Each heart rejoices; everywhere the sound Of life revives and the accustomed work; The artizan to see the liquid sky, With tools in hand and singing as he comes, Before the door of his abode appears; The maiden with her pitcher issues forth To seize the waters of the recent rain, And he who traffics in the flowers and herbs Of Mother Earth, his daily cry renews In roads and lanes as he again proceeds. See how the Sun returns! See how he smiles Upon the hills and houses! Busy hands Are opening windows and withdrawing screens From balconies and ample terraces; And from the street where lively traffic runs The tinkling bells in silver distance sound; The wheels revolve as now the traveller His lengthy journey on the road resumes. Each heart rejoices. When is life so sweet, So welcome, as it now appears to all? When with like joy doth man to studies bend, To work return, or to new actions rise? When doth he less remember all his ills? Ah, truly, Pleasure is the child of Woe; Joy, idle Joy, the fruit of recent Fear Which roused with terror of immediate death The heart of him who most abhorred this life; And thus the nations in a torment long, Cold, silent, withered with expectant fear, Shuddered and trembled, seeing from Heaven's gate The angry Powers in serried order march, The clouds, the winds, the shafts of living fire, To our annihilation and despair. Oh bounteous Nature! these thy present are, These are the joys on mortals thou doth shower; To escape from pain is happiness on earth. Sorrows thou pourest with abundant hand; Pain rises freely from a fertile seed; The little pleasure that from endless woe As by a miracle receives its birth, Is held a mighty gain. Our human race Dear to the eternal Rulers of the sky! Ah! blest enough and fortunate indeed Art thou if pain brief respite gives to thee To breathe and live; favoured beyond compare Art thou if cured of every grief by Death. THE VILLAGERS' SATURDAY NIGHT. From copse and glade the maiden takes her way When in the west the setting sun reposes; She gathered flowers; her slender fingers bear A fragrant wealth of violets and roses, And with their beauty she will deck her hair, Her lovely bosom with their leaves entwine; Such is her wont on every festive day. The aged matron sits upon the steps And with her neighbours turns the spinning wheel, Facing the heavens where the rays decline; And she recalls the years, The happy years when on the festive day It was her wont her beauty to array, And when amidst her lovers and compeers In youth's effulgent pride Her rapid feet through mazy dance did glide.