1 8 DAYS IN DOVE DALE 



want to seize Nature by some one of her 

 many glorious features, and be able to say, 

 "Here, at least, thou art mine." 



" Nature indeed looks prettily in rhyme, 

 Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime." 



But she evades my grasp. I see around 

 me green trees, and shrubs, and plants ; at 

 my feet, a limpid, rippling stream ; far away 

 above my head, bare rocks and wood-clad 

 heights but what are these to me ? 



Of ferns I could see none, and if I had 

 seen them, how could I distinguish the rare 

 from the common. 



After all, it seems to me that if I knew 

 the botanical names of all the plants, I know 

 not but half my pleasure would be gone ; I 

 would rather know that pretty bloodred trailing 

 flower as " Love-lies-bleeding " than by ever so 

 fine a Latin name. " Ah ! what ravages botany 

 has made in the poetry of flowers ! How many 

 a tale of rustic love yet lives in some of their 

 names ! Who can doubt whence arose such 

 as Mary-gold, None-so-pretty, Goldilock ? and 

 long delicious walks in the deep summer 

 twilights, and lingerings before the old grey 



