PREFACE

The Trumpeter now, all alive and refreshed, To the Jubilee loudly is blowing; The present year has both of us blessed, Great favour and lustre bestowing. I have my fiftieth year attained, Through joy and through sorrow surviving, And his editions--such fame has he gained-- At the fiftieth are now arriving. It may be that I a part of my youth And joy with him have been leaving; But still from these scenes--to tell the truth-- Great pleasure I now am receiving. To the Eggberg I climbed, where on high are seen The homes of the Hauenstein peasant; Their straw-thatched roofs with mosses still green, But no more quaint costumes at present. Through gaps in the forest I see shining bright The snow-peaks of Switzerland's Giants, The steep Finsteraarhorn's towering height The Jungfrau dazzling with diamonds; And as to the west I turn my gaze, Blue ridge above ridge is unfolding: And, in the evening's golden haze, I'm the Vosges' great Belchen beholding. When now to Säkkingen downward I hie, Through the dark green forest is gleaming The silvery lake, like the earth's clear eye, Looking upward, invitingly beaming. Gneiss rocks high o'er the grassy shore rise; And placed so as best to show it, Inscribed on a rock this meets mine eyes: "Säkkingen, the town, to her Poet!" And now, as by Bally's castle I stand, There my Trumpeter also stands blowing, Cast finely in bronze by a master's hand. That they know us well here all are showing; For, when I was going to pay at the inn, The kind hostess refused quite indignant. 'Tis clear, in the town of St. Fridolin, O'er us a bright star shines benignant. The Trumpeter bravely has blown his way Through much that his patience was tasking; And the publisher also his joy doth betray: For the author's likeness he's asking. Accept then this book, my friends, as before, With kind and growing affection; When the Schwarzwald's Poet shall be no more, Still hold him in fond recollection.