“ Tis now the poetry of life to thee ! 
With fancies fresh and innocent as flowers. 
And manners sportive as the free-wing’d air; 
Thou seest a friend in every smile; thy days 
Like singing birds, in gladness speed along, 
And not a tear that trembles on thy lids, 
But shines away, and sparkles into joy.” 
Robert Montgomery. 
Even the universal desire manifested by chil¬ 
dren to pull flowers to pieces, we are inclined 
to think, arises from an impression that by so 
doing, they will be enabled to discover the source 
of such delightful sensation, and take their fill 
at once, as the boy in the fable is said to have 
destroyed the bird which laid golden eggs, 
in order to enrich himself with the precious 
store he supposed it to contain ; and this im¬ 
pression is further confirmed by watching the 
earnestness with which they proceed in the 
work of destruction, carefully examining every 
petal until the whole are plucked off, and the 
disappointment with which they turn from the 
scattered fragments:—What an emblem, are 
those shattered flowers, of the objects of our 
aesires in riper years; how eagerly do we 
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