SYLVAN MUSINGS.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 SPOTTISWOODU and SH, 
 New-street- Square.
 
 SYLVAN MUSINGS; 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE WOODS. 
 
 BY MRS. HEY. 
 
 " Move along these shades 
 In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 
 Touch for there is a spirit in the woods." 
 
 " These trees shall be my books, 
 And in their barks my thoughts I'll character." 
 
 LONDON: 
 LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS, 
 
 FATEBNOSTBB-BOW. 
 
 1849.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE first step in any new career is confessedly 
 the most difficult ; that step, however, once 
 taken, every succeeding one becomes compara- 
 tively eas/: this is especially true with regard 
 to authorship. 
 
 When the writer of the present work gave her 
 volume on flowers to the public, she contem- 
 plated with full as much fear as hope the novel 
 position in which she had placed herself, and 
 almost started 
 
 " E'en at the sounds herself had made. " 
 
 Her apprehensions were, however, soon allayed 
 by the favour, so much beyond her most san- 
 guine anticipations, with which her publication 
 was received. This reception, if it did not sug- 
 gest, at least greatly encouraged her in her pre- 
 sent undertaking, the subject of which leads her 
 to hope that those who listened kindly to her 
 A 3 
 
 20812G1
 
 VI 
 
 lays on flowers, will not less favourably regard 
 her sylvan musings. 
 
 The transition seemed natural and easy from 
 the flower which decks the greensward to the 
 tree that shelters it. The main difficulty was 
 how to vary the reflections and imagery suffi- 
 ciently in subjects so nearly allied ; to effect 
 which, as far as possible, the author has in many 
 instances introduced the tree incidentally, in- 
 stead of making it the sole burden of the poem. 
 
 Of all inanimate objects, trees are the most 
 companionable. Every breath of air makes them 
 vocal, and they " discourse most eloquent music," 
 apparently adapting their tones to the mood of 
 the listener. Is he sorrowful? they seem to 
 share his sadness ; is he joyous ? to partake his 
 mirth; is he religious? his devotion. For him 
 there is not only " pleasure," but society, ' in 
 the pathless woods ;" for he peoples them with 
 " calling shapes," 
 
 ", And airy tongues that syllable men's names." 
 
 How beautiful is a wooded landscape I Be the 
 season what it may, trees always excite admir-
 
 Vll 
 
 ation. The tender green of spring, the deeper 
 tints and full-grown foliage of summer, the sur- 
 passing glory and variety of autumn, and even 
 the snow and hoarfrost of winter, each sits so 
 well upon them, that, delighted with the present 
 impression, we think no other vesture would 
 become them so well. 
 
 The individuality of character, too, which each 
 tree possesses, adds an indescribable charm to 
 sylvan scenery. " What can afford more de- 
 lightful contrast in landscape," says a tasteful au- 
 thor, " than the giant strength of the oak with 
 the flexile elegance of the ash ; the stately tran- 
 quillity of the elm with the tremulous lightness of 
 the poplar ; the bright and vivid foliage of the 
 beech or sycamore with the funeral majesty of 
 the cedar or the yew ; all differing in form and 
 character as in colour?" 
 
 " No tree in all the grove but has its charms, 
 And each its charm peculiar." 
 
 If the reader partake the enthusiasm of the 
 writer towards the whole leafy race, he will at 
 least approve her subject: for the manner in
 
 via 
 
 which she has handled it she craves his indul- 
 gence. To herself, at all events, the task has 
 been a most pleasant one, for during its progress 
 she has wandered "fancy free" 
 
 " By the rushy-fringed bank 
 Where grows the willow and the osier dank ; " 
 
 and, anon, 
 
 " To arched walks of twilight groves, 
 And shadows brown, that sylvan loves, 
 Of pine, or monumental oak, 
 Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, 
 Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, 
 Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt." 
 
 A source of great additional interest has been 
 the preparation of the drawings for the illustra- 
 tion of the work, which the author herself has 
 ventured to execute from nature, and which she 
 trusts will be found botanically correct. 
 
 With regard to the arrangement of the differ- 
 ent subjects, in compliment to the British sylva, 
 the volume is opened with some of the most 
 celebrated trees which compose it ; but subse- 
 quently no particular plan has been followed, 
 the pieces having been placed indiscriminately 
 as fancy dictated.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 LIST OF PLATES xi 
 
 INTRODUCTORY LINES xiii 
 
 Oak 1 
 
 Elm 8 
 
 Ash 22 
 
 Beech 28 
 
 Lime, or Linden Tree 35 
 
 Scotch Fir 40 
 
 Stone Pine 47 
 
 Holly 53 
 
 Aspen 60 
 
 Birch 66 
 
 Common Alder 72 
 
 Weeping Willow 79 
 
 Mountain Ash, or Rowan Tree 83 
 
 Wild Cherry 92 
 
 Yew 100 
 
 Hazel 109 
 
 Fig 119 
 
 Vine 128 
 
 Olive 144 
 
 Bay and Palm 155 
 
 Banyan Tree 168 
 
 Cedar 175 
 
 Sandal Tree.... .. 191
 
 PAGE 
 
 Arbutus 197 
 
 Sorrowful Nyctanthes 203 
 
 Ivy 209 
 
 Asoca 214 
 
 Mistletoe 217 
 
 Guelder Rose, or Wayfaring Tree 226 
 
 Bird Cherry 232 
 
 Cypress 237 
 
 Hawthorn, or May 247 
 
 Common Maple 253 
 
 Christ's Thorn 261 
 
 Evergreen Thorn 268 
 
 Box and Laurel 272 
 
 POSTSCRIPT ... 283
 
 LIST OF PLATES. 
 
 I. Oak 1 
 
 II. Elm 8 
 
 III. Ash 22 
 
 IV. Beech 28 
 
 V. Lime 35 
 
 VI. Stone Pine 47 
 
 VII. Holly 53 
 
 VIII. Aspen 60 
 
 IX. Birch 66 
 
 X. Alder 72 
 
 XL Willow 79 
 
 XII. Mountain Ash 83 
 
 XIII. Wild Cherry 92 
 
 XIV. Yew 100 
 
 XV. Vine 128 
 
 XVI. Bay 155 
 
 XVII. Cedar 175 
 
 XVIII. Ivy 209 
 
 XIX. Bird Cherry 232 
 
 XX. Hazel 109 
 
 XXL Hawthorn 247 
 
 XXII. Maple 253 
 
 XXIII. Mistletoe 217
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 WHERE is the snow-wreath that but yesterday 
 
 Crested yon mountain's brow ? the icy chain 
 
 Which held the waters in subjection, where ? 
 
 A breath from "the sweet south" hath melted them; 
 
 And, hark ! how yon freed brook, as it pursues 
 
 Its seaward track, proclaims rejoicingly 
 
 To hill and valley, that sweet Spring has come ! 
 
 Yes, Spring has come, with light and beauty crown' d ; 
 And where her dews have fall'n on mead or bower, 
 Or the light pressure of her foot hath been, 
 Up starts at once a galaxy of flowers, 
 Each in its tiny chalice offering up 
 Whate'er it hath of fragrance, at her shrine ; 
 Nor lacks there fitting music, for the breeze 
 Steals from each bush a song, and with it blends 
 Its own soft cadences, so wildly sweet. 
 Nature keeps holyday, and man himself 
 Partakes her triumph and imbibes her joy ; 
 Sickness revives, and Grief forgets to weep ; 
 And many a harp which on the willows hung
 
 Is tuned afresh to notes of joy and praise. 
 
 Mine, too, is strung, albeit unskilfully, 
 
 And on its chords my trembling hand is laid : 
 
 Yet is it mute, because unfix'd my theme ; 
 
 For, whilst my eye " the landscape measures round," 
 
 Hill, valley, stream, each woos my roving glance, 
 
 And asks the tribute of admiring song. 
 
 Once more I gaze, ah ! how could I o'erlook 
 
 Yon low-roof 'd cottage with its shadowing tree ? 
 
 How pass unmark'd that grove, whose varied hues 
 
 Do more than rival Autumn's tints of gold ? 
 
 Or, in the distance, waking thoughts sublime, 
 
 Yon forest stretching to th' horizon's verge ? 
 
 No more I hesitate, wake, harp of mine, 
 
 To sylvan beauty give thy votive lay. 
 
 " Hail, ye patrician trees ! " th' ambitious muse, 
 Who, late, in lowlier mood, did wreath her lyre 
 With the wild flowers that at your foot diffuse 
 Their never-cloying sweets, doth now aspire 
 To do ye homage : not that she doth tire 
 Of mead or hedgerow with their varied bloom ; 
 But there are moments when she would retire 
 From laughing landscape, to your cloister'd gloom, 
 For higher, holier flights her wearied wing to plume.
 
 XV 
 
 " Hail, ye patrician trees ! " I love ye well, 
 Whate'er your aspect and whate'er your mood ; 
 Alike when Spring with her resistless spell 
 First on your boughs unfolds the tender bud, 
 As when by Summer's shower and sunshine woo'd 
 In " leafy luxury" ye stand array'd; 
 Nor less when mournful Autumn has imbued 
 With her own sadness bower and forest glade, 
 Or when 'neath Winter's blight your latest glories fade. 
 
