Green-Mountain freeman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1844-1884, 1847-10-21
THE BELOVED TUNE.
Fragments Of Life IN small Pictures.
FROM FACT AND FICTION.

In unison with ours, breeding its future wings"
LEIGH Hunt.
In pleasant English garden, on rustic
chair of ntertwised boughs, are seated two hap
Ply human beings. Beds of violets perfume the
air, and the yerdant hedge.rows stand sleepy
in the moonlight guitar lies on the green
sward, but is silent now, for all is hushed in the
stiffness of the heart. That youthful pair are
whispering their first acknow Judgement of mu-
tual love With them is now unfolding life 5
best and brightest blossom, so beautiful and Sc
transient, but leaving, as it posses into fruit a
fragrance through all the paths of memory.
And now, the garden is alone in the moon
light The rustic bench, and the whispering
foliage of the tree, tell each other no tales OF
those still kisses, those gentle cIaspmgs, and all
the tervent language Of the heart Bnt the
young man has carried them away in his soul ;
and as he sits alone at his chamber window.
gazing in the mild face Of the moon, he feels,
as all do who love and are beloved that he is
better man, and that he will hencolorth be a
wiser aud pnrer one. The worlds within and
without are yelled in TRANSPORTED glory, and
breathe together in perfect harmony For all
these high aspirations, this deep tide Of tender
ness this tuIness of beauty there is but one ut
terance; the yearning heart must overflow in
music. Faint and uncertain come the first notes
of the guitar, breathing as softly as if they re-
sponded to the mere touch of the moon-beams
But now the rich, manly voice has united with
them, and clear spiritual melody flows forth,
plaintlVe and imprisoned, the modulaled breath
of indwelling life and love All the secrets of
the garden secrets that painting and poetry had
no power to reveal, have passed into the song.
At first, the young musician scarcely noticed
the exceeding beauty of the air he was compos-
ing. But passage that came from the deepest
OF the heart, returned to the heart again. and
hlIed 1t with its own sweet echoes He lighted
lamp, and rapidly transferred the sounds to
paper. Thus has he embodied the floating es-
sence of his soul, and LIES brightest inspirations
cannot pass away with the moonlight and the
violet fragrance that yelled its birth.
But obstacles arise in the path of love. Dora's
father has an aversion to foreigners, and Aessan-
dro is of mingled Italian and German parentage.
He thinks Of worldly substance as fathers are
wont to do; and AIessandro is simply leader of
an orchestra, and popular composer of guitar
music There is rich lover in question, and
the poor young musician is sad with hope defer
red, though he leans ever trustfuly on Dora 5
true heart. lie abors diligently in his vocation,
gives lessons day by day, and listens with all
patience to the learners trip-hammer measure
ment OF time, while the soul within him yearns
to pour itself forth in floods of improvised mel
ody. He composed music industrousIy. too
but 1t is for the market and slowly and reluct-
antly the offended tones take their places per
order Not thus came they in that inspired
song, where love first breathed its bright but
timd JOY over vanished doubts and fears The
manuscript of that melody is laid away and sell
dom can the anxious lover hear its voice.
But two years of patient effort secures his
prize. The loved one has come to his bumbed
nome, with her bridal wreath of iessamine and
orange buds. lie sits at the same window, and
the same moon shines on him but he is no
longer alone, beautiful head leans on his
breast, and loving voice says: dearest Ales-
sandro, sing me aong Of thine own composing"
lie was at that moment thinking of that rustic
seat IN her fathers garden, of yiolets breathing
to the moonlight, Of Dora's first, bashful con-
fesslon OF love- and smiling with happy con
Sclousness, he sought for the written voice of
that blisslul hour. But he will not tell her
when 1t was composed, lest it should not saw so
much to her heart, as it does to his He be.
gins by singing other songs which drawing-room
misses love for their tnkllng sweetness Dora
listens, well pleased, and sometimes says, "That
is pretty, AIesSandro play it again" But now
comes the voice OF melting, mngling souls
That melody, so like the sunshine, and rain
bows, and birds warbIing after summer shower
with rain drops from the guitar at intervals. and
all subsldlng into bssfu dreamy moonligh
Dora leans forward, gazing earnestly in his face
and with beaming, fearful eyes, exclaims, ooh.
that is very beautiful That is my tune" eyes |
1t IS indeed thy tune, replied the happy husband;
and when she had heard its history, she knew
why II seemed SO like echoes of her own deep.
est heart
Time has passed, and Aessandro sits by Dora's
bedside, their eyes looking into each ether thr'oI
happy tears. Their love is crowned by Hle'sI
deepest, purest joy, its most heavenly emotion
Their united lives have re-appearod in a new
existence; and they feel without this rich expe-
rlence the human heart can never know one
half it's wealtAeof love. Long sat the father in
that happy stiffness, and wist not that angels near
by smiled when he touched the soft down of the
infants arm, or twined its little fingers over his,
and looked his joyful tenderness into the mothers
eyes. The tear-dew gstened on those LONG
dark fringes, when he took up his guitar and
played the beloved tune He had spoken no
word to his child These tones were the first
sound with which he welcomed her into the
world. few months glide away and the little
Floretta knows the tune for herself She cIaps
her hands and crows at the sight of the guitar.
and all changing emotions show themselves in
her dark melancholy eyes, add on her little