And hedged against an amber light,
The lone hills cling, in vain endeavor
To touch the curtained clouds of night,
That, weird-like, form and fade forever.
Then break upon the blessed calm, -
Deep dying melodies of even, -
Those Nyack Bells; like some sweet psalm,
They float along the fields of heaven.
Now laden with a nameless balm,
Now musical with song thou art,
I tune thee by an inward charm
And make thee minstrel of my heart.
O bells of Nyack, faintly toll
Across the starry lighted sea.
Thy murmurs thrill a thirsty soul,
And wing a heavenly hymn to me."
How wonderfully beautiful appeared Tarrytown on that quiet
Sabbath afternoon of July. The fine homes embowered in a
landscape which "for two centuries had known human cultivation
seemed to have that touch of ripe old world-beauty which comes
from man's long association with Nature; a beauty that revealed
to us its depth in warm tones, fullness of foliage of its
ancient trees, and velvety smoothness of the lawns which had the
appearance of being long loved and cultivated." One is strangely
reminded of some charming villas of Nice and, clothed in that
dreamy haze, viewed front a distance they need only the
blossoming orange trees, mimosas and palms to lift their royal
forms about them, to make them a reality.
