182 
WILD FLOWERS. 
fair stream,—how they hang in the most ver¬ 
dant and luxuriant masses of foliage ! What a 
soft, hazy, twilight floats about them ! What a 
slumberous calm rests upon them ! Slumberous 
did I say ? no, it is not slumberous ; it has nothing 
of sleep in its profound repose. It is the depth 
of a contemplative trance ; as if every tree were 
a Jiving, thinking spirit, lost in the vastness of 
some absorbing thought. It is the hush of a 
dream-land ; the motionless majesty of an en¬ 
chanted forest, bearing the spell of an irrefrag¬ 
able ' silence.” Pause here a moment, while 
we repeat a few lines, which this idea has 
brought to our memory ; we have hut to change 
the time from evening to night, and it will be 
exactly applicable:— 
« Old trees by night are like men in thought, 
By poetry to silence wrought; 
They stand so still, and they look so wise. 
With folded arms, and half shut eyes, 
More shadowy than the shade they east 
When the wan moonlight on the river passed.” 
F. W. Faber. 
And now to continue our examination of the 
beauties of the prospect before us :—“ See over 
