MYSTERIES OF MEMORY. 7 



violet beaten down by chill rains. Thy worshippers, oh Memory ! 

 are the aged, the weary, and the heavy-laden ; those venerable 

 pilgrims who have trodden through the paths of this world, and 

 turn to take a lingering retrospect of the way which they have 

 journeyed. For these, the present can have but small value, the 

 past and the future are to them the Alpha and Omega of their 

 contemplations. The old man nestles by his warm hearth, or 

 meditates in some sunny spot in his garden, and with folded 

 hands, and head bent upon his breast, retraces "the days that 

 are gone." His grand-children gambol before him — they chase 

 the butterfly from the rose to the lily, from the lily to the 

 ranunculus, and from the ranunculus through the hidden paths 

 of the air — they laugh eagerly as they think of success, and 

 passionately they weep when the flutterer, speeding zig-zag over 

 the fence of sweet-briar, hurries to far distant fields. The joy 

 and the grief of his descendants mingle with the musings of the 

 old man, again he feels himself a child — a happy, careless, 

 sportive child; and the smell of the flowers and of the mellow 

 fruit, the humming of the bees, the wild harmony of the birds, 

 the murmur of the little brook, the hushing of the trees, like the 

 soft falling of waters, become sweeter to his senses. The daisy 

 at bis foot, the pet kitten rushing after the rolling ball, the 

 grasshopper in the hedge with its shrill greeting, the balloon, 

 the soap bubbles sailing through the air, all the little marvels 

 and favourites, and playthings of infancy, claim an interest, 

 once more, in his breast. And from the first scene, the old man 

 goes, by rotation, through the whole, till he finds himself, at 

 three score and ten, in his garden chair, mild and venerable, and 

 purified from the jarring turmoil and anxieties of too-busy life. 

 His brow is furrowed, perhaps with trials, and suffering, and 

 care, as well as time, but still he gracefully wears " the blossoms 

 of the grave," and, tianquilly, awaits the closing scene of 

 mortality. From his reveries he looks up with a gladsome smile 

 upon his features ; a tear has, perchance, dimmed his vision, but 

 it has passed away; it was a tribute to an awakened memory — 

 for who shall look back upon many years with unmingled 

 emotion ? And to the captive and the exile, and the broken- 

 hearted, thou art dear, oh ! Memory ! for thou bringest back the 

 free limb, and the unfettered will ; the flight of the eagle and 

 the roe, the mountain solitude, the wide-waving wood, the 

 valley, and the bright waters in its breast. The prisoner turns 

 to thee in his cell, and the gyves are forgotten, and the barred 

 lattice is unseen ; and the exile gazes on thy scenery with a 

 rapturous delight, and sits, once more, beneath the tree of his 

 forefathers. Exquisite are thy delights, and bitter, too, thy 

 pangs, oh 1 Memory, and of varied hues are the shadowy pictures 

 which I now describe. 



