TRANSLATIONS.

BY THE REV.  CHARLES T. BROOKS

I.

TO GOD’S CARE I COMMIT MYSELF!

(FROM THE GERMAN OF ARNDT.)

    Again is hushed the busy day,
    And all to sleep is gone away;
    The deer hath sought his mossy bed,
    The bird hath hid his little head. 
    And man to his still chamber goes
    To rest from all his cares and woes.

    Yet steps he first before his door,
    To look into the night once more,
    With love-thanks and love-greeting, there,
    For rest his spirit to prepare,
    To see the high stars shine abroad
    And drink once more the breath of God.

    Mild Father of the world, whose love
    Keeps watch o’er all things from above,
    To Thee my stammering prayer would rise;
    Bend down from yonder starry skies;
    And from Thy sparkling, sun-strewed way,
    Oh teach thy feeble child to pray!

    All day Thou hadst me in Thy sight;
    So guard me, Father, through this night;
    And by thy dear benignity
    From Satan’s malice shelter me;
    For what of evil may befall
    The body, is the least of all.

    Oh send from realms of purity
    The dearest angel in to me,
    As a peace-herald let him come,
    And watchman, to my house and home,
    That all desires and thoughts of mine,
    Around thy heaven may climb and twine.

    Then day shall part exultingly,
    Then night a word of love shall be,
    Then morn an angel-smile shall wear
    Whose brightness no base thing can bear,
    And we, earth’s children, walk abroad,
    Children of light and sons of God.

    And when the last red evening-glow
    Shall greet these failing eyes below,
    When yearns my soul to wing its way
    To the high track of endless day,
    Then all the shining ones shall come
    To bear me to the spirit’s home.

II.

THE UNKNOWN.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF AUERSPERG.)

    Through the city’s narrow gateway
      Forth an aged beggar fares,
    None is there to give him escort,
      And no farewell word he bears.

    Heaven’s grey cloud to no one whispers
      Of God’s message in its fold;
    Earth’s grey rock to no one whispers
      That it hides the shaft of gold.

    And the naked tree in winter
      Tells not straightway to the eye
    That it once so greenly glistened,
      Bloomed and bore so bounteously.

    None would dream that yon old beggar,
      Tottering, bending toward the ground,
    Once was clothed in royal purple,
      And his silver locks gold-crowned!

    Foul conspirators discrowned him,
      Tore the radiant purple off,
    Placing in his hands, for sceptre,
      Yonder wormy pilgrim-staff.