 I love ye when in congregated pride 
 The forest's shadowy vastness ye assume, 
 And when in softer beauty, side by side, 
 To hill and vale ye lend your grateful gloom. 
 I love ye when with consecrated bloom 
 The village church ye reverently embower; 
 Nor scarcely less when by the peasant's home, 
 Or on the green, in single pomp ye tower, 
 As if ye loved to grace the dwellings of the poor. 
 
 Nor owns the eye alone your potent spell, 
 The soul of music lingers 'mid your boughs ; 
 Like harp e'er tuned, 'tis yours to sink or swell 
 Responsive to each varying blast which blows.
 
 XVI 
 
 Let but the storm your slumbering might arouse, 
 Then, sylvan minstrels, is your power confess'd ; 
 Anon, when Eve, with breath "that shuts the rose" 
 Just stirs your leaves with motion that seems rest, 
 Oh ! with what low sweet notes ye soothe the aching breast ! 
 
 For this I love ye yea, that ye appear 
 Instinct with human feeling ! not a tone 
 Which the lips utter, mirthful or severe, 
 But ye can make the thrilling sounds your own ; 
 Devotion's choral chant, grief's dirge-like moan, 
 Triumph's loud swell, affection's gentle sigh, 
 And those low murmurs breathing peace alone, 
 Soft as a mother's evening lullaby, 
 When she would seal in sleep her infant's drooping eye. 
 
 One other strain ye have, a warning strain, 
 Its burden this, " Man as a leaf doth fade ! " 
 Oh ! happy he who hears it not in vain, 
 He to whose chasten'd fancy woodland glade, 
 And far-spread forest with its depth of shade, 
 Become a temple ; to whom flower and tree 
 The ministers of holy truths are made, 
 Reminding him, though passing frail he be, 
 His glorious, awful dower is immortality.
 
 THE 
 
 SPIRIT OF THE WOODS. 
 
 THE OAK. 
 
 QUERCUS ROBUR. 
 
 " Happy Britannia 1 
 Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime ; 
 Unmatch'd thy guardian oaks." 
 
 THE oak is the glory of the British sylva. What the 
 palm is to the tribes of the desert, and the banian to 
 the inhabitants of the East, such is the oak to Britons. 
 It is our citadel, the basis of our strength ; and whilst 
 we possess it, 
 
 " Britannia needs no bulwark, 
 
 No towers along her steep ; 
 Her march is o'er the mountain waves, 
 Her home is on the deep.
 
 2 
 
 With thunders from her native oak, 
 
 She quells the floods below 
 As they roar on the shore, 
 
 When the stormy tempests blow ; 
 When the battle rages loud and long, 
 
 And the stormy tempests blow." 
 
 How suitable is its appearance to its destination ! It 
 looks as if made to contend with, and surmount, diffi- 
 culties. Its deep, searching roots, its broad base, 
 stout sinewy limbs, and knotted branches, all bespeak 
 it fitted to war with the elements ; whilst the quality 
 of its timber, that of elasticity, toughness, and strength, 
 points out its admirable adaptation to the wants of a 
 naval country. " Many kinds of wood," says Gilpin, 
 " are harder, as box and ebony ; many kinds are 
 tougher , as yew and ash ; but it is supposed no species 
 of wood at least no species of timber is possessed of 
 both these qualities together hi so great a degree as 
 British oak." But strength is not the only character- 
 istic in the appearance of the oak : it combines beauty 
 with strength, and the result is, a lordly dignity of 
 aspect, which entities it to be 
 
 "Sole king of forests all." 
 
 Virgil describes the oak', not only with the glow of a
 
 poet, but with the precision of a naturalist; every 
 peculiarity is noticed, and with such effect, that his 
 description has the vividness and reality of a painting. 
 Our own poets, in unnumbered passages, many of them 
 of great beauty, have done homage to this tree ; but to 
 select from so ample a store would be a work of time 
 and labour ; to quote all, a thing impossible. 
 
 The oak is remarkable for its slowness of growth, 
 and amazing longevity. It lives to a patriarchal age, 
 well deserving the emphatic epithet of "monumental 
 oak," bestowed on it by Milton. 
 
 There may be something fanciful in Shenstone's 
 comparison between this noble tree and our national 
 character; but as it is complimentary, and, on the 
 whole, tolerably correct, it shall have a place here. 
 " Oaks," says he, " are in all respects the image of the 
 manly character: in former times, I should have said, 
 and in present tunes I think I am authorised to say, 
 the British one. As a brave man is not suddenly 
 either elated by prosperity, or depressed by adversity, 
 so the oak displays not its verdure on the sun's first 
 approach, nor drops it on his first departure: add to 
 this its majestic appearance, the rough grandeur of its 
 bark, and the wide protection of its branches. A large 
 B 2
 
 spreading, aged oak is, perhaps, the most venerable of 
 all inanimate objects." 
 
 Independently of its more valuable qualities, the true 
 " unwedgable and gnarled oak " of Shakspeare is the 
 most picturesque of all the trees which adorn real 
 English scenery. "It refuses no subject either in 
 natural or artificial landscape. It is suited to the 
 grandest, and may be introduced into the most pas- 
 toral, and even rustic, scene : 
 
 ' Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 
 From betwixt two aged oaks.' 
 
 It adds dignity to the ruined tower and Gothic arch, 
 and throws its arms with propriety over the purling 
 brook, or the mantling pool." 
 
 To crown its other excellencies, as has been already 
 observed, no tree can bear up so well against the 
 tempest ; indeed, it is supposed to acquire greater 
 stability of root from every contest with the elements, 
 and to thrive 
 
 " E'en by the rude concussion of the storm." 
 
 " Mark yonder oaks ! superior to the power 
 
 Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise, 
 And from the stormy promontory tower 
 
 And toss their giant arms amid the skies, 
 While each assailing blast increase of strength supplies."
 
 We are reminded by this noble characteristic of a 
 spirited passage in one of the best periodicals of the 
 day: 
 
 Those old oaks seem sullen in the sunshine, and slow to put forth 
 their power, like the spirit of the land they emblem. But they, too, are 
 relaxing from their wonted sternness : soon will that faint green be a 
 glorious yellow ; and while the gold-laden boughs stoop boldly to the 
 storms with which they love to dally, bounds not the heart of every 
 Briton to the music of the national anthem 
 
 ' Rule Britannia ! 
 Britannia rule the waves ! ' ? " 
 
 Proud monarch of the forest ! 
 
 That once, a sapling bough, 
 Didst quail far more at evening's breath 
 
 Than at the tempest now, 
 Strange scenes have pass'd, long ages roll'd 
 
 Since first upon thy stem, 
 Then weak as osier twig, Spring set 
 
 Her leafy diadem.
 
 Perchance thy mid-day glory 
 
 Long since has pass'd away, 
 Yet who that views thy giant bulk 
 
 Can link thee with decay ? 
 No blight is on thy leaves, no branch 
 
 From thy huge trunk is torn, 
 And still in conscious might thou laugh'st 
 
 The hurricane to scorn. 
 
 And many a summer's bravery 
 
 Each ample bough shall grace, 
 And many an angry winter's storm 
 
 Thy hoary vigour brace, 
 Unless at call of " hearts of oak " 
 
 Beneath the axe thou bow, 
 To bear the brunt of battle's rage 
 
 And thunder on the foe. 
 
 To thee but little recks it 
 
 What seasons come or go, 
 Thou lovest to breathe the gale of spring 
 
 And bask in summer's glow, 
 But more to feel the wintry winds 
 
 Sweep by in awful mirth, 
 For well thou knoVst each blast will fix 
 
 Thy roots more deep in earth.
 
 Would that to me life's changes 
 
 Did thus with blessings come ! 
 That mercies might, like gale of spring, 
 
 Cause some new grace to bloom ! 
 And that the storm which scattereth 
 
 Each earth-born hope abroad, 
 Might anchor those of holier birth 
 
 More firmly on my God !
 
 THE ELM. 
 
 * 
 
 ULMUS CAMPESTRIS. 
 
 " Follow me, as I sing 
 
 And touch the warbled string ; 
 Under the shady roof 
 Of branching elm, star-proof, 
 
 Follow me!" 
 
 THE elm is a very majestic tree ; in beauty and dignity 
 yielding only to the oak. Gilpin gives preference to the 
 ash in his scale of precedence, because it has more of 
 individuality than the elm, which he esteems a great 
 source of picturesque beauty ; but he allows, at the same 
 time, that this want of distinctive character is observable 
 chiefly in its skeleton state : when in full leaf, the elm 
 shows itself an elm, and is marked by its superiority of 
 height to most other of our forest trees, and by the great 
 luxuriance of its shadowy foliage, which, however, never 
 looks heavy or ungraceful, owing to the smallness of the 
 leaves. 
 
 Some naturalists doubt its right to be considered a 
 native, and aver that we are indebted to the Romans
 

 
 for its introduction amongst us ; arguing, in support of 
 this opinion, that it is not found in our aboriginal 
 forests, and that it does not propagate its species by 
 seeds, as is the case with indigenous trees, but by suck- 
 ers : others, however, contend, that of the seven species 
 which constitute this genus, two, namely, ulmus cam- 
 pestris, our common elm, and ulmus montana, the wych 
 elm, or wych hazel, are certainly natives. 
 
