310 
BRAMBLES AND BAY LEAVES. 
vision by a sick man's bed. Then, too, the holy memo¬ 
ries which they embalm in their folded buds and un¬ 
dewed chalices—memories fraught with sorrow, but not 
less welcome to our hearts. Tender recollections, per¬ 
chance, of parents now sleeping in flowery graves, no 
longer controlling our actions with a judicious watchful¬ 
ness and care; no longer checking us as we are about to 
pluck the fatal weeds of folly, and to inhale the breath of 
the sinful blossoms which pleasure scatters in our path 
—beautiful and fragrant, but fraught with the bane of 
self-reproach. 
“ Oh, lovely flowers ! the earth’s rich diadem, 
Emblems are ye of heaven, and heavenly joy, 
And starry brilliance in a world of gloom ; 
Peace, innocence, and guileless infancy 
Claim sisterhood with you, and holy is the tie.” 
Mrs. Hemans. 
Tlowers blend by association of ideas the experiences 
with the pleasures of life; they refresh the worn mind 
with waters from the untainted fountain of pure feeling, 
which flows from the emerald meadows of childhood, and 
lead us from the world's thorny and flowerless desert to 
oases, blossoming acacias, and w T aters sweet to the taste. 
How often, when disease has wasted the frame, and 
anxiety and suffering have well-nigh done their work, 
the sufferer awaits calmly the approaching dissolution, 
and stands pausing on the brink of another world in 
majestic hope and confidence—the joys, sorrows, and 
fears of life's fevered dream banished from the memory— 
and the scenes and associations of childhood come flood¬ 
ing upon the memory in all their flowery freshness and 
