THE LAND OF BLACKBERRIES. 67 



Now a right good plant is this, our wayside bramble, and one deserving 

 a nobler vindicator than we. It grows bravely and endures all weathers, 

 it sits beside the old oaks, and sees age come do^vTi and whiten their 

 brows, keeping ever youthful and jovial itself. Reno\vned in story, 

 from the time when it caught the garments of Demosthenes, as he fled 

 coward-like from the field ; * or when it alleviated with its rich 

 mellowness the asperity of the Baptist's "locusts and wild honey ;" or 

 was strewed over the graves of Spartan heroes ; or wove tassels of 

 leaves and rose-shaped blossoms over the skeletons of Alexander's 

 frozen army, or over the ghastly remains of humanity in Odin's Wood, 

 Fair and welcome art thou, humble and unambitious bramble, 

 as when thou wert mingled with the earliest offerings of herbs, or 

 scattered on the green altars of the ancient Gauls ! Beautiful still, as 

 when mingled with ^sop's happy gift,f when covered with elegies 

 in deification of Rosalind, or when nodding a response to Wordsworth 

 when he so sweetly sang, — 



I heard a thousand blended notes, 



While in a grove I sat reclined, 

 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 



Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 



To her fair work did Nature link 



The human soul that through me ran ; 

 And much it grieved my heart to think 



What man has made of man. 

 Through primrose tufts in that sweet bower 



The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 

 And 'tis my faith that every flower 



Enjoys the air it breathes. 



But, alas ! the learned in the lore of flowers attach to thy blossoms 

 the idea of remorse. There is no cup so pure but dregs may be found 

 at the bottom ; and thou, with thy "gauzy satin frill," and tempting 

 harvest of juicy blackness, art armed from head to foot with thorns, — 

 thorns which lacerate and pierce the flesh, and like the bitter draughts 

 along the path of pleasure, too often bid us taste of one before we reach 

 the other. "Why art thou girded round with thorns ? is it that man 

 may not pluck all the fruit, and thus some be left for the little birds 

 who fear not brambles ? or is there some lurking medicine in thy many 



* Holland's Plutarch, p. 765. 



t ^sop made an offering of flowers to the god Mercury, and was rewarded 

 with the gift of inventing fables. 



F 2 



