120 
THE LAND OE BLACKBERRIES. 
“ What tho’ no charms my person grace. 
Nor beauty moulds my form, nor paints my face? 
The sweetest fruit may often pall the taste, 
While sloes and brambles yield a safe repast.” 
Blacklock’s Plaintive Shepherd . 
Talk not of the luscious land of vines; sing not the 
praises of blue heavens and rivers which flow through 
vintage banks; of Shines, and Moselles, and Bhones, 
and Danubes; forget that there are regions of towering 
palms, and fruitful bananas, and golden prairies reaching 
to the sea,—lands all fragrant with magnolia blossoms, 
and jungles where the richest fruits rot, untouched, upon 
the mould; sigh not for Grecian vales and isles of 
Paphos; nor pine for the rose-gardens of Cashmere, nor 
for the scented bowers where the bulbul sings. Know 
that here, in this island of green meadows and luxuriant 
hedgerows, we speak the tongue of Lydegate; that we 
are compatriots with Spencer, Chaucer, Shakspere, and 
Keats; and that it is the land of beechen woods and 
Druidical memorials; and above all, let us be grateful 
to the Providence which has placed us in the Land of 
Blackberries. 
