a height of about two thousand feet, one can look down upon the chequered beauty of the land, and the 
wide expanse of the ocean ; where the morning fog is found white and fleecy in the valleys along the courses 
of the streams, and the more elevated trees and castles, and houses, show like islands floating in the watery 
waste ; when the uplands are clear and well defined, and the beam gilds yet higher peaks, while the streak 
upon the sea is of that soft purple which is really no color and every color at the same time. The whole 
landscape is so soft, so undefined, and so shadowy, that one is left to fill up the outlines by conjecture ; and 
it seems to get more indefinite still as the sun comes nearer the horizon. The dews feel the coming radi- 
ance, and they absolutely ascend by anticipation. At length there is one streaming pencil of golden light, 
which glitters and breaks as if it were the momentary lightning of a cloud ; the dew drops at your feet are 
rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and opals, for an instant; and then it is gone. If the horizon be perfectly 
clear, this “blink” of the rising sun (and we have observed it only on such occasions as that alluded to) 
has a very curious effect. It comes momentarily, and when it is gone, all seems darker than before. But 
the darkness is of as brief duration as the light, and the rising grounds are soon brought out with a power 
of chiar ’ oscuro — a grouping of light and shade, that never can be observed when the sun is at any height, 
as the shadow is from eminence to eminence, filling all the hollows ; and, though deep, it is remarkably 
transparent, as evaporation has not yet begun to give its fluttering indistinctness to the outlines of objects. 
By the time that half of the solar disc is above the horizon, the sea is peculiarly fine, and it is better if the 
view be down an estuary. If the distant offing it is one level sheet, more brilliant than burnished gold, in 
which the boats, with their dark lug sails, as they return from the deep sea fishing, project their streaky 
shadows for miles, though each seems but a speck. The lands on the opposite sides* of the estuary pay 
their morning salutations, in soft breezes wafted across, as the sun touches a point of the one here, and of 
the other there; for the summer sun no sooner beams out upon one part of the landscape than the little 
Zephyrs from all the others hasten thither to worship, so instantly does the genial beam put the atmosphere 
in motion ; and as those Zephyrs come from more moist places, there is absolutely dew upon the 
parched heights at sun-rise, if they be not too extensive. Those cross winds rippling the water this way 
and that way, give an opal play to the whole ; while behind you, if the estuary stretches that way, it passes 
into a deep blue, as from the small angle at which the rays fall, they are all reflected forward ; and the very 
same cause that makes the water so brilliant before you, gives it that deep tint in your rear. By and by, 
the trees and buildings in lateral positions come out, with a line of golden light on their eastern sides ; 
while to the west every pane in the windows beams and blazes like a beacon fire. The fogs, too, melt away, 
except a few trailing fleeces, over the streams and lakes, that lie sheltered beneath steep or wooded banks ; 
and they soon fade from these also, and the mingled fields, and woods, and streams, are all arrayed in green 
and gold. The cottage smokes begin to twine upward in their blue volumes ; the sheep are unfolded ; the 
cattle sent to their pastures ; and people begin the labor of the fields.” 
We will conclude with a few stanzas to an elegant flower which blooms in July, from “ May you like it.” 
To the Bellflower. 
With drooping bells of clearest blue 
Thou didst attract my childish view, 
Almost resembling 
The azure butterflies that flew 
Where on the heath thy blossoms grew 
So lightly trembling. 
Where feathery fern and golden broom 
Increase the sandrock cavern’s gloom 
I’ve seen thee tangled, 
’Mid tufts of purple heather bloom 
By vain Arachne’s treacherous loom 
With dewdrops spangled. 
’Mid ruins tumbling to decay, 
Thy flowers their heavenly hues display, 
Still freshly springing, 
Where pride aud pomp have passed away 
On mossy tomb and turret gray, 
Like friendship clinging. 
When glow-worm lamps illume the scene 
And silvery daisies dot the green, 
Thy flowers revealing, 
Perchance to soothe the fairy queen, 
With faint sweet tones on night serene 
Soft bells are pealing. 
But most I love thine azure braid, 
When softer flowers are all decayed, 
And thou appearest 
Stealing beneath the hedgerow shade, 
Like joys that linger as they fade, 
Whose last are dearest. 
Thou art the flower of memory ; 
The pensive soul recalls in thee 
The year’s past pleasures ; 
And led by kindred thought, will flee, 
Till, back to careless infancy, 
The path she measures. 
Beneath autumnal breezes bleak, 
So faintly fair, so sadly meek, 
I’ve seen thee bending, 
Pale as the pale blue veins that streak 
Consumption’s thin, transparent cheek, 
With death hues blending. 
Thou shalt be sorrow’s love and mine, 
The violet and the eglantine 
With Spring are banished. 
In Summer pinks and roses shine, 
But I of thee my wreath will twine, 
When these are vanished. 
