To the wild woods away!

             Quick let us follow in the train

            Of her, chaste huntress of the silver bow;

             And from the rocks amain

            Track through the forest gloom the bounding roe,

             The war-god's merry bride,

            The chase recalls the battle's fray,

             And kindles victory's pride: —

            Up with the streaks of early morn,

             We scour with jocund hearts the misty vale,

            Loud echoing to the cheerful horn

             Over mountain – over dale —

            And every languid sense repair,

            Bathed in the rushing streams of cold, reviving air.

            Or shall we trust the ever-moving sea,

            The azure goddess, blithe and free.

            Whose face, the mirror of the cloudless sky,

            Lures to her bosom wooingly?

             Quick let us build on the dancing waves

            A floating castle gay,

            And merrily, merrily, swim away!

            Who ploughs with venturous keel the brine

            Of the ocean crystalline —

            His bride is fortune, the world his own,

            For him a harvest blooms unsown: —

             Here, like the wind that swift careers

            The circling bound of earth and sky,

            Flits ever-changeful destiny!

            Of airy chance 'tis the sportive reign,

            And hope ever broods on the boundless main

            Nor on the watery waste alone

             Of the tumultuous, heaving sea; —

            On the firm earth that sleeps secure,

             Based on the pillars of eternity.

            Say, when shall mortal joy endure?

            New bodings in my anxious breast,

              Waked by this sudden friendship, rise;

            Ne'er would I choose my home of rest

             On the stilled lava-stream, that cold

              Beneath the mountain lies

             Not thus was discord's flame controlled —

            Too deep the rooted hate – too long

             They brooded in their sullen hearts

            O'er unforgotten, treasured wrong. In warning visions oft dismayed,

             I read the signs of coming woe;

            And now from this mysterious maid

             My bosom tells the dreaded ills shall flow:

            Unblest, I deem, the bridal chain

             Shall knit their secret loves, accursed

            With holy cloisters' spoil profane.

            No crooked paths to virtue lead;

            Ill fruit has ever sprung from evil seed!

         And thus to sad unhallowed rites

         Of an ill-omened nuptial tie,

         Too well ye know their father bore

         A bride of mournful destiny,

         Torn from his sire, whose awful curse has sped

         Heaven's vengeance on the impious bed!

         This fierce, unnatural rage atones

         A parent's crime – decreed by fate,

         Their mother's offspring, strife and hate!

         No! 'tis not he: 'twas but the playful wind

         Rustling the pine-tops. To his ocean bed

         The sun declines, and with o'erwearied heart

         I count the lagging hours: an icy chill

         Creeps through my frame; the very solitude