small island,
Sack like lying in the river.
(Hence the peasants, who are never
Over squeamish in comparing,
Called the isle Sacconium.)
Evening came; the larks were singing
Fish sprang snapping from the water;
Through the heart of Fridolinus
Thrilled a thankful pious gladness.
On his knees he sank down praying,
For he recognised the island
As the vision of his dreaming--
And he praised the Lord in Heaven.

Oft, 'tis true, have many of us
Mortals in these modern ages
Also dreamt of tranquil islands,
Where we happily might nestle,
And the weary heart refresh with
Forest calm and Sabbath quiet.
Many also go with ardent
Longing on the journey, but when
Nearing as they hope their island,
Suddenly it fades before them,
As in southern climes the airy
Image of the fay Morgana.

Full of wonder, a wild native
Sculled the stranger to the island,
On a raft made of rough pine logs.
Wild the island: limes and alders
In low marshes here were growing;
On the shore with pebbles covered,
Also stood huge ancient willows;
And some scattered huts with thatched roofs.
Here in summer, when the salmon
Are migrating up the river,
Eager fishermen stand waiting
With their long sharp pikes to spear them.
Unremitting to his labour
Went the saint--soon stood his log-house
On the solid ground erected;
Near the house the cross he planted.
When the bell at dusk of evening
Rang out far, Ave Maria!
And he prayed devoutly kneeling;
From the Rhine vale, many people
Timidly looked at the island.

Fierce and stubborn were these Almains.
Once the Roman gods they hated;
Now Franconia's God they hated,
Who at Zulpich, like a tempest,
Had o'erthrown their mighty host.
When the lazy master idly
Took his rest on winter evenings,
And, with eager zest, the women
Set their tongues in busy motion,
And of this and that they gossiped--
How the jug of milk had curdled,
How the hut was struck by lightning,
How a youth was badly injured
By a boar's sharp tusk when hunting--
Then in warning spoke the crafty
Aged Allemanic grandam:
"No one else have we to blame but