To the Bavarian Girl

Thou, Bavaria's brown-eyed daughter,
Art a shape of joy,
Standing by the Isar's water
With thy brother-boy;
In thy dream, with idle fingers
Threading through his curls,
On thy cheek the sun's kiss lingers.
Rosiest of girls!

Woods of glossy oak are ringing
With the echoes bland,
While thy generous voice is singing
Songs of Fatherland, —
Songs, that by the Danube's river
Sound on hills of vine,
And where waves in green light quiver.
Down the rushing Rhine.

Life, with all its hues and changes,
To thy heart doth lie
Like those dreamy Alpine ranges
In the southern sky;
Where in haze the clefts are hidden,
Which the foot should fear.
And the crags that fall unbidden
Startle not the ear.

Where the village maidens gather
At the fountain's brim,
Or in sunny harvest-weather,
With the reapers trim;
Where the autumn fires are burning
On the vintage-hills;
Where the mossy wheels are turning
In the ancient mills;

Where from ruined robber-towers
Hangs the ivy's hair,
And the crimson foxbell flowers
On the crumbling stair; —
Everywhere, without thy presence,
Would the sunshine fail,
Fairest of the maiden peasants!
Flower of Isar's vale!