THE HAWTHORN. 69 



sympathy, they seemed to droop and to die, because 

 my spirit was wounded, and my visions of worldly 

 bliss fading into hopeless gloom. 



May bears many flowers ; but that to which it 

 gives its own bright name — the simple blossom of 

 the common hawthorn — is the flower that I take 

 to my bosom, and water with my tears ; and would 

 fain bid it linger through every changeful season. 

 I cannot even remember the date of the identifica- 

 tion which invests this blossom with a character of 

 such fond and sacred endearment : it is coeval 

 with my early infancy. The month of May gave 

 me a beautiful little brother, when I was nayself 

 yet but a babe : and it was natural that a thing so 

 sweet, and soft, and fair, should be compared to 

 the lovely bud which usually shed its first fra- 

 grance about the very day of his birth, in the mid- 

 dle of the month. I have no earlier recollection, 

 nor any more vivid, than that of standing with 

 my sweet companion under the hedge-row, to us 

 of inaccessible height, eagerly watching the move- 

 ment of our father's arm, while he bent the lofty 

 branches downward, that we might with our own 

 hands gather the pearly clusters selected to adorn 

 our little flower jars. A bough of larger dimen- 

 sions was selected, and carefully severed with his 

 pocket-knife, to overspread the hearth, where, 

 planted in a vase, it completely hid the parlour 

 grate, delighting us with its beauty ; which we then 



