A POET’S BLESSING. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.

As I wandered the fields along, Listening to the lark’s sweet song, I saw an old man working there, A laborer with hoary hair. “Blessings upon this field!” I said; “Fruitful by faithful labor made. And blessings on thy wrinkled hand, Thus scattering seed along the land!” He answered me, with earnest face, “A poet’s blessing’s out of place; Likely enough that Heaven, in scorn, Will send us flowers instead of corn.” “Nay, friend,” said I, “my tuneful powers Wake not to life too many flowers; Only enough to grace the land, And fill thy little grandson’s hand.”