 The latter, characterised by a much larger leaf, and 
 less compactness of growth, flourishes both in England 
 and Scotland, not only in the lowlands, but in the most 
 northern parts of the island ; indeed it is considered as 
 true and characteristic an appendage of the wild, moun- 
 tainous scenery of the sister-kingdom, as the birch, the 
 rowan, or even the pine itself. As such, it has obtained 
 the enviable distinction of being introduced in the beau- 
 tiful opening stanzas to " the Lady of the Lake :*' 
 
 " Harp of the north ! that mouldering long hast hung 
 On the witch elm that shades St. Fillan's spring." 
 
 The timber of the elm is hard-grained, and ranks 
 high in point of utility : it is peculiarly fitted for works 
 connected with water, as it bears, without injury, the 
 extremes of drought and moisture. Its leaves, in sea- 
 sons of scarcity, yield fodder for cattle, and were used
 
 10 
 
 and recommended for this purpose by the ancient Ro- 
 mans. " Of all the trees which grow in our woods," 
 says Evelyn, " there is none which does better suffer 
 transplantation than the elm; for you may remove a 
 tree of twenty years' growth with undoubted success : " 
 in proof of which he goes on to say, that " those in- 
 comparable walks and vistas of them, both at Aranjuez, 
 Casal del Campo, Madrid, the Escurial, and other 
 places of delight belonging to the King and grandees 
 of Spain, are planted with such as they report Philip 
 the Second caused to be brought out of England ; before 
 which it does not appear there were any of those trees 
 in Spain." 
 
 For purposes such as these, the " length of colonnade " 
 and " shaded walks," the elm was formerly in great 
 request. " Our fathers," who " knew the value of a 
 screen," were wont to form of it those stately avenues 
 which led to their hospitable mansions. Some few of 
 these " monuments of ancient taste " are yet left to us ; 
 but the spirit of modern improvement forbids such 
 formal entrances to the newly erected edifice. How far, 
 in thus discarding them, it acts either tastefully or 
 wisely, let the poet decide, who thus beautifully and 
 feelingly deplores the change :
 
 11 
 
 u Ye fallen aveirues ! once more I mourn 
 Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice 
 That yet a remnant of your race survives. 
 How airy and how light the graceful arch ! 
 Yet awful as the consecrated joof 
 Re-echoing pious anthems ! while beneath 
 The checker'd earth seems restless as a flood 
 Brush'd by the wind. So sportive is the light 
 Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, 
 Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, 
 And dark'ning and enlight'ning, as the leaves 
 Play wanton, ev'ry moment, ev'ry spot." 
 
 Judging from the frequency of his allusions to it, the 
 elm must have been held in high esteem by Cowper. 
 Describing one of his rambles, he says, 
 
 ; There, fast rooted in their bank, 
 
 Stand, never overlook'd, our favourite elms." 
 
 Thus, again, in his sketch of " the peasants nest" 
 
 " "Tis perch'd upon the green hill-top, but close 
 Environ'd with a ring of branching elms, 
 That overhang the thatch." 
 
 And once more, 
 
 " The grove receives us next, 
 
 Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms 
 We may discern the thresher at his task."
 
 12 
 
 " Though a tree of consort, sociable, and affecting to 
 grow in company," the elm is not a forester; it demands 
 more ample room for the due expansion both of its 
 roots and branches, than the forest generally affords: 
 hence it is better fitted for the park and the lawn; 
 yet it by no means confines itself to such aristocratic 
 situations ; not less it loves " dingle and bushy dell," 
 and homely hedgerow also, where, indeed, it is perhaps 
 more frequently met with than any other tree; thus 
 exemplifying the propriety of Milton's epithet of 
 " hedgerow elms." 
 
 The Romans used to train the vine round the elm, 
 which afforded their poets many fanciful allusions, 
 allusions which have been followed out by our own 
 bards. Thus Milton says, 
 
 they led the vine 
 
 To wed her elm." 
 
 And Beaumont, 
 
 " the amorous vine 
 
 Doth with the fair and straight-limb'd elm entwine." 
 
 While Shakspeare, more true to English scenery, sub- 
 stitutes the ivy for the vine :
 
 13 
 
 " the female ivy so 
 
 Enrings the barky fingers of the elm." 
 
 With us it is consecrated to more solemn scenes, being 
 generally associated with the yew in adorning our 
 churchyards : 
 
 " Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." 
 
 Whether we borrowed this custom, as some suppose, 
 from our heathen conquerors, who, regarding the elm 
 and cypress as fruitless and therefore funereal trees, 
 planted them by the graves of then: deceased heroes, it is 
 difficult to determine. It would be more pleasing to 
 conjecture, that our Christian ancestors, observing it to 
 be one of the first trees that vivified at the touch of 
 spring, chose it on that account to betoken the resur- 
 rection of the dead. 
 
 Trees are full of moral associations ; regarded under 
 which impression, they possess even " something than 
 beauty dearer." Many of them are rich in historic in- 
 terest, and chronicle events of national importance; 
 others confine themselves to a more limited range of ob- 
 servation, and, recalling the memory of some renowned
 
 14 
 
 individual, lead us beneath their shade to " hold high 
 converse with the mighty dead." But where this pecu- 
 liar charm is wanting, imagination bodies forth scenes 
 and stories of its own creating, and "gives to airy 
 nothing a local habitation and a name." An aged tree 
 points to the past, a sapling to the future ; and whilst 
 the mind is exercised hi these remote contemplations, 
 we feel the force of Dr. Johnson's well-known observ- 
 ation : 
 
 " Whatever withdraws us from the power of our 
 senses, whatever makes the past, the distant, or the 
 future predominate over the present, advances us in 
 the dignity of thinking beings." 
 
 The elm, however, is a tree which records events not 
 only of individual or national, but of universal, interest. 
 It was beneath an elm that Perm signed his celebrated 
 treaty with the Indians. It was near an elm that the 
 saintly Hooper suffered martyrdom ! For a most heart- 
 stirring account of that event the reader is referred to 
 Soames' interesting and learned History of the Reform- 
 ation, a short abstract from which we here subjoin: 
 " Having reached the spot where stood the prepar- 
 ations* for his painful end, he knelt down and spent 
 
 * " Which was near unto the great elm-tree over against the college of 
 priests, where he was wont to preach." FOXE.
 
 15 
 
 about half an hour in prayer. Having prepared him- 
 self for immolation, he requested of the spectators to 
 repeat the Lord's prayer with him, and to pray for him 
 while he should continue in the agonies of death. 
 Instantly arose the voice of prayer, interrupted by sobs 
 and groans from every quarter of the crowded area. 
 He then ascended to the stake, and irons were brought 
 to fasten him to it. ' You need not,' said he, ' thus 
 to trouble yourselves. I doubt not but God will 
 vouchsafe me strength to abide the fire's extremity 
 without bands.' A chain, however, for the waist, he 
 willingly allowed to be drawn around him; admitting 
 that the frailty of his flesh might make him swerve from 
 his position. Bundles of reeds were now thrown on 
 the pile, some of which the sufferer embraced in his 
 arms ; and he calmly gave directions for the placing of 
 others. Flame being added to the mass of fuel, its 
 progress was, to feeling spectators, most painfully slow. 
 Much of the wood was green, and violent gusts of wind 
 blew the devouring element away from the victim." 
 But why minutely trace the several details of this most 
 horrid tragedy ? He bore his agonies, which were pro- 
 longed through more than three quarters of an hour, 
 with admirable constancy, moving incessantly his lips in 
 prayer.
 
 16 
 
 Wake, mountain breeze ! why thus in time of need 
 
 Fold'st thou in languid listlessness thy wings ? 
 
 Now, when broad noon o'er hill, and dale, and mead, 
 
 With conscious might his beamy standard flings; 
 
 Ye murmuring streamlets, that were wont to make 
 
 Music, how meet for summer's burning hour ! 
 
 Ah ! why, perfidious, do ye now forsake 
 
 Your pebbly beds ? ye, who did tempt the flower, 
 
 With promise bland, to ope its golden eye 
 
 Upon your shelving marge, and leave it thus to die ! 
 
 From you, ye false ones, to the sylvan realm 
 I turn my steps ; and see ! yon glorious elm 
 Proffers so close a shade, that e'en the dew 
 (As if cool morn still o'er the green-sward threw 
 Her sheltering veil) within the chalic'd flower 
 Lies safe, unconscious of the noontide hour. 
 Here, then, where scarce a straggling beam invades 
 The leafy twilight, here, where eve's soft shades 
 Seem stealing on mid-day, embower'd I'll lie 
 Till Phoebus' steeds shall gain the western sky; 
 And thoughts, like lights and shadows o'er the grass, 
 As bright as transient, o'er my mind shall pass : 
 Sweet summer-moods, a visionary throng, 
 To which fond Fancy's fairest dreams belong. N
 
 17 
 
 Come, then, sweet Fancy, playful power ! 
 
 And share with me my sylvan bower ; 
 
 Bring all thy magic to beguile 
 
 Life's dull realities awhile. 
 
 Now shift the scene to moonlit glade 
 
 Where " dapper elves," beneath the shade 
 
 Of oak or elm, their revels keep, 
 
 What time we plodding mortals sleep. 
 
 Next, lead me to some haunted grove, 
 
 Such as the Fauns and Dryads love ; 
 
 Or seat me by some brook, whose swell 
 
 Makes music, like a Naiad's shell : 
 
 Then touch the tree 'neath which I lie, 
 
 Till it unclose to ear and eye 
 
 Whate'er it may have heard or seen 
 
 Since Spring first cloth'd its stems with green. 
 
