MORNING.
And now the rosy blush of morn began to mantle in the
east, and soon the rising sun, emerging from amidst golden
and purple clouds, shed his blythesome rays on the
tin weathercocks of Communipaw. It was that delicious
season of the year, when nature, breaking from the chilling
thraldom of old winter, like a blooming damsel from
the tyranny of a sordid father, threw herself, blushing
with ten thousand charms, into the arms of youthful
spring. Every tufted copse and blooming grove resounded
with the notes of hymeneal love. The very insects,
as they sipped the dew that gemmed the tender grass of
the meadows, joined in the joyous epithalanium—the virgin
bud timidly put forth its blushes, “the voice of the
turtle was heard in the land,” and the heart of man dissolved
away in tenderness.
