He rose and went away. The sun had set, but the summer night was light and the sky clear blue. The mist from the lake and the valleys rose, and lay along the mountain-sides, but their peaks were left clear, and stood looking over to each other. He went higher: the water lay black and deep below; the distant valley shortened and drew nearer the lake; the mountains came nearer the eye and gathered in clumps; the sky itself was lower; and all things became friendly and familiar.
"Fair Venevill bounded on lithesome feet Her lover to meet. He sang till it sounded afar away, 'Good-day, good-day,' While blithesome birds were singing on every blooming spray. On Midsummer-day There is dancing and play; But now I know not whether she weaves her wreath or nay.
"She wove him a wreath of corn-flowers blue: 'Mine eyes so true.' He took it, but soon away it was flung: 'Farewell!' he sung; And still with merry singing across the fields he sprung. On Midsummer-day, &c.
"She wove him a chain: 'Oh keep it with care; 'Tis made of my hair.' She yielded him then, in an hour of bliss, Her pure first kiss; But he blushed as deeply as she the while her lips met his On Midsummer-day, &c.
"She wove him a wreath with a lily-band: 'My true right hand.' She wove him another with roses aglow: 'My left hand now.' He took them gently from her, but blushes dyed his brow. On Midsummer-day, &c.
"She wove him a wreath of all flowers round: 'All I have found.' She wept, but she gathered and wove on still: 'Take all you will.' Without a word he took it, and fled across the hill. On Midsummer-day, &c.
"She wove on bewildered and out of breath: 'My bridal wreath.' She wove till her fingers aweary had grown: 'Now put it on:' But when she turned to see him, she found that he had gone. On Midsummer-day, &c.
"She wove on in haste, as for life or death, Her bridal wreath; But the Midsummer sun no longer shone, And the flowers were gone; But though she had no flowers, wild fancy still wove on. On Midsummer-day There is dancing and play; But now I know not whether she weaves her wreath or nay."
Arne had of late been happier, both when at home and when out among people. In the winter, when he had not work enough on his own place, he went out in the parish and did carpentry; but every Saturday night he came home to the mother; and went with her to church on Sunday, or read the sermon to her; and then returned in the evening to his place of work. But soon, through going more among people, his wish to travel awoke within him again; and just after his merriest moods, he would often lie trying to finish his song, "Over the mountains high," and altering it for about the twentieth time. He often thought of Christian, who seemed to have so utterly forgotten him, and who, in spite of his promise, had not sent him even a single letter. Once, the remembrance of Christian came upon him so powerfully that he thoughtlessly spoke of him to the mother; she gave no answer, but turned away and went out.