118 



THE LOVE OF FL0^\:EIIS. 



" Who loves not 

 These fairy people of the leafy woods ? 

 Children of storm and sun ! climhers of 

 The mountain's side ! or loiterers on the banks 

 Of the young rivulet ! The love of flowers 

 Is an inherent passion in the heart 

 Of man: it never dies." 



" Nature," by Burlington Wale. 



" Our human souls 

 Cling to the grass and water brooks," 



Athanase. 



The sentiments of the human heart are instinctive ; they are not the 

 result of observation, study, or education ; they are born with us, and 

 are continually struggling to break forth, 'and fling their light upon the 

 world, like spring sunshine, when clouds begin to break. Thus it is that 

 the noblest and most elevating sympathies and aspirations of the soul 

 are unteachable, not to be imparted. They can never be infused from 

 without, but lie shimbering within, till they are awakened by the 

 kindred sympathies of beauty and moral worth. Every man's heart 

 is a well of noble sympathies, and a fountain of the purest affections ; 

 although many, forsooth, get so encased with incrustations of world- 

 liness that their lives become sordid catalogues of apathy and dis- 

 trust. The love of flowers is one of the most universal sentiments of 

 the heart. In childhood, we roam through lanes and fields, and amid 

 the leafy garniture of woods, to hold communion with their lovely 

 forms, and to listen to their silent language of perfume, till our eyes 

 fill with strange tears of pleasantness. And as we grow into the 

 stern ranks of manhood, and mingle in the busy marts of the world, 

 the heart still cherishes its love for flowers ; and when the spring sun- 

 shine falls upon our path, sweet memories come over the spirit, and 

 the heart seems to gush with melodies of its own, babbling wild and 

 disjointed music, like the rippling of a summer brook, or the toiies 

 of an ^olian harp, when summer winds play soft and low. And 

 even in hoary age, when time has ploughed deep furrows in our brow, 

 and the snows of life's winter lie upon (mx heads, this passion dies 

 not. The eye, which was dim and lustreless, kindles with new light ; 



