COUNTRY LIFE.
FROM THE GERMAN.
Happy the man who has the town escaped!
To him the whistling trees, the murmuring brooks,
The shining pebbles preach
Virtue’s and wisdom’s lore.
The whispering grove a holy temple is
To him, where God draws nigher to his soul;
Each verdant sod a shrine
Whereby he kneels to Heaven.
The nightingale on him sings slumber down—
The nightingale rewakes him, fluting sweet,
When shines the lovely red
Of morning through the trees.
Then he admires thee in the plain, O God!
In the ascending pomp of dawning day—
Thee in the glorious sun—
The worm—the budding branch.
Where coolness gushes in the waving grass,
Or o’er the flowers, streams, and fountains rests;
Inhales the breath of prime,
The gentle airs of eve.
His straw-decked thatch, where doves bask in the sun,
And play and hop, incites to sweeter rest
Than golden halls of state
Or beds of down afford.
To him the plumy-people sporting chirp,
Chatter, and whistle, on his basket perch,
And from his quiet hand
Pick crumbs, or peas, or grains.
Oft wanders he alone, and thinks on death;
And in the village church-yard by the graves
Sits, and beholds the cross—
Death’s waving garland there.
The stone beneath the elders, where a text
Of Scripture teaches joyfully to die—
And with his scythe stands Death—
An angel, too, with palms.
Happy the man who thus hath 'scaped the town!
Him did an angel bless when he was born—
The cradle of the boy
With flowers celestial strewed.
Translation of C. T. Brooks. Ludwig Holty.