 Doubtless, sweet childhood, ever gay, 
 Hath sported here through summer day ; 
 Doubtless, beneath its shading boughs 
 Lovers have met to breathe their vows ; 
 Manhood, his future path to scheme ; 
 Age, o'er the bygone time to dream; 
 And, haply, when day's garish pride 
 Had pass'd away at eventide 
 c
 
 18 
 
 Some lonely saint would here repair, 
 As to a fane, for praise and prayer. 
 But say, within its shadowy bounds, 
 Are such the only sights and sounds 
 Recorded ? Do its annals show 
 No taint of guilt, no trace of woe ? 
 Ah, me ! a story they unfold 
 Belonging to the days of old, 
 Which costs sweet Pity to recall 
 E'en tears of blood, a martyr's fall ! 
 
 Why pours the city forth yon countless throng ? 
 For revels gay ? No ; for the voice of song, 
 The merry smile, loud laugh, and lusty cheer 
 Are wanting all, no sign of joy is there : 
 Nay, nearer view*d, grief, horror, fear, or ire, 
 Gives to each face expression dark and dire ! 
 Whether in masses deep they line the way, . 
 Or form in lesser groups, or singly stray, 
 One mighty interest, common to them all, 
 Employs each tongue, or holds each heart in thrall. 
 What chafes them thus ? and whither do they wend 
 Their moody steps ? Near where yon elm dotli send 
 Its boughs on high, as though it did aspire 
 To pierce the clouds, is rear'd a funeral pyre ;
 
 19 
 
 Thither they go, and well each brow and eye, 
 Gloomy as night, bespeak then- sympathy. 
 Who is the victim ? what the fearful deed 
 Which asks such expiation ? Plead, oh ! plead, 
 With angel-tongue, sweet Pity, till thou win 
 A milder doom, how dark soe'er the sin ! 
 Can yonder be the culprit ? he whose brow, 
 " So saintly bright," no trace of earth doth show 
 Beyond what Time's rude hand itself has wrought ? 
 His look, his bearing, both forbid the thought ; 
 For Virtue never did herself such wrong 
 As trace her lineaments thus clear and strong 
 On hoary vice ; nay, nay, it cannot be 
 That he hath lent himself to infamy. 
 What is the charge alleg'd ? In that dark time 
 He liv'd, when Gospel truth was deem'd a crime ; 
 He knew that truth, and taught it, gently led 
 The guilty unto Him for guilt that bled; 
 He won the sinner whilst he chid his deed, 
 Himself a " living Gospel " all might read. 
 Such were the crimes that brought him to a death 
 Which flesh most shrinks from ! But, upheld by faith, 
 Whilst others weep and tremble as they gaze, 
 Calmly the scene of torture he surveys ; 
 c 2
 
 20 
 
 With more than nature's strength then mounts the pyre, 
 
 And suffers all the agonies of fire ! 
 
 A martyr's pangs, a martyr's faith, were his, 
 
 And soon oh, glorious thought ! a martyr's bliss ! 
 
 Hail, holy Church ! Say, is it wrong to fee! 
 
 A glow of pride athwart my bosom steal, 
 
 As, one by one, thy glorious martyr-train, 
 
 Who bled, thy rights, thy doctrine to maintain, 
 
 In vision pass before me ? No ! even pride, 
 
 At such a sight, almost is sanctified. 
 
 Hail, holy Church ! What though thy leagued foes 
 
 The war-cry raise, and round thee fiercely close, 
 
 Viewing thy stately towers with jealous eye, 
 
 Marking thy bulwarks only to destroy ; 
 
 What though they long to see thee fall'n discrown'd 
 
 " Thy pleasant things laid waste," and strewn around ; 
 
 If treachery lurk not in thy hallow'd fold, 
 
 If in thy sons, as in their sires of old, 
 
 The martyr-spirit live, if each, if all, 
 
 Who bear thy name, do love thy gentle thrall, 
 
 Who at thy font, Christ's soldiers sworn and seal'd, 
 
 Have never wish'd that sacred vow repeal'd, 
 
 But, ever and anon, renew'd the same, 
 
 When at thine altar met in His dear name,
 
 21 
 
 Then, though thy foes be mighty, fear not thou ! 
 The crown shall never fall from off thy brow ; 
 Thou shalt not o'er thy ravag'd temples mourn, 
 Nor see " strange fire " upon thy altars burn. 
 Mother of martyrs ! holy Church ! all hail ! 
 While time itself shall last, thy glory shall prevail !
 
 22 
 
 THE ASH. 
 
 FRAXINUS EXCELSIOR. 
 " The towering ash is fairest in the woods." 
 
 SUCH is the testimony of Virgil, a testimony confirmed 
 by the moderns, who have designated this tree the 
 " Venus of the forest ; " and surely, of all that compose 
 our British sylva, entitled to the rank of timber trees, it 
 is decidedly the most elegant. 
 
 " All know that in the woods the ash reigns queen, 
 In graceful beauty soaring to the sky 1 " 
 
 The same character runs through its various component 
 parts ; thus constituting a beautiful and consistent whole. 
 The easy flowing line of the stem suits the elegant 
 pendent sprays, and these again the bright green slender 
 leaves ; whilst, lastly, the tree itself is in happy accordance 
 with the habitat in which it most delights, a niche in 
 some grey ruin or splintered rock, where, like the 
 sylvan genius of the scene, it hangs with the most 
 becoming gracefulness.
 
 23 
 
 " The ash asks not a depth of fruitful mould, 
 But, like Frugality, on little means 
 It thrives, and high o'er crevic'd ruins spreads 
 Its ample shade, or in the naked rock 
 That nods in air, with graceful limbs depends." 
 
 In allusion to this choice of abode Sir Walter Scott 
 
 " Aloft, the ash and warrior oak 
 Cast anchor in the rifted rock ; " 
 
 and Thomson, 
 
 " Ye ashes wild, resounding o'er the steep." 
 
 But, though always apparently most at home in 
 mountainous and rocky scenery, the ash by no means 
 confines itself to such situations, for it grows well in any 
 soil, and abundantly rewards the trouble of the planter. 
 According to Hunter, there are three species of the 
 genus : Fraxinus Ornus, the flowering ash, which yields 
 manna; Fraxinus americana; and Fraxinus excelsior, 
 our beautiful common ash, of which the weeping ash 
 is a variety. 
 
 Perhaps no tree can boast more legendary renown. 
 From it, if we may credit Hesiod, sprang the brazen 
 race of men. The Edda of Woden gives it similar honour,
 
 24 
 
 and moreover describes the gods as sitting in council 
 under its shade. Its inner bark served as a tablet for 
 the scholar : its wood furnished spears for the soldier : 
 
 " From Pelion's cloudy top, an ash entire 
 Old Chiron fell'd, and shap'd it for his sire." 
 
 Nay, it has been averred that it formed the missiles in 
 the armoury of Cupid, till, for reasons not stated, it 
 was superseded by the cypress. 
 
 Passing by, however, its fabled honours, the real use- 
 fulness of the ash is universally acknowledged. Its timber 
 ranks next in value to that of the oak itself, and almost 
 serves as many purposes : 
 
 " tough-bending ash 
 Gives to the humble swain his useful plough, 
 And for the peer his prouder chariot builds." 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding its beauty and utility, it is fre- 
 quently denied a place in ornamental plantations, espe- 
 cially in the immediate vicinity of a mansion, on account 
 of the tardiness with which it puts forth its leaves, and 
 its haste in withdrawing them. 
 
 The early fading and falling of its foliage may, 
 however, serve as a counterpoise to the prodigality 
 of bloom and of sunshine which frequently characterise
 
 25 
 
 the autumnal months, sometimes even late in the 
 season, as though winter were yet afar off. These 
 diverse appearances of decay on the one hand, and of 
 vigour on the other, please or offend according to the 
 mood of the beholder. If his spirits be lively, he is 
 delighted with every object that " sends a summer 
 feeling into his heart ; " if, on the contrary, they are in 
 a mournful key, he is disposed to think such autumnal 
 display as much misplaced as finery on threescore, and 
 he turns to the withered and falling leaf with a feeling 
 of secret and sympathising satisfaction. 
 
 Though the deep stillness and splendid brightness of 
 a true autumnal day are, to the writer of these pages, a 
 source of exquisite enjoyment, there is something even 
 yet more congenial with her feelings when this season 
 assumes a garb more suited to the part it has to sustain 
 in the economy of nature : the herald of universal decay 
 should surely come, " not trick'd and frounc'd as she is 
 wont," 
 
 " But kerchief d in a comely cloud, 
 While rocking winds are piping loud."
 
 Autumn ! this sober guise beseems thee well ! 
 'Tis not for thee to trick thyself like Spring, 
 Or round thee Summer's sunny vest to fling : 
 No ! thou must win us by a sadder spell : 
 Thy voice should ever have a dirge-like swell ; 
 Thy smile e'er gently mind us of decay : 
 And if a bird yet sing, oh ! be its lay 
 Such as might seem of faded flowers the knell ! 
 
 Now would I seek yon grove of. ash, where chief 
 Thy withering spells seem cast; and may the sound 
 Of the dead foliage, as it falls around, 
 Awake to thoughtfulness, if not to grief. 
 Not yet " into the sear, the yellow leaf 
 My May of life has fall'n ; " yet still to me 
 Nor sound nor sight should e'er unwelcome be, 
 Which warns me life uncertain is, and brief. 
 
