habit, to those with whom he is associated. He conforms, 

 and, perhaps, degrades his being, by conformity with the 

 settled maxims and theories around him ; and often, 



Like a drop of water, 

 That in the ocean seeks another drop, — 



confounds himself, and loses the identity of his own pecu- 

 liar, and perhaps nobler characteristics. 



Consider, then, the mother of the seasons in some of 

 her infinite manifestations. You wander into the fresh 

 fields and gather the flowers of spring. In crystal vases, 

 resting, it may be, upon sculptured marble, you cherish 

 these frail children of the sun and showers. You renew 

 them before they wither, and gaze with exquisite delight 

 upon their delicate texture and the manifold perfection of 

 their hues. They appeal forever to your inmost heart, as 

 silent mementos of all things sweet, and beautiful, and 

 pure. They are eloquent of perpetual suggestions to the 

 answering soul. They fill your mind more than all that 

 lives upon the canvass of the mightiest master. The 

 least and meanest of them all more satisfies your imagi- 

 nation than the choicest statue wrought by the divinest 

 hand. To your cultivated mind they address themselves 

 in their momentary beauty, like images of things more 

 perfect in immortal loveliness. They are emblems of the 

 affinities of your moral being with whatever is complete 

 in infinite glory beyond the skies. Like the eternal stars, 

 that, on the brow of midnight, assure us, with their un- 

 speakable eff"ulgence, that Heaven and its hopes are yet 

 there, so these, the stars of earth, spring upon her verdant 

 bosom, the mute memorials of an inscrutable immortality. 

 In the humble dwelling-place of the poorest laborer, in 

 some crowded city's dim alley, into which the golden 

 light of day pours scarcely one beam of all his abounding 

 flood, you may often discern some simple flower, which 

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