Classic Poem

On the mountain stands the cottage,
Dwelling of the miner old;
There the dark-green fir-tree murmurs,
There the moonbeams shine like gold.

And a chair stands in that cottage,
Strange with carvings rich and rare;
Happy is the wight who fills it—
I'm the happy one, I swear!

And my young love on her footstool
Rests her arm upon my knee;
And her eyes are stars of azure,
And her mouth's a rose to see.

And those dear blue stars look on me,
Growing wider than the sky;
And she lays her lily fingers
On the rosebud laughingly.

No, thy mother does not heed us,
Fast her spinning-wheel doth croon;
And thy father plies his zither,
And he sings the dear old tune.

And the dear child whispers gently,
Soft and low-toned, drawing near;
Many and many a mighty secret
Has she trusted to my ear.

“Since we lost the dear old Auntie,
We can't go to Goslar Fair,
Where they hold the shooting-matches;
Oh! it was delightful there.

“Here far up the chilly mountain
We are all alone, you know;
And in winter we are almost
Buried underneath the snow.

“And I'm but a timid maiden,
And like any child I fear
Evil spirits, who are busy
All night in our mountains here.”

All at once the dear child pauses,
Both her little hands doth hold
Over anxious eyes, as frightened
By the things herself has told.

Louder still the fir-tree murmured,
And the swift wheel crooned and whirred,
And the zither sounded blithely,
And the dear old tune was heard.

Have no fear, my little darling,
Of the evil spirits' might;
All the angels, little darling,
Watch beside thee day and night.