 Oh ! Nature, many a lesson could'st thou give 
 Would man but list thy monitory voice ;^ 
 Thou bid'st him pause, and tremblingly rejoice 
 That he but " L lives to die, and dies to live." 
 May I with reverence meet thy lore receive, 
 Eloquent teacher ! yet what fears were mine,
 
 27 
 
 What dark misgivings, did not faith perceive 
 " A still, small voice " blend other truths with thine, 
 And, where thou fail'st, take up the wondrous theme, 
 Till grace and glory on my musings beam !
 
 28 
 
 THE BEECH. 
 
 FAGUS SYLVATICA. 
 
 " Not a beech but bean some cipher, 
 Tender word, or amorous text." 
 
 To admire the beech, is to rebel against high authority ; 
 yet who, that is not entirely devoted to pictorial effect, 
 but must admire it ? The oak may excel it in dignity, 
 the elm in beauty, and the ash in gracefulness : still the 
 beech is a noble tree ; and in ^spring, the bright sunny 
 tint of its feathery foliage renders it a most attractive 
 object. Its autumnal livery is also both rich and varied, 
 and harmonises well with the other fading hues of the 
 woods. This even Gilpin allows, who in most other 
 respects has dealt with it so unmercifully. He moreover 
 gives it indirect praise, by admitting it has a defined 
 character, which just before he had noticed as " a great 
 source of picturesque beauty." But whilst he, shows it 
 so little favour, a brother naturalist, White of Selbourne, 
 says, " It is one of the most beautiful and lovely of all 
 the forest trees, whether we consider its stately trunk, 
 its smooth silvery rind, its glossy foliage, or graceful,
 
 29 
 
 spreading, pendulous boughs." It is the very tree for a 
 warm summer's day ; for none yields so close a canopy ; 
 and beneath its " shady roof," which is not only " star- 
 proof," but sun-proof, the rambler may 
 
 " Sit coolly calm, while all the world without, 
 Unsatisfied and sick, tosses in noon." 
 
 Virgil praises it especially for this property : in the 
 very opening of his pastorals, he places the tuneful 
 shepherds 
 
 " Where the broad beech an ample shade displays : " 
 
 and, indeed, wherever shelter is desirable, the poet 
 generally selects this tree for the purpose : 
 
 " The sun, from rosy billows risen, had ray'd 
 
 With gold the mountain tops ; when at the foot 
 
 Of a tall beech romantic, whose green shade 
 Fell on a brook, that, sweet- voiced as a lute, 
 
 Through lively pastures wound its sparkling way, 
 
 Sad on the daisied tuft Salicio lay." 
 
 " Under the branches of this beech we flung 
 Our limbs at ease, and our bent bows unstrung : 
 Thus idly lying, we inspired with zest 
 The sweet fresh spirit breathing from the west." 
 
 These are sweet summer pictures from " Wiffen's
 
 30 
 
 Garcilasso," to which we subjoin one as beautiful, from 
 the pen of our own poet Gray : 
 
 " There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
 That rears its old fantastic roots on high, 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
 And pore upon the brook that bubbles by." 
 
 The beech and the chestnut are of the same family. 
 Hunter and Miller are at variance in their statements 
 of the number of species which constitute this genus ; 
 the former says three, the latter five: the beautiful 
 purple beech of our shrubberies is merely a variety. It 
 is doubted amongst naturalists whether the beech be an 
 indigenous tree : the uncertainty seems partly grounded 
 on the assertion of Caesar, who avers he never saw it in 
 Britain ; but as he says the same of the fir, which is an 
 undoubted native, those who are jealous of the honour 
 of their country's sylva may offer this plea for retaining 
 it amongst our indigenous foresters, and conclude with 
 Evelyn, that Caesar's opinion arose "certainly from a 
 grand mistake ; or rather, for that he had not travelled 
 much up into the country." 
 
 From time immemorial the bark of the beech has 
 been the sylvan tablet of the lover. Shakspeare thus 
 alludes to the practice, though he does not name the
 
 31 
 
 tree : " A man haunts our forest that abuses our 
 young trees with carving Rosalind upon their bark." 
 
 This tender usage has been made a plea, by the poet, 
 for exemption from the woodman's stroke. The plea is 
 eloquently urged, and we only wish it may be the means 
 of sparing many a stately beech from an untimely fall : 
 
 " Since youthful lovers in my shade 
 Their vows of truth and rapture made, 
 And on my trunk's surviving frame 
 Carv'd many a long-forgotten name ; 
 Oh ! by the sighs of gentle sound, 
 First breath'd upon this sacred ground ; 
 By all that love has whisper'd there, 
 Or beauty heard with ravish'd ear ; 
 As love's own altar, honour me, 
 Spare, woodman, spare the beechen-tree 1 " 
 
 But though the beech has generally been the depository 
 of the lover's secret, it need not be exclusively his ; 
 affection, in whatever guise it comes, may be allowed 
 the same privilege : shall I then the 
 
 " verse repeat, 
 
 Which lately on the beech's bark I writ ; 
 I writ, and sang between ? "
 
 32 
 
 I have been wandering in the wood 
 
 Where wither'd leaves my path were strewing ; 
 And winds, with ire but half subdued, 
 
 Seem'd to a future tempest growing. 
 
 Yet, 'mid these symbols of decay, 
 
 My mind was only tun'd to gladness : 
 
 And why ? It is our wedding day ; 
 What, then, have I to do with sadness ? 
 
 I sat me down beneath a tree, 
 That tree so fam'd for lover's ditty, 
 
 When he would try by each fond plea 
 To move his mistress' soul to pity. 
 
 So smooth the sylvan tablet shone, 
 So temptingly 'twas spread before me, 
 
 I could not choose but trace thereon, 
 No lover's, but a matron's story. 
 
 Yet ne'er did Love, when Hope and Youth 
 
 Each minister unto his pleasure, 
 Feel more of tenderness and truth 
 
 Than I, whilst breathing this fond measure.
 
 33 
 
 " Long years ago, and side by side, 
 
 We two were at the altar kneeling ; 
 And whilst on earth the knot was tied, 
 Angels, in heaven, our vows were sealing. 
 
 Gently thou blamed'st my feeble tone, 
 Thou said'st I trembled at the altar ; 
 
 But had observance deeper gone, 
 
 Thou hadst not said my heart did falter : 
 
 No ! gladly, gladly did I breathe 
 
 The solemn vow to thee which bound me, 
 
 And stoop my head for thee to wreathe 
 
 Love's new-wrought fetters close around me. 
 
 And thought I, kneeling by thy side, 
 Such lot Love's annals ne'er recorded ! 
 
 Life seem'd all sunshine to the bride, 
 What has it to the wife afforded? 
 
 I will not say, since first we met, 
 
 My path has been all light and glory ; 
 
 Or, without thorns Love's coronet; 
 
 Or, that no cloud has e'er come o'er me : 
 D
 
 34 
 
 But oft my fond heart has avow'd 
 
 Those thorns were never of thy twining ; 
 
 And could thy hand have staid the cloud, 
 My sky had e'er been bright and shining : 
 
 And as 'twixt midnight clouds afar, 
 Some lonely gem is oft seen peeping, 
 
 So thy lovM smile, my bosom's star, 
 
 Has cheer'd me through my night of weeping. 
 
 Nor to that smile the past alone 
 
 Owes what it hath of joyous seeming; 
 
 It is of present joys the crown, 
 It is upon tine future beaming. 
 
 I clasp thy ready hand in mine, 
 
 I feel that hand my grasp returning ; 
 
 "Tis sweet, though mirth may fainter shine, 
 That bright as aye Love's lamp is burning ! "
 
 35 
 
 THE LIME, OR LINDEN-TREE. 
 
 " The stately lime, smooth, gentle, straight, and fair, 
 (With which no other Dryad can compare.)" 
 
 THOUGH we are not prepared, perhaps, entirely to 
 acquiesce in the sweeping commendation contained in 
 the closing line of the selected motto, yet can we truly 
 say the lime is a very beautiful tree : it has an aristocratic 
 look about it, which makes it a fitting ornament for 
 cultivated grounds, where we often find it expanding 
 itself in full glory ; it also adorns our woods and hedge- 
 rows, for it rejects no soil or situation, though of course 
 both its size and also the swiftness of its growth depend 
 a good deal on local circumstances. In rich loamy 
 ground it grows very rapidly; and this circumstance, 
 together with the stately beauty of its appearance, makes 
 it a matter of surprise that it is not more extensively 
 cultivated : it is objected against it, that the leaf comes 
 out late, and falls early ; but surely this defect is more 
 than counterbalanced by the properties already men- 
 D 2
 
 lioned ; to which may also be added the fragrance of its 
 pretty, pale flowers, 
 
 at dewy eve 
 
 Diffusing odours," 
 
 from which innumerable swarms of bees are seen 
 " extracting liquid sweets." Besides, as it has been well 
 remarked, in a paper on trees in Blackwood's Magazine, 
 " contrast is one of the finest laws of association ; and 
 bare branches, apart but not repulsive, like some cunning 
 discord in music, deepens the harmony of the grove." 
 There are three species of Tilia naturalised in Great 
 Britain : T. europaea, common lime or linden-tree ; 
 T. grandifolia, or broad-leaved, downy lime; and T. 
 parvifolia, small-leaved lime: the latter is thought by 
 some to be really indigenous. The first mentioned, Sir 
 J. E. Smith says, " is certainly the common lime-tree of 
 the north of Europe. It is cultivated all over England, 
 and in many parts of Scotland; and though Ray could 
 not meet with it indubitably wild, no one can doubt its 
 being perfectly naturalised. The French, "growing 
 tired of the horse-chestnut," as Du Hamel reports, 
 adopted this tree, for ornamental plantations, in the 
 time of Louis XIV. It generally composes the avenues 
 of the French as well as English gentry of that date;
 
 37 
 
 and Fenelon, in conformity with this taste, decorates 
 with "flowery lime-trees" his enchanted isle of Calypso. 
 
