282 THE PALE BELL OF THE HEATH. 



coffin, with its little white pall, carried perhaps, 

 under the arm of a sorrowful father, while the 

 mother or sister steps behind, in tears of natural 

 grief. I can weep with them, for it is a sore trial 

 to a parent's heart : but over the baby I do and 

 must rejoice, with joy unspeakable and full of 

 glory. 



There is a little flower of exquisite delicacy, 

 which springs up among the heath and rough 

 grass, in uncultivated spots. Its form is that of a 

 single bell, closely resembling the Canterbury bell 

 of our gardens, and its texture transparently fine, 

 The stem rises perhaps two inches from the 

 ground, and there, in the attitude of a snow-drop, 

 depends this soft little cup, dissimilar in many re 

 spects from the well-known blue-bell of the heaths, 

 and wearing the grey tint of its kindred autumnal 

 sky, rather than the sprightly azure of summer. 

 The aspect of this wild-flower is so infantile, so 

 fragile, so etherial, that we wonder to recognize it 

 among the hardy heather, and the rugged grasses 

 where it usually dwells. We see it in our path 

 one day; the next it is gone, leaving no perceptible 

 vacancy among its thickly-spread neighbours, ex- 

 cept to the eye of those who marked its lovely 

 form unfolding to the bleak winds, and anticipated 

 how short a sojourn such a thing of gossamer 

 would make in such a clime. 



I have loved this little flower from childhood, 



