It was a song of jubilee, a sigh of
innocence and happiness; she sang of God and the stars, of happy love,
and of reuniting; of blossom, fragrance, and fanning zephyrs; and in
unconscious, foreboding pain, she sang of the sorrows of love, and the
pangs of renunciation.
All Nature seemed listening to her charming song; no leaflet stirred,
in low murmurs splashed the waves of the fountain by which she sat, and
occasionally a nightingale wailed in unison with her hymn of rejoicing.
The sun had descended to a point nearer the horizon, and bordered it
with moving purple clouds. Natalie, suddenly interrupting her song,
pointed with her rosy fingers to the heavens.
"How beautiful it is, Paulo!" said she.
He, however, saw nothing but her face, illuminated by the evening glow.
"How beautiful art thou!" he whispered low, pressing her head to his
bosom.
Then both were silent, looking, lost in sweetest dreams, upon the
surrounding landscape, which, as if in a silence of adoration, seemed
to listen for the parting salutation of the god of day. A nightingale
suddenly came and perched upon the myrtle-bush under which Natalie and
her friend were reposing. Soon she began to sing, now in complaining,
now in exulting tones, now tenderly soft, now in joyful trumpet-blasts;
and the night-wind that now arose rustled in organ-tones among the
cypress and olive trees.
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