Black lie the hills; swiftly doth daylight flee;
And, catching gleams of sunset's dying smile,
Through the dusk land for many a changing mile
The river runneth softly to the sea.
O happy river, could I follow thee!
O yearning heart, that never can be still!
O wistful eyes, that watch the steadfast hill,
Longing for level line of solemn sea!
Have patience; here are flowers and songs of birds,
Beauty and fragrance, wealth of sound and sight,
All summer's glory thine from morn till night,
And life too full of joy for uttered words.
Neither am I ungrateful; but I dream
Deliciously how twilight falls to-night
Over the glimmering water, how the light
Dies blissfully away, until I seem
To feel the wind, sea-scented, on my cheek,
To catch the sound of dusky, flapping sail,
And dip of oars, and voices on the gale
Afar off, calling low,--my name they speak!
O Earth! thy summer song of joy may soar
Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave
The sad, caressing murmur of the wave
That breaks in tender music on the shore.
With the growth of Mrs. Thaxter's children and the death of her
father, the love and duty she owed her mother caused her to return in
winter to the Shoals, although a portion of every summer was passed
there. This was her husband's wish; his sense of loyalty to age and
his deep attachment to his own parents made such a step appear
necessary to him under the circumstances.
But she had already tasted of the tree of knowledge, and the world
outside beckoned to her with as fascinating a face as it ever
presented to any human creature. It was during one of these returning
visits to the Shoals that much of the delightful book from which I
have quoted was written; a period when she had already learned
something of the charms of society,--sufficient to accentuate her
appreciation of her own past, and to rejoice in what a larger life now
held in store for her.
Lectures, operas, concerts, theatres, pictures, music above all,--what
were they not to her! Did artists ever before find such an eye and
such an ear? She brought to them a spirit prepared for harmony, but
utterly ignorant of the science of painting or music until the light
of art suddenly broke upon her womanhood.
Of what this new world was to her we find some hint, of course, in her
letters; but no human lips, not even her own exuberant power of
expression, could ever say how her existence was enriched and made
beautiful through music. Artists who sang to her, or those who
rehearsed the finest music on the piano or violin or flute, or those
who brought their pictures and put them before her while she
listened,--they alone, in a measure, understood what these things
signified, and how she was lifted quite away by them from the ordinary
level of life. They were inspired to do for her what they could seldom
do for any other creature; and her generous response, overflowing,
almost extravagant in expression, was never half enough to begin to
tell the new life they brought to her. The following lines from a
sonnet addressed to the tenor singer William J. Winch, a singer who
has given much pleasure to many persons by his beautiful voice, will
convey some idea of the deep feeling which his ardent rendering of
great songs stirred in her:--
"Carry us captive, thou with the strong heart
And the clear head, and nature sweet and sound!
Most willing captives we to thy great art.
* * * * *
Sing, and we ask no greater joy than this,
Only to listen, thrilling to the song,
* * * * *