dering from my subject, but must remind you of some 
sweet lines by that poet of nature—Clare, where he 
groups the sunflower so nicely; and you may look at 
that cottage, where the children are playing, and see 
the picture nearly realized: 
Where rustic taste at leisure trimly weaves 
The rose and straggling woodbine to the eaves, 
And on the crowded spot that pales enclose 
The white and scarlet daisy rears in rows, 
Training the trailing peas in clusters neat, 
Perfuming evening with a luscious sweet, 
And sun-flowers planting for their gilded show, 
That scale the window’s lattice ere they blow, 
And, sweet to habitants within the sheds, 
Peep through the crystal panes their golden heads. 
A gentle peace, like evening winds 
In summer from the ocean’s breast, 
Moved o’er my sighing, sinking soul, 
And soothed my murmuring griefs to rest; 
An d through the weary night of pain, 
When it were manliness to weep, 
My soul was comforted by this— 
“He giveth his beloved sleep.” 
MacKellar. 
