Who, with skilful fingers fine,
    Purpled o’er those wings of thine? 
    Was it some sylph whose tender care
    Spangled thy robes so fine and fair,
    And wove them of the morning air? 
    I feel thy little throbbing heart;
    Thou fear’st e’en now death’s bitter smart.

    Fly, little spirit, fly away! 
    Be free and joyful thy short day! 
    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 God 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.