UPON the silent Danube’s shore,
When ev’ning wastes, ’tis sweet to see
(Their golden wine cups flowing o’er);
Our heroes in their revelry.
A youthful beauty pours the wine,
And each will pledge a cup to her;
And each of charms that seem divine,
Would fain become a worshiper.
“Nay! heroes, nay!” the virgin cried,
“My service—not my love—I give:
For one alone—for none beside:
For one alone I love and live.”