18 
BRAMBLES AND BAY LEAVES. 
liow to bless the world. The harebell and the purple 
loose-strife, the woodbine, and the meadow-sweet, may 
each peep up here and there, and get refreshing splashes 
as the waters leap over the stony ledges in their way, but 
the grass is the streamlet's favourite, and wherever the 
one is, there is the other to be found. Oh, what a 
sweet life hath this grass of ours ! his is the true Arca¬ 
dian transport; the music of the rivulet, the soft bleating 
of the sheep, the drowsy hum of wild bees, the rich 
perfume of thymy knolls, and the shadowy beauties of 
“ faerie land." These are his food and pastime, and the 
bonny brook that wets his feet is his chosen companion, 
“ The deep recesses of the grove he gained, 
Where in a plain defended by the wood, 
Crept through the matted grass a crystal flood,, 
By which an alabaster fountain stood/’ 
Chaucer. 
Here comes the summer, swift as the succession of 
night and day; once more the sun will blind us with his 
golden beams, and the clear heat upon herbs" will 
touch us with the sweet lassitude that makes a “ shady 
covert 'gainst the hot season," with a cool mossy lawn to 
roll upon, the very perfection of listless happiness and 
abandoned heart-ease. Oh ! the bright, smooth bowling 
green, how its shines in its close shaven neatness of 
verdure, and what a fragrance is emitted from it on dewy 
summer evenings, when the foot gently bruises the green 
sprays, or the bowls make glaucous lines upon it! Oh ! 
the rippling summer meadows, where the moles have 
made hundreds of soft hillocks, that invite us to bury 
ourselves in the herbage, and rest our heads on pillows 