 The grandifolia is the wild lime-tree of Switzerland 
 and the south of Europe, as the europsea is of the 
 north. There are some famous old limes of this species 
 in the churchyard of Sedlitz in Bohemia, which are re- 
 ported to have miraculously borne hooded leaves, ever 
 since the monks of a neighbouring convent were all 
 hanged upon them. 
 
 The lime was of great repute amongst the ancients. 
 It was customary with them to crown themselves with 
 garlands of flowers at their festival, which garlands were 
 bound together with slips of the inner rind of the 
 lime-tree. 
 
 Horace thus alludes to it : 
 
 " Ribands from the linden-tree 
 Give a wreath no charms for me." 
 
 The specimen delineated was taken from a venerable 
 tree in Matlock parish, which gives the name of Lime- 
 tree Bank to the immediate neighbourhood where it 
 grows. The trunk is quite hollow ; but otherwise there 
 is little appearance of decay, as the branches are still 
 vigorous and healthy. " In some writings now in exist- 
 ence, which are six hundred years old, in the possession
 
 38 
 
 of a gentleman who resides at Doncaster, this tree is 
 particularly mentioned, and its site pointed out."* 
 " Before leaving the lime-tree," says a writer, who seems 
 to know and feel all the pleasures of early reminiscences, 
 " we may notice the delightful associations we have with 
 it, from the recollection of the days of our youth, when, 
 in many an hour of listless idleness, we have sheltered 
 ourselves beneath its unpenetrable shade, and, stretched 
 out on the turf below, have listened to the mingled hum 
 of the millions of bees which busily collected the honey 
 from its fragrant flowers; whilst no other sound was 
 heard in the summer air but the occasional sudden, 
 though rare, twitter of the skimming swallow, or the 
 distant cooing of the amorous ringdove; and when all 
 was silent on the earth, save the gentle cropping of the 
 nibbling sheep, or the distant lowing of the kine from 
 the shallows of the river, whither the raging heat had 
 driven them."f 
 
 I love the linden-tree ! 
 For it did shade my early home ; 
 And ever when sweet spring did come, 
 
 * Rhode's Peak Scenery. 
 
 f Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, Bart.
 
 39 
 
 With heart as blithe, as free from care, 
 As birds that sung and nestled there, 
 I used to con my book for hours, 
 Or garlands twine of wilding flowers, 
 Beneath the linden-tree. 
 
 I love the linden-tree ! 
 For, oh ! when years brought other woes 
 And other joys than childhood knows, 
 One summer's eve (so bright a moon 
 Me thought ne'er grac'd the skies of June) 
 'Twas mine, with beating heart, to hear 
 The vow to youthful maiden dear, 
 
 Beneath the linden-tree. 
 
 I love the linden-tree ! 
 Yea, now, when time with sobering hue 
 Has ting'd the visions fancy drew ; 
 For oft, when meek-eyed eve has given 
 Her gloom to earth, her star to heaven, 
 Upward my kindling glance I raise, 
 And find a fane for prayer and praise 
 
 Beneath the linden-tree.
 
 40 
 
 THE SCOTCH FIR. 
 
 PINUS SYLVESTRIS. 
 
 " And higher yet the pine-tree hung 
 His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung, 
 Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high, 
 His bows athwart the narrow'd sky." 
 
 THE exact adaptation of every object in nature to the 
 situation and circumstances in which it is placed is 
 beautifully exemplified in the pine tribe. The texture 
 of their timber, the abundant supply of resinous juices 
 both in the main stem and the branches, and, above all, 
 the rigid, needle-shaped leaf, bespeak at once their des- 
 tiny, " to dwell aloft amidst the awful palaces of nature," 
 to endure the severities of an alpine winter, and to war 
 with the elements on the mountain and the rock. The 
 acerose leaf (to use a botanical term), common, with 
 few exceptions, to those evergreens which usually grow 
 in northern climates, or on alpine heights, fits them in 
 a peculiar manner for braving the difficulties to which 
 their habitat exposes them, as it allows the snow and
 
 41 
 
 wind free passage through the interstices, securing them 
 alike from an overpowering accumulation of the one, 
 and from the resistless fury of the other. It is also 
 chiefly owing to this peculiar form of the leaves, which 
 do not admit the reflection of much light, that trees of 
 this description wear such a dark, lugubrious appearance ; 
 and that, furthermore, by presenting so many points and 
 edges, the wind makes amongst them that " wintry 
 music," so powerfully affecting to the imaginative wan- 
 derer, soothing or rousing him, according to the part it 
 sustains in the grand chorus of nature. Burns, with all 
 a poet's feeling, speaks of the enjoyment he experienced 
 from this wild minstrelsy. Whilst listening to its varied 
 cadences on a cloudy winter day, he remarks, " It is 
 my best season for devotion ; my mind is wrapt up in a 
 kind of enthusiasm to Him who, in the pompous language 
 of the Hebrew bard, 'walketh on the wings of the 
 wind.'" 
 
 The Scotch fir, taking all things into consideration, is 
 esteemed the most valuable of the pines. It grows 
 abundantly in all the countries north of the Baltic, to 
 the seventieth degree of latitude. But it does not con- 
 fine itself to these parts : it is found on the Carpathian 
 mountains, the Pyrenees, and the Alps; yielding to 
 none of the tribe in the elevation it attains, except the
 
 Pinus uncinata on the Pyrenees, and the Pinus cembra 
 on the Alps. 
 
 The testimony of Caesar goes to disprove its being a 
 native of Britain; its right, however, to be considered 
 such is now placed beyond dispute ; the reasons for which 
 are ingeniously and satisfactorily stated in Whitaker's 
 History of Manchester, but are too long to be quoted at 
 large in such a mere sketch as this. 
 
 The same desire of brevity will preclude the enumer- 
 ation of the various species of this extensive genus : but 
 we must single out from the mass the Abies picea, or 
 Norway spruce, as it is considered by some as the 
 great tree of the Alps ; " and so far," says Sir Thomas 
 Dick Lauder, " as our opinion on its effect in landscape 
 may go, we can only say, that with us it is so mentally 
 associated with the grandeur of Swiss scenery, that the 
 sight of it never fails to touch chords in our bosom 
 which awaken the most pleasing recollections. . . What 
 can be more truly sublime," he continues, "than to 
 behold, opposed to the intensely blue ether, the glazed 
 white summits of Mont Blanc or the Jungfrau rising 
 over interminable forests of spruce firs, which clothe the 
 bases of the mountains; while some gigantic specimens 
 rise in groups among the rocks before us, shivered, 
 maimed, and broken by tempests; their dark forms
 
 43 
 
 opposed to all the brilliant hues of some immense gla- 
 cier." This is a truly alpine picture : we all but see 
 
 : those blasted pines, 
 
 Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless," 
 
 with all the savage, but grand, accompaniments which 
 he has so vividly sketched. 
 
 The Norway spruce, which is but a cultivated tree in 
 our island, is indigenous in the northern climates of 
 Europe and Asia; and also, as has been observed, in 
 the mountain valleys of Switzerland, France, Spain, 
 and Italy. It is said to attain a greater altitude than 
 any other European tree, sometimes shooting up to the 
 height of one hundred and fifty feet. This brings to 
 mind Milton's sublime description of Satan and his 
 warlike habiliments. After likening his shield to 
 
 " the moon, whose orb 
 
 Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views 
 At evening from the top of Fesold," 
 
 he continues in the same elevated strain to describe 
 
 " His spear, to equal which the tallest pine 
 Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast 
 Of some great ammiral, were but a wand."
 
 44 
 
 And again, how finely he borrows the same image, when 
 speaking of the fallen angels : 
 
 " faithful how they stood, 
 
 Their glory wither'd ; as when heaven's fire 
 Hath scath'd the forest oaks, or mountain pines, 
 With singed top their stately growth, though bare 
 Stands on the blasted heath." 
 
 Both pines and firs, between which there is a very close 
 alliance, are valuable for a vast variety of purposes. 
 " Sea and land," says Evelyn, " may contend for their 
 many and universal use." The true pine, he adds, 
 was very highly commended for naval architecture : 
 hence the title which Virgil gives it, " the useful pine 
 for ships ; " and also the many references by our earlier 
 poets to its applicability to marine purposes. 
 Spenser denominates it 
 
 " The sayling pine ; 
 
 and Browne speaks of 
 
 " The pine with whom men through the ocean venture." 
 
 They both also share much classical fame; being 
 dedicated, one or both, perhaps indiscriminately, by the 
 ancients to several of their rural deities: they also 
 composed the crown of the victors in the Isthmian 
 games.
 
 45 
 
 But a higher and more honourable distinction belongs 
 to the tribe in the frequent allusions made to it in Holy 
 Writ: the fir, along with the cedar, was used for the 
 planks and beams in the erection of the glorious temple 
 of Solomon. And in many passages it is also associated 
 with that noble tree, in conveying images of prosperity 
 and sublimity. 
 
 From the sonorous quality of its wood, it is chosen 
 almost before any other for musical instruments. Even 
 in very early ages its adaptation to such uses was re- 
 cognised ; for we read, when David brought up the ark 
 from the house of Abinadab, he "and all the house 
 of Israel played before the Lord on all manner of 
 instruments made of fir wood ; even on harps, and on 
 psalteries, and on timbrels, and on cornets, and on 
 cymbals." It is still used in our days for similar 
 purposes ; and, in a fanciful view, there is a strange but 
 beautiful anomaly in this braver of the tempest 
 administering to the devotional and tender emotions of 
 the heart. 
 
 Thy throne a rock ! thy canopy the skies ! 
 And, circled in the mountain's- dark embrace, 
 'Mid what stern pomp thy tow'ring branches rise ! 
 How wild, how lonely is thy dwelling-place !
 
 46 
 
 In the rich mead a God of love we trace, 
 We feel His bounty in the sun and shower ; 
 But here His milder glories shun our gaze, 
 Lost in the one dread attribute of power. 
 I cannot choose but wish thou hadst a fairer bower. 
 
 Yet to the scene thy stately form doth give 
 Appropriate grace ; and hi thy mountain-hold, 
 Like flowers with zephyrs " at the shut of eve," 
 Thou with the storm hast dallied from of old. 
 But stateliness of form and bearing bold 
 Are not thy only boast : there dwells in thee 
 A soft, sweet spell (if we be rightly told), 
 Which waiteth but the touch of harmony, 
 To smooth the brow of care, and make e'en sorrow flee. 
 
 Thus be't with me, when storms of trouble rise, 
 Which all of woman born, alas ! must know, 
 Built on a rock, and looking to the skies, 
 Like thee undaunted may I meet the blow. 
 Not so when call'd to hear of others' woe : 
 Then may soft pity touch some chord within, 
 Prompting the tear of sympathy to flow, 
 And words of healing, such as gently win 
 The mourner's stricken heart, and pour sweet comfort in.
 
 47 
 
 THE STONE PINE. 
 
 PINUS PINEA. 
 
 " And still the pine, long-hair'd, and dark and tall, 
 In lordly right, predominant o'er all." 
 
 MOST of the trees of this genus, as has been already 
 observed, are hardy mountaineers : indeed so associated 
 are they with alpine scenery, that it would scarcely be 
 perfect without them. The species under immediate 
 consideration, however, leaves those inhospitable regions 
 to the bolder representatives of the clan, and settles itself 
 in the warm sunny climes of southern Europe. Such 
 being its usual abode, it does not require those provisions 
 against the inclemencies of weather which are needful 
 for the mountain pines ; and accordingly we find its 
 timber is weaker and less resinous, though in other 
 respects it possesses every distinctive mark common to 
 the genus to which it belongs, another proof how 
 wisely the God of nature varies and proportions his gifts 
 according to the exigencies of the receiver. 
 
 Virgil, with much discrimination, marks this difference
 
 48 
 
 in choice of abode in the pine tribe, only apparently 
 including under the title ofjir all the hardier species : 
 
 The fir the hiOt; the ash adorns the woods, 
 The pine the gardens, and the poplar floods." 
 
 Gilpin says, that " Italy alone gives birth to the true 
 picturesque pine ; where," he adds, " it always suggests 
 ideas of broken porticos, Ionic pillars, triumphal 
 arches, fragments of old temples, and a variety of classic 
 ruins, which in Italian landscape it commonly adorns." 
 This is very true. When imagination dwells on those 
 mighty relics which stand in " ruinous perfection," in so 
 many parts of that classic country, it as invariably 
 associates them with their guardian pine, as it does 
 the rock and the mountain with their proper sylvan 
 accompaniments. 
 
 " A grove springs up through levelPd battlements, 
 ' And twines its roots with the imperial hearths." 
 
 In perfect unison with its chosen haunts and sombre 
 aspect, are the mournful murmuring sounds which it 
 makes, in common with all acerose-leaved trees, when 
 the wind stirs its boughs : sounds, now loud, now soft, 
 ever varying with the rising or falling breeze. Virgil
 
 49 
 
 speaks of " the singing pines." And in another place 
 he says, 
 
 " The pines of Maenalus were heard to mourn, 
 And sounds of woe along the groves were borne." 
 
 And Milton, with apparent reference to the readiness 
 with which it responds to the breath of this aerial 
 visitant, says, 
 
 " His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow, 
 Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, 
 With every plant in sign of worship wave." 
 
 Many of our modern poets, too, descant most sweetly 
 on this wild natural music ; and no marvel, for it is the 
 very poetry of sound. 
 
 " The loud wind through the forest wakes, 
 
 With sound, like ocean's roaring, wild and deep ; 
 And in yon gloomy pines strange music wakes, 
 Like symphonies unearthly heard in sleep." 
 
 It is impossible to read these beautiful poetic descrip- 
 tions without experiencing something of the feeling 
 which the very objects themselves are calculated to 
 inspire ; and it is in this power of abstracting the mind 
 from the common-places of life, and of enabling us to 
 realise the scenes delineated, that the grand spell of 
 I
 
 50 
 
 poetry consists ; and surely when lawfully directed and 
 enjoyed, it constitutes a legitimate source of exquisite 
 pleasure. 
 
 But we have wandered from our subject, and must 
 briefly resume it. The stone pine, though mostly asso- 
 ciated with Italian scenery, is in some degree naturalised 
 here ; the specimens we can show, however, are but poor 
 representatives of those of southern growth. Whether a 
 longer residence amongst us, and due attention to soil 
 and situation on the part of the cultivator, might do 
 something towards restoring its real nobility of cha- 
 racter, it remains for tune to show ; at present, we must 
 look to " Italy alone for the true picturesque pine." 
 
 I should have sought thee in some alpine wild, 
 Upon whose snows bright summer never smil'd, 
 Cresting the beetling rock, whose dizzy height 
 Might put to shame the eagle's sunward flight ; 
 And not in fair Italia's sunny plains, 
 Midst fallen palaces and mouldering fanes. 
 Ah ! why, self-exil'd from thy hardy race, 
 Mak'st thou in such sad haunts thy dwelling-place ?
 
 51 
 
 Com'st thou to mock at ruin ? Nay thy mien, 
 Stately but mournful, suits so well the scene, 
 I would not deem that in thy hour of prime 
 Thou cam'st to triumph o'er the wrecks of Time. 
 No ; rather like the ivy, which has brought 
 A fairer wreath than sculpture ever wrought, 
 To hide the breaches Time's rude hand has made, 
 Oh ! let me think thou lend'st thy classic shade, 
 Anxious his mighty mischiefs to repair, 
 And guard and grace the fallen and the fair. 
 
 Hadst thou a voice, methinks when eve's still hour 
 Within us wakes the meditative power, 
 'Mid scenes like these how sadly sweet 'twould be 
 To list awhile thy solemn homily ; 
 Thy text these ruins, which do mutely show 
 What Time, alas ! has done, and what can do. 
 Thou hast a voice. As from some hidden shrine 
 I hear thee whisper to this heart of mine ; 
 (This careless heart, which turns so oft away 
 From aught that seems to mind it of decay;) 
 Thy theme, Time's changes ; and to mortal man, 
 Whose life's a breath, whose days are but a span, 
 Whose beauty fadeth as a summer rose, 
 Methinks no fitter subject couldst thou choose. 
 E 2
 
 5*2 
 
 Yet stay not here thy monitory strain : 
 These fallen columns, which bestrew the plain, 
 But half man's awful destiny suggest, 
 Thy changeless leaf may typify the rest. 
 Time turns whate'er can perish into dust; 
 Fame, beauty, vigour, each betrays our trust. 
 But he, the seeming victor, he is doom'd 
 Himself to fall, in nature's wreck entomb'd; 
 Whilst the immortal spirit, thought sublime ! 
 Alike shall triumph over Death and Time.
 
 53 
 
 THE HOLLY. 
 
 4 
 
 ILEX AQUIFOLIUM. 
 
 " Oh, Reader 1 hast thou ever stood to see 
 
 The holly-tree ? 
 The eye that contemplates it well perceives 
 
 Its glossy leaves, 
 
 Order'd by an intelligence so wise 
 As might confound the atheist's sophistries. 
 
 Below, a circling fence its leaves are seen 
 
 Wrinkled and keen ; 
 No grazing cattle through their prickly round 
 
 Can reach to wound : 
 
 But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
 Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear. 
 
 I love to view these things with curious eyes, 
 
 And moralise ; 
 And in this wisdom of the holly-tree 
 
 Can emblems see 
 
 Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, 
 One which may profit in the after time." 
 
 IT has been asserted that " nature abhors a vacuum : " 
 with more truth, judging from the infinite variety every
 
 54 
 
 where observable in her productions, may it be said that 
 nature abhors sameness. Take the vegetable world, for 
 instance : what diversity of form, colour, and fragrance ; 
 what different means are used for accomplishing similar 
 ends ! In one and the same coppice how various in 
 outline and in tint are the trees which compose it! 
 We have just been considering two of the pine genus 
 evergreens, of course : the holly, too, is an evergreen; but 
 how different in every respect, save that from which both 
 derive their general title ! Compare the thready, bluish- 
 green leaves of the one, with those of the other, so 
 " bright with nature's varnish," broad, spinous, and of a 
 warm hue, and the result will be an acquiescence in 
 the assertion, nature abhors sameness. 
 
