-now nearly
well--asked him to go with Rosa and him to the meadow, he declined, and
went off alone to the village on the height, overpowered with grief and
love-anxiety. There, where he had first met Reinhold, he laid himself
down on the flowery turf, and, as he thought how the beautiful Star of
Hope, which had shone before him on all his journey home, had now--at
the goal--vanished suddenly into the deepest night--how all his
undertaking was now like the vain effort of a dreamer who stretches his
longing arms to embrace empty images of air--the tears came to his eyes
and rolled down his cheeks on to the grass, and the flowers, which hung
their little heads as if in sorrow for his bitter fortune. He scarce
knew how it came that the sighs which heaved his distracted breast took
the form of words and music. But he sang the following song:--

"My star of hope! ah! whither hast thou fled?
Alas! for me, slid down beneath the marge,
To rise, in splendour, upon happier hearts.
Thou trembling night-wind! smite upon this breast,
And waken there the bliss which bringeth death,
That so my heart, surcharged with tears of blood,
May break, in longing ne'er to be assuaged.
Dark trees! oh, tell me what mysterious words
Ye whisper thus, in loving confidence.
And ye, gold hems of heaven's wide-spread robe,
Why shine ye down on me benignantly?
Show me my grave! there is my hope's fair haven!
There, and there only shall I rest in peace."

It sometimes happens that the deepest sorrow, if it can but find tears
and words, dissolves into a mild, painfulness of melancholy, so that
perhaps even a gentle shimmer of hope begins then to beam faintly
through the heart. And thus it was that Friedrich felt wondrously
consoled and strengthened after he had sung this song. The evening
wind, and the dark trees which he had invoked, rustled and whispered as
if with voices of comfort. Golden streaks appeared in the dark sky like
sweet dreams of coming glory, and happiness still afar off. He rose,
and walked down to the village. There he felt as if Reinhold was
walking by his side as he had been when he first met him. All that
Reinhold had said came back upon his mind. When he remembered
Reinhold's story of the two painters who had tried for the prize,
scales seemed to fall from his eyes. It was quite clear that Reinhold
must, ere then, have seen, and loved, the fair Rosa. Not