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by S. S.
Methought
I was in a lovely vale, a second paradise in seeming, surrounded on all
sides by vast mountains, the cloud-capped summits of which stood bathed
in the golden rays of the declining sun. The atmosphere was loaded with
delicious perfumes; pleasant groves invited to repose; gay parterres,
filled with flowers that ravished the eye with the beauty of their
tints, stretched as far as the sight could reach; and through the
meadows meandered lovely streams, now sparkling in the light of the
setting sun, then lost to view amidst the thick foliage of overhanging
trees, their course indicated to the ear by the soft murmurs only of
their distant cataracts.
Soul-stirring
harmony issued from a host of feathered choristers, clothed in rainbow
hues, that were darting from bower to bower; whilst others of the winged
tribe plucked the ripening berries: but all gave forth their glad notes
of joy, seemingly praising the source of all good.
Trees
drooped under the load of luscious fruit, tempting by their golden glow
the hand of man. All that the eye has seen, or the ear has heard, or the
poet has sung, could not compare with the harmony of all around me.—My
enrapt sense thus with my soul communed: "Were these things made
for man's enjoyment or their own? These delicious groves would still
have given shade without their lovely ornaments; man could live without
these beauteous flowers robed in their varied tints. These cool streams
could still have given moisture to the green plants and flowering shrubs
without their gentle cascades; and these golden fish could still enjoy
fife with scales less bright; these birds dressed in colours of dazzling
brightness, or ravishing the sense with heaven-drawn melody, could still
be joyous if clad in russet robes; and this wealth of fruit might be
dispensed with, and man still live."
Filled
with these thoughts I wandered on, and as I proceeded new beauties
spread around me, the rivulets flowed more gently, the songs of the
birds appeared to have more sweetness, and the perfume of the flowers
seemed more redolent than before; and as I turned to gaze, I beheld near
a murmuring waterfall a female form of transcendent beauty, exceeding in
her loveliness the charms of nature with which I was surrounded. Her
robe was of dazzling brightness, the image of spotless innocence; purity
seemed to rest on her brow, and sensibility beamed from her eyes, whilst
modesty characterized her whole being.
In
a voice that rivalled in sweetness the nightingale's song she bade me
approach. "Son of man," she said, "'tis Nature that
addresses thee now. In this seclusion I abide; to those that seek me I
am a pleased instructress. To his ungrateful creatures the great Creator
has given blessings that far outshine the beauties that spread now
around thee; for how can the joys of sense compare with those of the
mind immortal? Flowers and fruits spring up from the soil, bearing seeds
which bring forth again their image, renewing ever the stock from which
they sprung; so that mankind might see in this their immortality, and
enjoy their present state; seeing that from death springs up a new life,
and a fresh existence from corruption. At His word earth clothed herself
in beauty, seeing which should plant the seeds of virtue in the heart of
man, in order that its flowers might bloom in heaven and yield fruits of
immortality.
"Besides
all this, the pure affections to man were given that he might join
himself to his kind; and like this little streamlet that fructifies the
fields through which it flows, before it unites its waters, when they
have become a mighty river, with the waves of the ocean, are the gentle
charities; they unite mankind in a common bond, and bless all within
their reach; for the heart that gives, no less than the one which
receives, is filled with gratitude to Heaven, because that it has been
permitted to become the messenger of mercy to others around. But those
that despise my gifts will pass away unblessed, for their hearts are
like the slumbering volcano, where the trees take root and shade its
sides, and the purling rills
give it coolness; yet vain are the snows that deck its head; the pent up
fires burst forth; the trees wither at their malignant breath—the
rills are exhausted; but slake not the fury of the fires that burn in
the mountain's bosom. Thus are the effects of forgetfulness of the
Creator's gifts, of unhallowed passions preferred to virtue; for behold,
the flowers thereof are death, the fruit destruction."
At
these words I awoke, and behold, it was a dream; but long will it be ere
the instructive lesson will fade from my memory. |
