MARlir.M.AS TIDE. 31 



NOV, 14. St. Laurence, archbishop of Dublin, 



A.D. 1180. 



St. Dubricius, bishop and confessor, 522. 



St. Aamand. — Flem. Cal. 



Obs. St. Laurence was youngest son to Maurice O'Tool, a rich 

 prince of Leinster. At ten years old his wicked father gave him up 

 a hostage to the King of Leinster, who kept him in a desert place, 

 but was afterwards obliged by his father to put him into the hands 

 of the pious Bishop of Glendaloch. He became a priest, and at 

 twenty five years old an abbot ; and at length was promoted to the 

 see of Dublin, which he held till his death in 1180. The Abbey 

 of Our Lady at a place called Eu still retains the chief part of his 

 reliques. 



Portugal Laurel Cerasus Lusitanica. 



This plant is put down today in ttie Directory as the Tree of St. Laurence. 



The fallen leaves no v lying in quantities beneath the trees, and particularly 

 under avenues, where they rustle as we walk along, remind cue of Shelly's 

 lines : 



O Spring! of hope, and love, and youth, and gladness, 

 \V indwinged emblem ! brightest, best, and fairest! 

 Whence coniest thou, when, with dark Winter's sadness. 



The tears that fade in sunny sn.iles thou sharest? 

 Sister of joy, thou art the child who wearest 



Thy niotlier'sdyini; smile, tender and sweet; 

 Thy mother Autumn, for whose grave thon bearest 

 Fresli flowers, and beams like ilowers, with gentle feet. 

 Disturbing not the leaves, whii-.h are her winding sheet. 



The gloom of this time of year is said to dispose to melancholy; but, if her 

 stay be only to temper wit arid clip folly's wimfs, it is often of useful import. 

 It teaches lis to regard the flight of time, and make a ffood use of our tionrs. 

 The following was written by .Mr. M'Leod, and giving by him to the author of 

 the Every Day Book, from which we take it: 



htscription for my Daughter's Hourglass. 

 Mark the irolden gra'm-i that pass 

 Briifhtly through this clianuell'd glass. 

 Measuring by their ceaseless fall 

 Heaven's most precious gift to all ! 

 Busy, till its sand be done, 

 See the shining current run ; 

 But th' allotted numbers shed. 

 Another hour of life hath fled ! 

 Its task perform'd, its travail past, 

 Like mortal man it rests at last ! 



Yet let some hand invert its frame, • 



Anil all its powers return the same; 

 Whilst any srolden grains remain, 

 Twill work its little hour again. 

 But who shall turn the glass for man, 

 When all his golden grains have ran ? 

 Who shall collect his scatter'd sand, 

 Dispers'd by Time's unsparing hand? 

 Never can one grain be found, 

 Howe'er we anxious search around. 



Then, daughters, since this truth is plain, 

 That time once gone ne'er comes again ; 

 Iinprov'd bid every moment pass; 

 See how the sand rolls down your glass. 



