'O my dear father,' said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her eye,
'how exactly you describe what I have felt so often, and which I thought
nobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! here comes the sweeping sound
over the wood-tops;--now it dies away;--how solemn the stillness that
succeeds! Now the breeze swells again. It is like the voice of some
supernatural being--the voice of the spirit of the woods, that watches
over them by night. Ah! what light is yonder? But it is gone. And now it
gleams again, near the root of that large chestnut: look, sir!'
'Are you such an admirer of nature,' said St. Aubert, 'and so little
acquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow-worm?
But come,' added he gaily, 'step a little further, and we shall see
fairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm lends his
light, and they in return charm him with music, and the dance. Do you
see nothing tripping yonder?' Emily laughed.
'Well, my dear sir,' said she, 'since you allow of this
alliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and almost dare
venture to repeat some verses I made one evening in these very woods.'
'Nay,' replied St. Aubert, 'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite; let
us hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. If she has
given you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the fairies.'
'If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,' said Emily,
'while I disclose her images, I need NOT envy them. The lines go in a
sort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject well
enough, but I fear they are too irregular.'
THE GLOW-WORM
How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade
On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er;
When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro' the glade,
And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!
But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,
And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay
Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow'rs, unprest,
Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.
To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour,
Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves,
And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r,
The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves.
Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,
But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;
And often as her dying notes their pity have won,
They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.