The Moselle Boatman and his Daughter (continued)

When first we took the stream, the maiden held
The oar, to keep her father's strength unworn
For midday labour; but the sight compell'd
Our pity, and the aid of pity born —
For at each stroke, whose ripples reach'd the land,
She rose up bodily, with toil and pain,
And often paused, and dipp'd her little hand,
To cool her brow, yet did she not complain;
Full oft, in day-dreams of that sweet Moselle,
I seek my gentle Gretchen, and persuade
My questing memory that all goes well
At Alf, by Bertrich, with that village-maid,
Who, when the task her slender force outweigh'd,
Rose from her seat, to make her rowing tell.