THE KOMANCE OF NATURAL HISTORY. 



Akin to this is the rose-coloured atmosphere 

 through which every thing in nature is seen by 

 childhood and youth ; to whom the robin's bi >ast 

 appears of the brightest scarlet, and the sloe <.nd 

 blackberry are delicious fruits. Love nature as v r e 

 may, — and one who has ever wooed can never 

 cease to love her, — we cannot help being conscious, 

 as ' 'years bring the inevitable yoke,'' of such a 

 sadness as Wordsworth has described, in that 

 Ode which— rejecting, of course, as anything but a 

 poetic dream, the theory on which he founds it- 

 is one of the most nobly beautiful poems in our 

 language :— 



" There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 

 The earth, and every common sight, 

 To me did seem 

 Apparell'd in celestial light, 

 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 

 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 

 Turn whereso'er I may, 

 By night or day, 

 The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

 M The rainbow comes and goes. 

 And lovely is the rose ; 

 The moon doth with delight 

 Look round her when the heavens are bare ■ 

 Waters on a starry night 

 Are beautiful and fair ; 

 , The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 



But yet I know, where'er I go, 

 That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.'" 



The summer, with all its gorgeous opulence of 

 life, possesses charms of its own ; nor is autumn 

 destitute of an idiosyncrasy which takes strong 

 hold of our sympathies. We cannot, indeed, divest 

 ourselves of a certain feeling of sadness, because 

 we know that the season is in the decrepitude of 

 age, and is verging towards death. In spring, 

 hope is prominent; in autumn, regret: in spring 

 we are anticipating life; in autumn, death. 

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