I do not know what the song was--whether
some slow, sad negro melody, or loud-sounding hymn, such as the
forests ring with at camp-meetings; but I know what the murmuring and
dying sound brought to me again, living, splendid, instinct with a
thoughtful but perfect joy. Fairyland never, with its silver-twisted,
trumpet-flower-like bugles, rolled such a merry-mournful music to the
friendly stars! I love to have the old days back again--back, with
their very tints, and atmosphere, and sounds and odors--now no more
the same. Thus I love to hear the young girl's low, merry song,
floating from the window of a country-house, half-broken by the
cicala, the swallow's twitter, or the rustling leaves;--I love to hear
the joyous ripple of the harpsichord, bringing back, with some old
music, times when that merry music stamped the hours, and took
possession of them--in the heart--forever more! I love a ringing horn,
even the stage-horn--now, alas! no more a sound of real life, only
memory!--the thousand murmurs of a country evening; the far, clear cry
of wild-geese from the clouds; the tinkling bells of cattle; every
sound which brings again a glimpse of the far-glimmering plains of
youth.
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