Herald of the times. [volume] (Newport, R.I.) 1830-1846, 1831-06-30
FIELD PA TIL :.

luIlD uttIuCllNc. INV WV iS"i VI" '-'
glsh lootpaths. ! love those rustic and
picturesque stiles opening their pleasant
escapes from unlrequcntcd places anc
dusty highways into the soltudcs of na-
turc. 1t is delightful to catch a glimpse
of one in the old village green, under the
old cldcr-trcc by some ancient cottage
or half hidden by the ovcrhanging
boughs of IA wood. ! love to see tho
smooth, dry track, winding away in easy
curves along some green slope to the
church-yard-to the forest grange, or to
the cmbUwercd cottage. 1t is to me an
object of certain inspirations; it seems to
invite one from noise and publicity into
the heart of solitude and of rural delight.
1t bcckons the Imagination on through
green aud whispering corn fields, through
the short but vcrdant pasture; the flowing
moving grass; the odorous and sunny
hay-ficld; the lcstivity of harvest; from
lonely farm to farm, from village to vii
hgc; by clear and mossy wells; by tink
| linz brooks s. deep wood-skirtcd streams,
to crolls where the daiiodil is rel oicing
in spring, or meadows where the large
| blue gcranium cmbcllishos the summer
way side; To hcaths with their warm e.
lastic sward and crimson dclls-thc chit
tcrlng Of graSshoppcrs,-thc ioyg glove, x
the old gnarlcd oak; in short, to all the
solitary haunts after which the city-pent
lover of nature pants as the hart pantcth
after the water brooks. What is there
so truly English? What is 50 truly link
ed with our rurul tastes, our sweetest
memories, and our sweetest poetry, as
stiles and iootpaths? Goldsmith, Thom-
son, and Milton have adorned them with
some of their richest wrcaths. They
have consccratcd them to poetry & love.
1t is along the lootpath in secluded fields,
upon the stiles IN the cmbowcrcd lane,
where the wild rose and the honey suck
lc are lavishing their beauty ana their
iragancc, that we delight to picture to
ourselves rural lovers, breathing, in the
dewy sweetness of summer evening, VOWS
still swccter. There it is that the poet,
seated, sends back his soul into the fresh
ness of his youth, amongst attachments
since withercd by neglect, rendered pain
tul by absence, or broken by death; a
mongst dreams and aspirations which G.
ven now that they pronounce their own
fallacy, are lovely. It is there that he
gazes on the gorgeous sunset--the even
ing star following with its silvery lamp
the fading day, or the moon showering
her pale Iustre through the balmy nj light
air, with fancy that kindles and scars
into the heavens before him, there that
we have all felt the charms of woods and
green fields, and solitary boughs waving
in the golden sunshine, or darkcning in
the melancholy heauty of evening shad-
ows, who has not thought how beautiful
was the sight Of a village congregation,
pouring out from their old gray church on
a summer day, and streaming off through
tire GIies meadows, in all directions, to
their homes? Or who that has visited
Alpine scenery, has not beheld with a
poetic feeling the mountainecrs silently
winding down out of their romantic Sc
cllIsion on sabbath morning, pacing the
solitary fcathtracks, bounding with clas-
lic step down the fcrn-clad dells, or u
long the course of Il riotous stream, as
cheerful, as picturesque, and yet as SOL
emn as the scenes around thcm:-UoU-
iHs Book Of ikc Seasons.