ANNUAL MEETING AT NEVADA. 351 



realm as the rose over its fair domain) was imprisoned, she was com- 

 forted by the boquets of White Juliennes brought to her by the jailor's 

 wife. They had power to soothe even such bitter woe as hers. Perhaps 

 they whispered to her that all suffering and sorrow would be forgotten 

 among the roses and sweet perfumes of our Father's garden. We bring 

 flowers for every occasion; for the happiest and the saddest. When 

 some loved one has passed through the "valley of the shadows," when 

 only the cold form remains, we can do nothing but bring flowers with 

 which to shroud it, and when we have buried it low, we bring the rose 

 and tenderly plant it there. It must be sweet with the white rose 

 waving and blooming and dropping its petals softly, silently, in the long 

 cool grass above. 



The poets have immortalized many of these fair things, but I think 

 the little violet, with her blue eye and modest grace, has received more 

 homage than her more stately sisters. It was, perhaps, Shakespeare's 

 favorite flower for he often alludes to it. Somewhere in the "Winter's 

 Tale" he speaks of "violets dim but sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes 

 or Cynthea's breath," and in another place he says he knows a "bank 

 whereon the oxslip and the nodding violet blow." The pansy is a variety 

 of the violet, of greater beauty but without perfume. Its whole ex- 

 pression seems that of quiet thoughtfulness. You remember poor 

 Ophelia says, "There are pansies; that's for thoughts." We all admire 

 Moore's LallaRookh, but I think without its "Vale of Cashmere," it would 

 lose much of its grandeur. For "Who has not heard of the Vale of 

 Cashmere, with its roses the fairest that earth ever gave." What a grand 

 description he has given of it. Surely some enraptured fairy must have 

 lent its power and guided his pen. Remember the valley holds its 

 "Feast of Roses." 



" And what a wilderness of flowers ; 



It seemed as though from all the bowers, 



And fairest fields of all the year. 



The mingled spoils were scattered here. 



The lake, too, a garden breathes, 



With the rich beds that o'er it lie, 



As if a shower of fairy wreathes 



Has fallen upon it from the sky." 



And what wreath ever woven more beautiful than the sweet " wreath 

 of dreams " that the enchantress wore for poor Nourmahal when she 

 would recall her Seline's smile. Were I poet, I should sing of the sweet 

 wild rose that grows " uncultured, wild and free." There is a mournful 



