Part 7 (1/2)

Image thou dost seem to me Of that which I may one day be, When I shall drop this robe of earth, And wake into a spirit's birth.

TO NATURE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF FREDERICK LEOPOLD, COUNT OF STALBERG.

Holy nature! fresh and free, Let me ever follow thee; By the hand, O, lead me still, Like a child, at thy sweet will.

When with weariness oppressed, I will on thy bosom rest, Breathe in pleasure from above, In thy mother-arms of love.

O, how well it is for me Thee to love, with thee to be!

Holy nature! sweet and free, Let me ever follow thee.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG COMPANION.

Farewell for a time!

Thou hast gone to that clime Where sickness and sorrow are o'er.

We loved thee when here, We shed the sad tear To think we shall see thee no more.

We weep not for thee, We remember that He Who made little children his care In his own fatherland Will reach you his hand, And comfort and welcome you there.

Our tears they will flow; But do we not know That thou art released from all pain?

Then weep not; for He Who walked on the sea Has said we shall all live again.

THE SABBATH IS HERE.

FROM KRUMACHER.

The Sabbath is here, it is sent us from heaven; Rest, rest, toilsome life, Be silent all strife, Let us stop on our way, And give thanks and pray To Him who all things has given.

The Sabbath is here, to the fields let us go; How fresh and how fair!

In the still morning air, The bright golden grain Waves over the plain; It is G.o.d who doth all this bestow.

The Sabbath is here; on this blessed morn No tired ox moans, No creaking wheel groans, At rest is the plough; No noise is heard now, Save the sound of the rustling corn.

The Sabbath is here; our seed we have sown In hope and in faith; The Father he saith Amen! Be it so!

Behold the corn grow!

Rejoicing his goodness we'll own.

The Sabbath is here; His love we will sing Who sendeth the rain Upon the young grain.

And soon all around The sickle will sound.

And home the bright sheaves we will bring.

The Sabbath is here; in hope and in love We sow in the dust, While humbly we trust Up yonder shall grow The seed which we sow, And bloom a bright garland above.

THE CHILD AT HER MOTHER'S GRAVE.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.