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BEAMBLES AND BAY LEAVES. 
To her fair work did Nature link 
The human soul that through me ran; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 
Through primrose tufts in that sweet bower 
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 
And ’tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes.” 
But, alas ! the learned in the lore of flowers attach to thy 
blossoms the idea of remorse. There is no cup so pure 
but dregs may be found at the bottom; and thou, with 
thy “ gauzy satin frill/' and tempting harvest of juicy 
blackness, art armed from head to foot with thorns,— 
thorns which lacerate and pierce the flesh, and, like the 
bitter draughts along the path of pleasure, too often bid 
us taste of one before we reach the other. Why art 
thou girded round with thorns ? is it that man may not 
pluck all the fruit, and thus some be left for the little 
birds who fear not brambles ? or is there some lurking 
medicine in thy many lancets, such as the Indians seek 
while rubbing their bodies with the prickly sela, or the 
old Homans pined for, when they sowed nettles to rub 
themselves ?* Heaven knows ! perhaps we may get a 
blessing when we smart the most, and if God wills it, so 
let it be. 
If all this availed not to make the bramble pre¬ 
cious, and teach the true glory of the Land of Black¬ 
berries, what shall avail against the fact (which we have 
intentionally deferred till now), that they were the only 
food of the poor “Children in the Wood/' and that 
* Camden’s “ Britannia.' 
