Invitation

O come, my Rosa! let me flee
To Enyin, o'er the world, with thee,
Where roses in the markets be,
Which thou shalt wreathe and wreathe for me.

Sweet Bodis hath a garland bound,
And twined it all my sleeve around;
What thanks I owe her!—she hath crown'd
With thick-strewed flowers the wreaths she wound.

The elder-tree is dead and dry;
Where, where at evening shall we lie?
Soon to our pillow must we fly;
Our bridal bed awaits us nigh.

Dost go, my Rose? Indeed I go.
Wilt leave me here? Aye! be it so.
And wilt thou not repent thee? No!
I cross the Rhine-waves when they flow.

Nine golden florins must be mine,
What I desire—dost thou decline?
No! I desire not. Dream of thine;—
I leave thee now to cross the Rhine.

I will not struggle for thee now,
Nor in the year to come, I vow;
I go, I go, I tell thee so,
To where the Rhine's old waters flow.