THE RANUNCULUS. 225 



to a living antitype— always excepting my own 

 sweet May-blossom, the fondly-cherished emblem 

 of what, among earthly things, is the most sacred- 

 ly dear to my heart — but in childhood I have de- 

 lighted to lead, with careful hand, among my 

 flower-beds, one whose fair head hung languidly 

 down, and whose attenuated form appeared to 

 tremble, if touched by a breeze that would wave 

 the Ranunculus. I remember her well — she was 

 most lovely ; and to gratify her little companion, 

 she would be as playful as she was sweet. The 

 child of a fond father, the image of one in whom 

 all his affection had centered : whom he had 

 watched over, while she slowly pined and wither 

 ed under the blightening hand of consumption, 

 and in whose grave was buried all that had sweet 

 ened his life, save only this fair girl, in whose 

 transparent complexion, and in the glitter of her 

 full blue eye, he read the pressage of hovering 

 decay. The blight that struck her mother down, 

 had indeed passed upon her ; and my first recol- 

 lection of her is what I have alluded to — my con- 

 ducting her, in the cool of a soft summer evening, 

 through the little mazy walks of my especial 

 garden, pointing out to her notice, now the tint of 

 a flower, now the corresponding hues of a glorious 

 western sky ; and anon that exquisite object, Hes- 

 perus, sparkling in a flood of liquified gold. I 

 looked up in her sweet face, and the smile that 



