The lime leaves lisp in whisper and echo answers low;
Scarce audibly the rivulet running amid the flower
With murmuring ripple laps the edge of yonder mystic bower.
And ever darker grows the veil thou weavest o'er the land,
And ever quieter the hush--a hush as of the grave....
Listen! 'tis Night! she comes, unlighted by a star,
And with the slow sweep of her heavy wing
Awes and revives the timid earth.
Bürger sings in praise of idyllic comfort in The Village, and Hoelty's mild enthusiasm, touched with melancholy, turned in the same direction.