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ORIGINAL POEMS.
BUCHLOW.
O SAY, Morava, why thy stream
With turbid waves doth go?
The sun on thee doth brightly beam,
Then why not brightly flow?
‘O how can I be bright and clear,
When troubled is my stream?
When all my fate is dark and drear,
How can I other seem?
‘A German to my fountain came,
To cull a nosegay there,
And said in scorn, that it was shame,
My flow’rets were so fair.
‘And by the roots he tore them up,
My hope, my joy, my pride!
And ah! when he had torn them up,
He flung them all aside.
‘He flung them all to float and die
Upon my winding river;
And shall I not flow mournfully
For ever and for ever?[1]
- ↑ See note to p. xxiv of the Introductory Essay.
