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They were right,—those old German Minnesingers,—
to sing the pleasant summer-time!
What a time it is! How June stands illuminated
in the Calendar! The windows are all wide
open; only the Venetian blinds closed. Here
and there a long streak of sunshine streams in
through a crevice. We hear the low sound of
the wind among the trees; and, as it swells and
freshens, the distant doors clap to, with a sudden
sound. The trees are heavy with leaves; and
the gardens full of blossoms, red and white. The
whole atmosphere is laden with perfume and sunshine.
The birds sing. The cock struts about,

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and crows loftily. Insects chirp in the grass.
Yellow butter-cups stud the green carpet like
golden buttons, and the red blossoms of the clover
like rubies. The elm-trees reach their long,
pendulous branches almost to the ground. White
clouds sail aloft; and vapors fret the blue sky with
silver threads. The white village gleams afar
against the dark hills. Through the meadow winds
the river,—careless, indolent. It seems to love
the country, and is in no haste to reach the sea.
The bee only is at work,—the hot and angry
bee. All things else are at play; he never plays,
and is vexed that any one should.

People drive out from town to breathe, and to
be happy. Most of them have flowers in their
hands; bunches of apple-blossoms, and still oftener
lilacs. Ye denizens of the crowded city, how
pleasant to you is the change from the sultry
streets to the open fields, fragrant with clover-blossoms!
how pleasant the fresh, breezy country
air, dashed with brine from the meadows! how

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pleasant, above all, the flowers, the manifold,
beautiful flowers!

It is no longer day. Through the trees rises
the red moon, and the stars are scarcely seen. In
the vast shadow of night, the coolness and the
dews descend. I sit at the open window to enjoy
them; and hear only the voice of the summer
wind. Like black hulks, the shadows of the great
trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass. I
cannot see the red and blue flowers, but I know
that they are there. Far away in the meadow
gleams the silver Charles. The tramp of horses'
hoofs sounds from the wooden bridge. Then all
is still, save the continuous wind of the summer
night. Sometimes I know not if it be the wind
or the sound of the neighbouring sea. The village
clock strikes; and I feel that I am not alone.

How different is it in the city! It is late, and
the crowd is gone. You step out upon the balcony,
and lie in the very bosom of the cool, dewy
night, as if you folded her garments about you.
The whole starry heaven is spread out overhead.

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Beneath lies the public walk with trees, like a
fathomless, black gulf, into whose silent darkness
the spirit plunges and floats away, with some beloved
spirit clasped in its embrace. The lamps
are still burning up and down the long street.
People go by, with grotesque shadows, now foreshortened
and now lengthening away into the
darkness and vanishing, while a new one springs
up behind the walker, and seems to pass him on
the sidewalk. The iron gates of the park shut
with a jangling clang. There are footsteps, and
loud voices;—a tumult,—a drunken brawl,—an
alarm of fire;—then silence again. And now at
length the city is asleep, and we can see the
night. The belated moon looks over the roofs, and
finds no one to welcome her. The moonlight is
broken. It lies here and there in the squares, and
the opening of streets,—angular, like blocks of
white marble.

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Under such a green, triumphal arch, O Reader!
with the odor of flowers about thee, and the
song of birds, shalt thou pass onward into the enchanted
land, as through the Ivory Gate of dreams!
And as a prelude and majestic march, one sweet
human voice, I know not whose, but coming from
the bosom of the Alps, sings this sublime ode,
which the Alpine echoes repeat afar.

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