V.
On a verdant lawn, from whence the eye loses itself in the distance amid the flowery horizon, do you see that fine young man seated in the simple costume of a laborer, which takes nothing from his good looks? Frederick is his name. The sun is half plunged into the purple of evening, and its last rays sprinkle with ruddy flames the vault of the sky. In the distance spring into the air the fretted spires of the royal city of Nuremberg. Silence reigns in the deserted country. The shadow lengthens, and comes nearer and nearer. The young workman is leaning on his travelling bag, and his animated look seems to interrogate the depths of the valley. His careless hand plucks the petals of several pinks, and suffers them to be carried away by the breath of the breeze. Then his eyes gradually veil themselves and become sad; his chest rises, swelled by a secret emotion, and tears escape, drop by drop, from his half-closed eyelids. But a sudden thought gives him courage and strength for he raises his head, opens his arms as if to clasp a cherished being, and his fresh and pure voice improvises one of those little simple songs that the children of old Germany imagine so well:
Oh country, ever sweet,
My eyes dost thou greet?
From thee far away
Could my faithful heart stay?
From thy warm-tinted sky,
The clouds seem to fly;
And roses so sweet,
Seem to fall at my feet.
My heart bounds with joy,
That love will not cloy,
For each step brings me near
To the rose I hold dear,
My love messengers be,
To her I would see,
Sweet twilight of gold!
Sweet evening star bold!
