily, with toil and pain, And often paused, and dipped her little hand, To cool her brow, yet did she not complain; Full oft, in day-dreams of that sweet Moselle, I seek my gentle Gretchen, and persuade My questing memory that all goes well At Alf, by Bertrich, with that village-maid, Who, when the task her slender force outweighed, Rose from her seat, to make her rowing tell. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE BRINK by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY CONSCIENCE AND REMORSE by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE HOUR OF DEATH by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T.C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS by ANDREW MARVELL THE EXILE by LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA LILIES: 23. FINALLY ALONE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |