42 
JULY 
~| rOW mucli of memory dwells amidst tliy bloom, 
• —^ Rose, ever wearing beauty for tby dower! 
The bridal day,—the festival, the tomb — 
Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower. 
Therefore with thy sweet breath come floating by 
A thousand images of love and grief, 
Dreams, filled with tokens of mortality, 
Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief. 
Not such thy spells o’er those that hailed thee first, 
In the clear light of Eden’s golden day! 
There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst, 
Linked with no dim remembrance of decay. 
Rose, for the banquet gathered, and the bier; 
Rose, coloured now by human hope or pain ; 
Surely where death is not, — nor change, nor fear, 
Yet we may meet thee, joy’s own flower, again. 
He mans. 
E talk awhile about the Colonel’s voyage home, the 
pleasures of the Spanish journey, the handsome new 
quarters in which Clive has installed his father and 
himself, my own altered condition in life, and what 
not. During the conversation, a little querulous voice 
makes itself audible above stairs, at which noise Mr. 
Clive begins to laugh, and the Colonel to smile. It 
is for the first time in his life Mr. Clive listens to the little voice; 
indeed, it is only since about six weeks that that small organ has 
been heard in the world at all. Laura Pendennis believes its tunes to 
be the sweetest, the most interesting, the most mirth-inspiring, the 
most pitiful and pathetic, that ever baby uttered, which opinions, of 
course, are backed by Mrs. Hokey, the confidential nurse. Laura’s 
husband is not so rapturous; but let us trust, behaves in a way be- 
