With murmuring ripple laps the edge of yonder mystic bower.
And ever darker grows the veil thou weavest o'er the land,
And ever quieter the hush--a hush as of the grave....
Listen! 'tis Night! she comes, unlighted by a star,
And with the slow sweep of her heavy wing
Awes and revives the timid earth.

Bürger sings in praise of idyllic comfort in _The Village_, and
Hoelty's mild enthusiasm, touched with melancholy, turned in the same
direction.

My predilection is for rural poetry and melancholy enthusiasm;
all I ask is a hut, a forest, a meadow with a spring in it, and a
wife in my hut.

The beginning of his _Country Life_ shews that moralizing was still
in the air:

Happy the man who has the town escaped!
To him the whistling trees, the murmuring brooks,
The shining pebbles preach
Virtue's and wisdom's lore....
The nightingale on him sings slumber down;
The nightingale rewakes him, fluting sweet,
When shines the lovely red
Of morning through the trees.
Then he admires Thee in the plain, O God!
In the ascending pomp of dawning day,
Thee in Thy glorious sun.
The worm--the budding branch--