From the Italian

Beauteous infant, dearest boy, Whither did thy sister hie? Her favourite hill, and brook, and glade See not, to day, the charming maid. Has she led her new-shorn flock Through the vale, or towards the rock? Went she forth at early morn? Will she, ere the noon, return? Tell me;—ah! if tell thou wilt, Purple-streak’d and orange-gilt, This apple,—larger, look, and finer Than yesterday I gave at dinner, This I’ll give;—aye this, and more, There’s a little bird in store, A lovely bird, and green his wing, Round his neck a silken string.— Silent yet!—O, thankless elf! Thankless, even as herself. Stubborn chit!—no more to thee, Listening, leaning on my knee, Will I tell delightful tales Of dancing fays in moonlight vales. Mingling all I sing, or say, With kisses kind, and frolic play.

What!—hush!—call thy mother!—fye! Faithless hope!—perfidious boy! The mother’s here, with passion wild, This it is to trust a child! Here take the apple,—get along Little fool,—and hold thy tongue!