Yet do we delight to saunter forth at the commencement of a new 

 day, amidst the beauty and peacefulness of nature, when the dew 

 is glistening on the grass, and listen to the song of some of our 

 native birds, which a later riser misses altogether. There is always 

 .something to cheer and gladden the heart, even in the midst of 

 affliction ; and when we remember that " ilka blade o' grass keps 

 its ain drap o' dew," we are enabled with much more fortitude to 

 bear up against the little adversities which beset us in this world : 

 truly, indeed, we may at all times find 



" Some shape of beauty to move away the pall 

 From our dark spirits." 



Who is there that does not love flowers ? The ancients prized 

 them highly, as we find in the writings of Herodotus, Theophrastus, 

 Anacreon, etc. The misseltoe and vervain were worshipped by the 

 Druids ; and Plutarch tells us that the lovely Perigune, in child- 

 like simplicity, addressed her prayers to the plants and bushes as 

 if they were sensible of her misfortune. On the Continent the 

 Helichrysum is used to decorate the graves of the young, as an 

 emblem of immortality. The Irish, too, have their floral super- 

 stitions ; the St. John's wort (Hypericum) being used as a charm 

 against evil spirits ; and on May eve the young girls gather the 

 yarrow (Ahi-hallune), and place it under their pillows, wrapped in 

 the stocking of the right foot, confidently expecting that during the 

 night they will obtain a sight of their future spouses. We all know 

 what exquisite flowers are reared by our Spitalfield weavers, and 

 the magnificent double wallflowers and stocks which are seen in 

 the gardens of our peasantry at home. All our poets loved flowers. 

 Spencer thought the man who could not enjoy the " felicitie" of 

 roaming amidst " flowers and weeds of glorious feature," was well 

 worthy to taste of wretchedness ; and the writings of Cowper, 

 George Herbert, Wordsworth, Langhorne, Shenstone, Hartley 

 Coleridge, and that noble soul, Keats, teem with fresh descriptions 

 of wild flowers. Some time before the death of Keats, he said to 

 his faithful friend Severn, who had done so much to soothe his 

 sick bed, that " he thought the sincerest pleasure he had received 



