THE FURZE-BUSH. 27 



' Nothing venture, nothing have/ was my mental 

 reflection, as I inserted my hand, the other day, 

 within the strong fence-work of a hardy furze- 

 bush, to possess myself of the fragrant flower that 

 reposed its golden bosom where few would have 

 cared to invade its retreat. But the plant was an 

 old, an endeared associate, having formed a dis- 

 tinguishing feature of the wild, sweet scenery, 

 amid which I passed many a happy day. A type, 

 too, it was of those days ; for as the bright and 

 beautiful furze-blossom throws its sunny gleams 

 over the withering herbage that lies frozen around, 

 — shedding lustre and breathing fragrance on its 

 own thorny tree, — so did the transient loveliness 

 of that short season to which I refer, ameliorate 

 the dreariness of a wintry doom, and sweeten 

 many thorns, planted around me by the hand of 

 unerring wisdom. The furze-bush from whence I 

 last plucked a flower, is located, indeed, in a re- 

 gion as dissimilar from that which my memory 

 enshrines, as are the feelings excited by a glance 

 at the present, contrasted with the retrospection 

 of what is forever past : but its tints are as mel 

 low, its foilage as green, and its aspect altogether 

 the same, I knew that if I secured a cluster of its 

 soft petals, they would breathe a like fragrance ; 

 and I was content to venture a scratched finger, 

 for the indulgence of a sweet, though melancholy, 

 gratification 



