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 Saekkingen 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: "Saekkingen, 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. Carlsruhe, _October_, 1876. THE TRUMPETER OF SAeKKINGEN. FIRST PART. HOW YOUNG WERNER RODE INTO THE SCHWARZWALD. To the Schwarzwald soars my song, up To the Feldberg, where the last small Cluster of its comrade mountains Toward the south are boldly looking, And, all mailed in fir-tree armour, Keep good watch there on the Rhine.