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language of flowers. 
a time bad done, paying lowly reverence to this 
old English flower, which he happily called, “ The 
Eye of Eay.” 
The Harebell we have already alluded to as be¬ 
longing to the order of Campanula, and it has been 
well chosen, in floral language, as the emblem of 
Happy Retirement-. It is one of the most beautiful 
of all our Autumn wildflowers, adorning the sides of 
woods and shady places with its delicate bells of 
blue, clear and pure as ever hung upon the azure 
face of heaven. 
It flowers when the dark green leaves that gar¬ 
landed the rosy summer begin to show upon their 
edges the waning yellow of Autumn: when on the 
skirts of the forest, we can trace those pleasing hues 
which are too delicate to live long, that, like the 
roses on the flushed cheek of the consumptive 
maiden, look more beautiful as the hectic tint 
deepens that announces the approach of Death. 
The Harebell still blows when on the oak, the elm, 
the chestnut, and the fir, we see the gloomy green, 
the burnished bronze, the faded yellow, and the dull 
red, lighted up between the masses of foliage that 
glitter like gold, all mingled and blended together 
so richly and harmoniously, that in the distance we 
cannot tell where the dusky green of the fir begins, 
nor the yellow of the chestnut fades away. Then 
leaves of all hues fall fast, and bury the little flowers 
