You who live in smoky cities,

And are separated wholly

From the simple life of nature,

Shrug your shoulders! for my muse will

Joyfully now sing the praises

Of a pastor in the country.

Simple is his life, and narrow:

Where the village ends, end also

All his labours and endeavours.

While men slaughtered one another,

In the bloody Thirty Years' War,

For God's honour, the calm grandeur

Of the Schwarzwald's solemn pine-woods

Breathed its peace into his soul.

Spider-webs spread o'er his book-shelves;

And, 'mid all the theologians'

Squabbles, he most likely never

Had read one polemic treatise.

With dogmatics altogether,

Science in her heavy armour,

He possessed but slight acquaintance.

But, whenever 'mongst his people

Could some discord be adjusted--

When the spiteful neighbours quarrelled;

When the demon of dissension

Marriage marred and children's duty;

When the daily load of sorrow

Heavily weighed down some poor man,

And the needy longing soul looked

Eagerly for consolation--

Then, as messenger from Heaven,

To his flock the old man hastened;

From the depths of his heart's treasure

Gave to each advice and comfort.

And if, in a distant village,

Someone lay upon a sick-bed,

With grim Death hard battle waging,

Then--at midnight--at each hour,

When a knock came at his hall-door--

E'en if snow the pathway covered--

Undismayed he went to comfort

And bestow the sacred blessing.

Solitary was his own life,

For his nearest friends were only

His two noble dogs (St. Bernards).

His reward: a little child oft

Bashfully approached him, kissing

His old hand with timid reverence;

Also oft a grateful smile played

O'er the features of the dying,

Which was meant for the old priest.

Unperceived the old man came now

By the border of the forest,

To the Trumpeter whose last notes

Rang resounding in the distance,

Tapped him friendly on the shoulder:

"My young master, may God bless you,

'Twas a fine tune you were playing!

Since the horsemen of the emperor

Buried here their serjeant-major,

Whom a Swedish cannon-ball had

Wounded mortally at Rhinefeld,

And they blew as a farewell then

The Reveille for their dead comrade--

Though 'tis long since it has happened,

I have never heard such sounds here.

Only on the organ plays my

Organist, and that quite poorly;

Therefore I am struck with wonder

To encounter such an Orpheus.

Will you treat to such fine music

The wild beasts here of our forest,

Stag and doe, and fox and badger?

Or, perhaps, was it a signal,

Like the call of the lost huntsman?

I can see that you are strange here,

By your long sword and your doublet;

It is far still to the town there,

And the road impracticable.

Look, the Rhine-fog mounts already

High up towards these upland forests,

And it seems to me but prudent

That with me you take your lodging;

In the vale there stands my glebe-house,

Plain, 'tis true, yet horse and rider

Find sufficient shelter there."

Then the horseman quickly answered:

"Yes, I'm strange in a strange country,

And I have not much reflected

Where to-night shall be my lodging.

To be sure, in these free forests

A free heart can sleep if need be;

But your courteous invitation

I most gratefully accept."

Then unfastened he his horse and

Led it gently by the bridle,

And the Pastor and the rider

Like old friends walked to the village

In the twilight of the evening.

By the window of the glebe-house

The old cook stood, looking serious;

Mournfully her hands she lifted,

Took a pinch of snuff and cried out:

"Good St. Agnes! good St. Agnes!

Stand by me in this my trouble!

Thoughtlessly my kind old master

Brings again a guest to stay here;

What a thorough devastation

Will he make in my good larder!

Now farewell, you lovely brook-trout,

Which I had reserved for Sunday,

When the Dean of Wehr will dine here.

Now farewell, thou hough of bacon!

The old clucking hen, I fear much,

Also now must fall a victim,

And the stranger's hungry horse will

Revel in our store of oats."