164 THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. 



mine only deserving to be chronicled in those 

 fleshly tables of the heart, which God has prepared 

 for the reception of his own laws — the manifold 

 tokens of his unchangeable and everlasting love. 



All this, or something resembling it, has doubt- 

 less been said or sung, on a topic, as old, nearly, 

 as the globe which we inhabit. Nevertheless, I 

 have repeated it, in order to account for my pecu- 

 liar taste in new-years' salutations. I love the old 

 custom, and cannot dispense with it among friends; 

 but my special delight is to exchange greetings 

 with some little flower that may have outlived the 

 prefatory blasts of mid-winter, and lingered to 

 welcome another year. In seasons of severity, 

 when intense frost has cut down, or deep snow 

 overlaid the tender blossoms, I am driven to my 

 in-door collection ; but far better do I love to 

 search the garden, the hedge-row, and the field ; 

 if perchance some native production may reward 

 my diligent scrutiny. 



There is one, not uncommon at this season ; the 

 Christmas rose. It is the saddest, in aspect, of 

 the numerous family that bear that distinguished 

 name : but the scene where I first remember to 

 have met with it was characterized by any thing 

 rather than sadness. 



It was a new-year's party of youthful guests, 

 many being accompanied by their elder connex- 

 ions, at the house of an opulent and most ho3pit- 



