Amid the sylvan solitude
Of unshorn grass and waving wood
And waters glancing bright and fast,
A softened voice was in her ear,
Sweet as those lulling sounds and fine
The hunter lifts his head to hear,
Now far and faint, now full and near--
The murmur of the wood swept pine.
A manly form was ever nigh,
A bold, free hunter, with an eye
Whose dark, keen glance had power to wake
Both fear and love--to awe and charm.
Faded the world that they had known,
A poor vain shadow, cold and waste,
In the warm present bliss alone
Seemed they of actual life to taste.
--Whittier.
It was in the month of June they were married; when the sun shone with
his brightest splendor; when the sky was of the clearest blue, when the
grass was of the freshest green, the woods in their rudest foliage, the
flowers in their richest bloom, and all nature in her most luxuriant
life! Yes, June was their honeymoon; the forest shades their bridal
halls, and birds and flowers and leaves and rills their train of
attendants. For weeks they lived a kind of fairy life, wandering
together through the depths of the valley forest, discovering through
the illumination of their love new beauties and glories in the earth and
sky; new sympathies with every form of life. Were ever suns so bright,
skies so clear, and woods so green as theirs in this month of beauty,
love, and joy!
"It seems to me that I must have been deaf and blind and stupid in the
days before I knew you, Herman! for then the sun seemed only to shine,
and now I feel that he smiles as well as shines; then the trees only
seemed to bend under a passing breeze, now I know they stoop to caress
us; then the flowers seemed only to be crowded, now I know they draw
together to kiss; then indeed I loved nature, but now I know that she
also is alive and loves me!" said Nora, one day, as they sat upon a bank
of wild thyme under the spreading branches of an old oak tree that stood
alone in a little opening of the forest.
"You darling of nature! you might have known that all along!" exclaimed
Herman, enthusiastically pressing her to his heart.
"Oh, how good you are to love me so much! you--so high, so learned, so
wealthy; you who have seen so many fine ladies--to come down to me, a
poor, ignorant, weaver-girl!" said Nora humbly--for true love in many a
woman is ever most humble and most idolatrous, abasing itself and
idolizing its object.