Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 6, December 1852Various
General
Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 6, December 1852
Various
Literature -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals
_Lysander._ . . . Love thee, Viola?
Do I not fly thee when my being drinks
Light from thine eyes?--that flight is all my answer!
The Bride, Act 2.
It was one of the loveliest evenings in the loveliest month of a New
England autumn. One of those delicious _pet days_, as they are fondly
called, which, perhaps, from the uncertainty of their continuance,
sometimes elevate the spirits more than the “long, sunny lapse of a
summer day’s light.” Birds had been clamorous in melody, rare flowers
had confidingly expanded their delicate petals to the genial glow that
was abroad, and there seemed to be more light in the world than we are
accustomed to enjoy. Yet that day had passed away--the warmer beams were
gone, but their delightful influence still was felt in the soft, balmy
temperature that remained. The birds had all vanished; yet even of them
one would have said some soft charm still lingered in the dreamy hum
which, though gradually becoming fainter, was still afloat; and if some
delicate flowers had closed their bosoms from the breath of evening,
others there were which gave out their fragrance.
On this delightful and balmy evening we introduce our readers to the
cottage of Pastor Bartlett, adjoining the village church. It was remote
from the main village, and shut out from its bustle and occupation--in
this suiting the character and taste of its occupants. From its porch,
where they were sitting, the pious man and his wife feasted their eyes
with the refreshing green of the woods, whose boughs bent gracefully
down to kiss the beautiful verdure that grew beneath, while the whole
was softly bathed in a rich, warm flood of purple light.
The sunset hung lingering over the village, as if to contrast its own
chamelion-like and gorgeous beauty with the fixed and placid scenery
below. Many of the settlers might have been seen seated at the vine-clad
doors of their simple dwellings, watching its fading splendor as it sunk
behind the tall trees which almost hid from view the pastor’s cottage at
the considerable distance we have described.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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