down a tranquil country road, i walked in a reverie, one april sabbath afternoon. i seemed to be in a strange land, and pictures and fancies of maiano and the tyrol were floating in my brain; yet i was unconsciously moving, like a drowsy star, in the old, old orbit, whence i had never strayed, within brief distance of the spot where i was born, and where for years my life had worked itself into so dear a bondage, that the desire of journeying gladly elsewhere, save in the spirit, had become a sort of treason. the air was laden with the moist delicious fragrance of early spring, which comes as yet from nothing but the ground, as if the persuasive showers had stirred and awakened the very clods and roots and buried fragments of leaves into something like hope and aspiration. this is the advent-time of nature, far more touching and suggestive than the imminent beauty whereof it is the fore-runner. as i ventured onward, wrapped in solitary thought, and resolved, as it were, into the sweet indolent joy of living, i stooped to pick up a branch, silvered with thick buds, which the wind had blown across my path. at that moment, distracted from the invisible world, and in the transition-state between dreaming and alert attention, i was saluted with a strain of exquisite music, such as one can conceive of as floating ever in jeremy taylor's "blessed country, where an enemy never entered, and whence a friend never went away." i raised my head to listen, and immediately perceived ahead of me, back from the highway, and embowered in trees, a gray church porch, out of which were ushered the interlacing harmonies which had charmed my wandering ear. the door stood open, and no idlers were in sight; no late wheel-marks were betrayed on the soft, fine dust of the road. yet by the many-colored sunlight, filtered through the costly windows of the nave, i saw that a number of people were gathered together in the cool and quiet edifice. a single glance showed me that the interior was of extreme beauty, and of precisely that delicacy and airiness of design most unlikely to be coupled with massive granite walls. yet there it was, impregnably grim without, peaceful and assuring within, like a kindly heroic heart beating under armor. from it, and about it, and through it, floated the siren voices of my search. in an illusion-loving mood, i sought not to pluck out the heart of my mystery, nor to rob it of its soft promise by vain questionings. i slipped into a deserted seat in the shadow of the choir-stairs, and gave myself up to this sole delight: as to prayers and sermons, either they were already over, or else they went past in the lapses of melody, as the swallows by the window above me, beating their shining way upward, utterly without my knowledge or furtherance.

i heard, above the rest, and sometimes inter twined only with each other, a brave, jubilant voice, and a voice steadfast and tender. neither know i which was the fairer, so ministrant were both, so helpful and unfailing. the soft, starlit voice might touch an over-eager soul with calm; to the soul distressed, the strong voice would come like a great noon-tide wind, impelling it towards the height where the sun dwelt, and all the fountains of the day. clear as thought was the bright voice, striving, surmounting, and instinct with truth; but like the first sigh of passion was the sad voice, thrilling, too, with memories of yesterdays that cannot return forever; fond, sensitive, dedicated to the deep recesses of the heart, where there is search after hidden meanings, and mourning over the inscrutable laws through which not even love's anointed eyes can see. i recognized the battle-call, the rush of the wings of the morning, the pæan of young ambition in the victor-voice, whose very petition was a conquest, in the irresistible faith and strength of its asking; but the lowly voice sang with unspeakable pathos, in whose every plea the greater grief of rejection was already apprehended. a grateful spirit would fain bestow on the glorious voice an ardent welcome, and on the gentle voice a lingering caress. both i loved, and unto both my soul hearkened; for they were the voices of angels, and one was joy, and one was peace.

then, as in a vision, i beheld a fair prospect before me, and in the centre of its green beauty arose two hills, from whose separate summits the voices ruled perennially, showering blessings, healing sorrow, banishing care, cheering and solacing the earth. now the weak needed not to rely on the strong; and pity and protection were scarcely asked or given; for music, "the most divine striker of the senses,"—music alone was the arbitress of the world. and all day, past twilight into the deep gloom, were the voices singing, not incapable of being wearied, but revivified forever by the smiles and tears of pilgrims who departed from the hill-top with hearts made whole.

i marked that the little children were drawn frequently to the abode of the melancholy voice, because it was soft and weird, like a gypsy mother's lullaby, or the rustle of aspens in serene weather. thither also came youth, nursing its first grief with wilful indulgence, and manhood, yearning for summer melodies that should soothe all unrest, and close "tired eyelids over tired eyes." but i knew the babes were there only because of the sweet, curious affinity of childhood with sombre influences; and the young palmers, through some sophistry of love and honor; and the strong workers, overwrought, since there was no courage left for self-invigoration, and no guide to help them towards the city of the cordial voice, whither they should have turned. one i saw coming forth from the field, with a scroll under his arm, pale and worn with "glimpses of incomprehensibles, and thoughts of things which thoughts do but tenderly touch," who stood a moment, rapt in rash delight at the voice which betokened tears and infinite longing and regret; and who, straightway remembering that the poet's mission is gladness, incessant belief and prophecy of good, betook him, albeit with a sigh, to that other abiding-place, where he might learn of the happy voice. all the afflicted, with wild and doleful steps, sought to climb the dolorous mountain towards the setting sun; and often a friend's strong hand intervened, and led them, rather, with inspiring speech, into the land of healing. i watched, time on time, soldiers marching to the wars, sustained by the glad voice, and hastening forwards with its spell upon them like a consecration; and again, the weary troops returning, with tattered colors and broken ranks, pausing in the lovely courts of the grave voice, to chant with it a song of memory and reparation and thanksgiving. i came to understand, though but slowly and confusedly, that the entire universe was swayed by these voices; and that, while each was best in its holy office, the strong voice was that which nerved us to our duty, and the kind voice that which rewarded us for duty done. always within hearing of them, we travel towards the ampler day, loyal to one-155- until we have merited the loving offices of the other; holding them sweetly correlative, even as are labor and repose, or life and death.

so soon as i was filled with the glory and significance of the voices, they faded imperceptibly away, and i heard them no longer. moreover, i found my lifted eye resting anew on the village church, where the dying light fell across the aisles, and the bare clematis-vine waved at the near window; and whence the last worshipper had departed. had i indeed been on a strange road, and among strange sounds? it may be that even in my day-dream i might have called my beloved singers by their earthly names; and that so i might this hour, were it not for a clinging scruple. for i have been made wiser, and know verily that both are angels, and that one is joy, and one is peace.