No envy of rivals gorgeously clad,
Contentment gleams from her pure, fresh face,
And her glance can gladden a heart that’s sad
By its radiant grace.”
But deeper in we go. What splendid solitude. How quickly every fibre responds to the thrilling call of nature. The faintly rustling leaves, the plash of the brook, now subdued to becoming solemnity, the distant silvery note of the bird at the edge of the forest, the shade and restful monotone of the filtered light, the delightful air, the unbroken calm, and above all the mysterious note of life and creation that emanates from the very ground—all these compel thought and enjoyment of the kind that ever leaves an ineffaceable imprint on the memory.
What noble trees! Here is one that throws lofty arms far out, and covers with a fresh green roof a space that is rich in violets and many of the humbler flowers. And see! in sheltered spot, far in and screened from the mellow light, this tiny orchid beneath the shelter of her giant brother:
“Nestled at his root
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun.”