The shades retire, the birds melodious sing,
The glad earth turns to meet its gracious King;
Cool blows the wind, the water freshly flows,
All earth rejoices and in sunlight glows.
How strong and full of life we feel as (having break-fasted) we stride along, drinking in with every breath the pure sweet air! “Guten morgen” has not yet given place to “Guten tag,” and the peasants are ascending to their labour amid the vines; suddenly a strain of martial music fills the air, and all look towards the trees through which now wind a body of soldiers, with their helmets glittering in the light; gaily they march along; the music ceases, and voices take up the strain, which gradually sounds fainter as “the pomp of war” recedes into the distance, until at length the air is left free to the songs of birds.
The birds, the flowers, the trees, the river,—all inoculate our senses with their delights; all claim our praise and thankfulness: but to which shall we award
THE PRIZE OF BEAUTY?
The birds sang, “Unto us the prize
“Of beauty must be given;
“Our songs at morn and evening rise,