Thus adjured, Mr. Armstrong sang: "A morning clear, with frosty light From sunbeams late and low; They shine upon the snow so white, And shine back from the snow. "From icy spears a drop will run-- Not fall: at afternoon, It shines a diamond for the sun, An opal for the moon. "And when the bright sad sun is low Behind the mountain-dome, A twilight wind will come, and blow All round the children's home; "And waft about the powdery snow, As night's dim footsteps pass; But waiting, in its grave below, Green lies the summer-grass." "Now it seems to me," said the colonel, "though I am no authority in such matters, that it is just in such weather as this, that we don't need songs of that sort. They are not very exhilarating." "There is truth in that," replied Mr. Armstrong. "I think it is in winter chiefly that we want songs of summer, as the Jews sang--if not the songs of Zion, yet of Zion, in a strange land. Indeed most of our songs are of this sort." "Then sing one of your own summer songs." "No, my dear; I would rather not. I don't altogether like them. Besides, if Harry could sing that _Tryst_ of Schiller's, it would bring back the feeling of the summer better than any brooding over the remembrances of it could do." "Did you translate that too?" I asked. "Yes. As I told you, at one time of my life translating was a constant recreation to me. I have had many half-successes, some of which you have heard. I think this one better." "What is the name of it?" "It is 'Die Erwartung'--_The Waiting_, literally, or _Expectation._ But the Scotch word _Tryst_ (Rendezvous) is a better name for a poem, though English. It is often curious how a literal rendering, even when it gives quite the meaning, will not do, because of the different ranks of the two words in their respective languages." "I have heard you say," said Harry, "that the principles of the translation of lyrics have yet to be explored." "Yes. But what I have just said, applies nearly as much to prose as to the verse.--Sing, Harry. You know it well enough." "Part is in recitative," "So it is. Go on." "To enter into the poem, you must suppose a lover waiting in an arbour for his lady-love. First come two recited lines of expectation; then two more, in quite a different measure, of disappointment; and then a long-lined song of meditation; until expectation is again aroused, to be again disappointed--and so on through the poem. "THE TRYST. "That was the wicket a-shaking! That was its clang as it fell! No, 'twas but the night-wind waking, And the poplars' answering swell.