In those days when new to me were

Of existence all impressions:—

The maiden’s glances the forests’ whisper

The song of nightingale at night;

When the sentiments elevated

Of Freedom glory and of love

And of art the inspiration

Stirred deeply so my blood:—

My hopeful hours and joyful

With melancholy sudden dark’ning

A certain evil spirit then

Began in secret me to visit.

Grievous were our meetings

His smile and his wonderful glance

His speeches these so stinging

Cold poison poured into my soul.

Providence with slander

Inexhaustible he tempted;

Of Beauty as a dream he spake

And inspiration he despised;

Nor love nor freedom trusted he

On life with scorn he looked—

And nought in all nature

To bless he ever wished.