120 BRAMBLES AND BAY LEAVES. 



robin silent, and the brown forest will lie dreaming in noonday reposs. 

 Now, let thy soul swim out in a broad tide of love, let the tears flow 

 into thine eyes, while gazing upon the fresh moss, and listening to the 

 drowsy hummings of the air. Doth thy heart heave and throe with 

 emotions of thankfulness to God, for making the earth so fair, so 

 redolent of beauty, in its garniture of flowers ? and for having scat- 

 tered these silent teachers up and down the world as orators of perfume, 

 and links of beauty, to bind our souls to nature in all time, and where- 

 soever we may be ? The soul must be fed ; we must have inspiration 

 from stars, and sunbeams, and flowers ; and not be always chewing 

 corn. We must hear the voice of God in the elements, in the winds 

 and the waves, the rattling of the thunder, and the howling of the 

 storm. We must see His face in every flower, and feel his breath in 

 the odour of forest leaves and banks of wild thyme. Now, dost thou 

 not long to be a child once more, and to live out thy days in one 

 frenzy of joy ? Wouldst thou shrink from cold hearts, and disap- 

 pointments, and regrets, and live for the love of flowers only? — to gather 

 round thee glowing visions of floral loveliness ; to fill the air with 

 angel shapes and rainbow hues ; to breathe an atmosphere of perfume 

 like that which floats over the green pastures of Paradise ; to feel the 

 sense overwhelmed with droppings of rich music, as though angel- 

 lutes were tuning their anthems to the Omnipotent ; and, amid the 

 grand symphonies of nature, to feel the soul hallowed and becalmed, 

 as a soft wind playing at twilight over a summer sea ? 



Nature is the property of all. Flowers are the ministers of her 

 commonwealth. They bloom for old and young, rich and poor; and 

 to every true heart become hallowed messengers from heaven ! The 

 great duty of flowers is to teach us to be always children, to be ever 

 fresh, and budding into new beauty ; for the poetry of our lives is all 

 that can ennoble up, and make earth an abode of peace and loveliness. 

 It is in the morning of existence that 



" Hope looks out 

 Into the dazzling sheen, and fondly talks 

 Of summer, and Love comes, and all the air 

 Rings with wild harmonies." 



And shall we, because time has led us a little further towards the 

 tomb, become so engrossed with sordid pursuits as to shun the world 

 of beauty, the creation of poetry, which exists around us in the living 

 semblance of perpetual youth ? Oh ! " let the blood of the violet 



