132 PLANT-LIFE 



ness its dintless rocks; creatures full of pity, covering 

 with strange and tender honour the scarred disgrace of 

 ruin — laying quiet finger on the trembling stones to 

 teach them rest. No words, that I know of, will say 

 what these Mosses are. None are delicate enough, none 

 perfect enough, none rich enough. How is one to tell 

 of the rounded bosses of furred and beaming green — 

 the starred divisions of rubied bloom, fine-filmed, as if 

 the rock spirits could spin porphyry as we do glass ? 

 . . . They will not be gathered, like the flowers, for 

 chaplet or love-token; but of these the wild bird will 

 make its nest, and the wearied child his pillow. . . . 

 And, as the earth's first mercy, so they are its last gift 

 to us: when all other service is vain from plant and 

 tree, the soft Mosses and grey lichen take up their 

 watch by the headstone. The woods, the blossoms, 

 the gift-bearing grasses, have done their parts for a 

 time; but these do service for ever. Trees for the 

 builder's yard, flowers for the bride's chamber, corn for 

 the granary, Moss for the grave." This is exquisite 

 writing, and the sentimentalist must be allowed some 

 licence; but it is hardly correct to call Mosses " the first 

 mercy of the earth," for they are by no means first, 

 either in point of time or simplicity of structure. The 

 poet's ecstasy, also, makes its appeal to the Nature- 

 lover: 



" The tiny Moss, whose silken verdure clothes 

 The time-worn rock, and whose bright capsules rise 

 Like fairy urns on stalks of golden sheen, 

 Demands our admiration and our praise, 

 As much as cedar kissing the blue sky." 



But our admiration and reverence are surely increased 



