BOTANICAL RAMBLES. 



125 



Violets will remind ua of the poet's address to the Spring: — 



"How shall I woo thee, beautiful Spring, 



And what s^hall my offering be? 

 Shall I seek the sweet south, where the balmy breeze 



Kisses gently the cheeks of her flowers? 

 Shall I bring them to thee with their perfumed leaves 



And plant them within thy bowers? 

 Oh no! for the Violet that blooms at thy feet 

 Hiis a lovelier form, and a breath more sweet. 



There also we shall find the Purple Flag, {Iris foetidissima,) whose sword- 

 shaped leaves we may have noticed already in the hedge-rows we have passed. 

 Some call it roast beef, from a fancied resemblance to the odour of John 

 Bull's favourite dish, though in reality having a much greater resemblance to 

 certain celebrated "preserved meats" lately discovered among other old marine 

 stores at a well-known naval station. The Cowslips are very fine in this 

 wood; we may take them up for our town garden, then wash our hands in 

 the stream below, and ascend to the Downs by this hollow dell or coombe. 

 And now we are on the Downs. The wind is brisk upon these uplands, but 

 the sun is powerful. What a sense of freedom and enjoyment on these open 

 hills, boundless as the ocean! and what a glorious prospect! To the north 

 and east, the wave-like, undulating Downs; to the west, the blue hills on the 

 other side the Adur — Cisebury and Chanctonbury; up the valley, a peep into 

 the Weald, with Bramber Castle guarding, as it were, the entrance, and far 

 beyond, over Steyning, the high ground near Petworth; to the south, none 

 but the poet or the artist can depict that scene; air, earth, and ocean combine 

 to form the glorious picture. The eye wanders along the rich coast-line from 

 beyond Worthing, sometimes even as far as the Isle of Wight, till it rests 

 upon the Norman churches of Old Shoreham and its later namesake, nestled 

 in their bowers of lofty elms. Again, to the south-east, over the undulating 

 Downs, we catch a glimpse of Brighton, with its white houses creeping up 

 the hills around it, while the race-hill bounds the prospect. Now, as we 

 reach the brow of the hill near the windmill, the spire of Southwick conies 

 in view, peeping out above the trees that half conceal it and its neighbour, 

 the modest little church of Kingston, close within the shadow of whose tower, 

 in due subordination, stands the neat and tasteful, I had almost said baronial, 

 cottage of its literary rector, who in this retired spot has found a congenial 

 home, where, like his favourite Sabine poet, it is his happy lot 



"Integra 

 Cum mente, nee turpem senectam 

 Degere, nee cithara carentem." 



But the white trail of steam is sweeping across the Adur bridge, reminding 

 us that we must hasten to the railway if we would take the shortest and 

 the easiest road to Brighton. 



March, 1853, 



