"And when the bright sad sun is low
Behind the mountain-dome,
A twilight wind will come, and blow
All round the children's home;
"And waft about the powdery snow,
As night's dim footsteps pass;
But waiting, in its grave below,
Green lies the summer-grass."
"Now it seems to me," said the colonel, "though I am no authority in
such matters, that it is just in such weather as this, that we don't
need songs of that sort. They are not very exhilarating."
"There is truth in that," replied Mr. Armstrong. "I think it is in
winter chiefly that we want songs of summer, as the Jews sang--if not
the songs of Zion, yet of Zion, in a strange land. Indeed most of our
songs are of this sort."
"Then sing one of your own summer songs."
"No, my dear; I would rather not. I don't altogether like them. Besides,
if Harry could sing that _Tryst_ of Schiller's, it would bring back
the feeling of the summer better than any brooding over the remembrances
of it could do."
"Did you translate that too?" I asked.
"Yes. As I told you, at one time of my life translating was a constant
recreation to me. I have had many half-successes, some of which you have
heard. I think this one better."
"What is the name of it?"
"It is 'Die Erwartung'--_The Waiting_, literally, or
_Expectation._ But the Scotch word _Tryst_ (Rendezvous) is a
better name for a poem, though English.
Pages:
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122