The Moselle Boatman and his Daughter

Not high nor full enough to show things clear,
The half moon hung above the mountain-lines —
But, glancing on the waters, kindled there
A lamp of gold beneath the unseen vines;
The night was fair, but, as our port we near'd,
We sigh'd to lose the boatman and his mate,
Between whose patient faces we had sate,
The old man rowing, while his daughter steer'd;
'Father,' she oft would say in accents mild,
Whene'er she asked advice, or craved reply
To some brief question, while, with loving eye,
He smiled and nodded to his wistful child,
Over his close-join'd hands and labouring oar —
'Twas sad to think we ne'er might see them more!