 The holly is one of the most esteemed of our native 
 evergreens. Its value is felt in sylvan scenery, even in 
 spring and summer, when the woods and thickets are 
 arrayed in the full flush of " leafy luxury ; " but it is in 
 connection with the wintry landscape, that it may most 
 confidently challenge our admiration. When all the 
 deciduous trees have "put their graceful foliage off," 
 and " stand barren as lances," the holly cheers us with 
 its unwithering leaf and coral berries, suggesting a 
 thousand images, "pleasant," not "mournful to the 
 soul ; " and when its blushing wreaths, as is not
 
 55 
 
 unfrequently the case, are seen shining beneath a 
 transparent incrustation of frost, they possess a magic 
 beauty, and look as if they belonged to Fairy-land. The 
 effect is happily alluded to by Phillips. He, however, 
 especially names the hawthorn ; but the description holds 
 good with respect to all scarlet-berried trees : 
 
 " Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, 
 The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view 
 The face of nature in a rich disguise, 
 And brighten'd every object to my eyes ; 
 For every shrub, and every blade of grass, 
 And every pointed thorn seem'd wrought in glass : 
 In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show, 
 While through the ice the crimson berries glow." 
 
 The holly is a hardy but slow-growing tree. Evelyn, 
 its most enthusiastic admirer, says on this point, " True 
 it is that time must bring this tree to perfection ; it does 
 so to all things else; but," he adds, "we stay seven 
 years for a tolerable quick: it is worth staying thrice 
 seven for this, which has no competitor." His rhapsody 
 on the hedge at Say's Court is too much quoted to need 
 an introduction here ; but it is another proof of the high 
 estimation in which he held it. 
 
 It belongs to a genus containing many species and
 
 56 
 
 varieties. The Ilex aquifolium (our common holly) is 
 indigenous in many countries of the East, in North 
 America, and most parts of Europe. It grows very freely 
 in our island, and gives its name to several places ; as 
 Holmesdale, Holmewood, Holme being one of its 
 vernacular titles. 
 
 It is a tree of classical notoriety : Columella recom- 
 mends it for fences : 
 
 " A hedge of holly, thieves that would invade 
 Repulses, like a growing palisade ; 
 Whose numerous leaves such orient greens invest, 
 As in deep winter do the spring arrest" 
 
 And Virgil places his four contending shepherds 
 
 " Beneath a holm that murmur'd in the breeze." 
 
 Thomson mentions it as offering shelter to the birds 
 when they begin to build : 
 
 " Some to the holly-hedge 
 Nestling repair." 
 
 It also feeds them in winter with its berries ; but it more 
 than neutralises these friendly offices to the feathered 
 tribe by yielding that glutinous liquid which so often 
 leads to their destruction.
 
 57 
 
 The lines which head this slight sketch refer to the 
 wise arrangement observable in the different character 
 of the upper and lower leaves : the latter, in order to 
 defend it from cattle, &c. being armed with sharp 
 spines, whilst those which are above the reach of such 
 depredators " smooth and unarm'd appear." 
 
 Is this the grove whose leafy pride 
 Bright summer's noontide beams defied? 
 Can yonder be the bank where spring 
 Did all her store of blossoms fling ? 
 Or this dull stream with leaves o'erstrewn, 
 The limpid brook, whose silv'ry tone 
 Seem'd, as its clear waves roll'd along, 
 The echo of some Naiad's song ? 
 Ah ! changing earth ! uncertain sky ! 
 How does your glory mock the eye ! 
 Where is it now ? above, beneath, 
 All, all is torpor, change, and death. 
 All, said I ? Nay, in yonder nook 
 The holly wears its 'custom'd look,
 
 58 
 
 With berry bright, and leaf ne'er sere, 
 It greets the " pale declining year ; " 
 A friend, when summer friends do flee, 
 A " brother for adversity." 
 But not to fond and faithful breast 
 Alone does it sweet thoughts suggest ; 
 Oh, no ! To thee, whom cares perplex, 
 Whom troubles fright, whom crosses vex, 
 To thee, it speaks in loftier tone, 
 And breathes a moral all its own. 
 Come, then, and from the holly tree 
 Learn what thou art, and what may'st be. 
 Mark how upon each earthward bough 
 Edg'd with sharp thorns the leaves do grow, 
 While those the higher stems that grace 
 Bear of " the prickly curse " no trace, 
 As if to teach thee it design'd, 
 With earth we leave the thorn behind. 
 
 Say thou upon whose brow is set 
 Care's thorn-entwisted coronet 
 Oh ! wouldst thou tear it thence, arise 
 And seek communion with the skies : 
 The nearer heaven thou soar'st, the less 
 Shall that keen wreath thy temples press.
 
 S9 
 
 If once before thy raptur'd view 
 
 Faith open heaven, how faint and few 
 
 Will seem all earthly griefs and cares, 
 
 Until at last each disappears, 
 
 Like thorns from off the leaves which grow 
 
 Upon the holly's topmost bough. 
 

 
 60 
 
 THE ASPEN. 
 
 POPULUS TREMULA. 
 
 " I would not be 
 A leaf on yonder aspen tree 
 In every fickle breeze to play 
 Wildly, weakly, idly gay, 
 So feebly fram'd, so lightly hung, 
 By the wing of an insect stirr'd and swung. 
 
 Proudly spoken, heart of mine ; 
 
 Yet weakness and change perchance are thine, 
 
 More, and darker and sadder to see, 
 
 Than befall the leaves of yonder tree 1 
 
 Look to thyself, then, ere past is Hope's reign, 
 And looking and longing alike are in vain ; 
 Lest thou deem it a bliss to have been, or to be, 
 But a fluttering leaf on yon aspen tree." 
 
 POPLARS, to which genus the aspen belongs, are the 
 most valuable, says Hunter, of all the aquatics, whether 
 we consider the quickness of their growth or the magni-
 
 61 
 
 tude to which they will arrive; and though named 
 aquatics, and certainly preferring margins of rivers, and 
 low moist grounds, they will yet thrive exceedingly well 
 in drier situations. It is a class containing many 
 species, three of which the white, the black, and the 
 trembling poplar are natives. Amongst those of foreign 
 growth, perhaps the best known, and most distinct in 
 character, is the Lombardy or Po poplar, a native, as 
 its name imports, of Italy, where it grows very plenti- 
 fully, especially on the banks of the Po. Its towering 
 shape arrests the eye at once, and agreeably breaks the 
 uniformity of outline in our plantations and shrubberies. 
 It has also another beauty peculiar to itself; and that is, 
 as Gilpin observes, " the waving line it forms when 
 agitated by the wind. Most trees in this circumstance 
 are partially agitated: one side is at rest, while the 
 other is in motion ; but the Italian poplar waves in one 
 simple sweep from the top to the bottom." 
 
 The poplar's shoot, 
 
 That like a feather waves from head to foot." 
 
 For this graceful addition to our sylva we are indebted 
 to the Earl of Rochford, who brought it hither in the 
 year 1758, so that it is comparatively of recent intro-
 
 62 
 
 duction ; but our climate suits it so well, that already it 
 may be considered as completely naturalised. 
 
 The poplar tribe shares, in common with many other 
 trees, the distinction of a classical origin. The ancient 
 poets averred that the weeping sisters of " the temera- 
 rious Phaeton " were transformed into poplars. Virgil, 
 however, gives this honour to the alder. 
 
 But we must not wander too long from our main 
 subject, the aspen or trembling poplar, which is not only 
 indigenous in our island, but a native of Europe from 
 Sweden to Italy. It is a tree of quick growth, readily 
 springing up in any soil or situation, and sometimes 
 attaining the height of ninety feet. From the tremu- 
 lousness of its leaves it has derived its name, and has 
 also become a " by-word and a proverb." Amongst the 
 wild glens of the Highlands, fit nurseries for super- 
 stitious fancies and traditionary legends, it is a current 
 notion that the cross was made of this tree, and that 
 therefore its leaves can never rest. To the philosopher, 
 science offers a more satisfactory solution of the pro- 
 blem. "To the compression of the petiole," says 
 Drummond, " we are chiefly to attribute the tremulous 
 or turning motion of the leaves of this tree. The 
 compression is chiefly at the end next the leaf; and as 
 it is vertical, while the position of the leaf is horizontal,
 
 63 
 
 the slightest breath of wind throws the latter into 
 agitation." 
 
 Daylight is closing, but the west 
 Still with the pomp of sunset glows, 
 
 And crimson cloud on mountain's breast, 
 And tower, and spire, its radiance throws, 
 
 While one by one in eastern skies 
 
 " The stars which usher evening rise." 
 
 How deep, how holy is the calm ! 
 
 Each sound seems hush'd by magic spell, 
 As if sweet Peace her honied balm 
 
 Blent with each dewdrop as it fell ; 
 And Zephyrus, in tranc'd repose, 
 Slept on the bosom of the rose. 
 
 (Would that the cares which vex the breast 
 Of man, and aye his steps pursue, 
 
 Had, too, an evening hour of rest, 
 A pause like this of Nature knew ! 
 
 Alas ! there's that in his dark lot 
 
 Which such sweet influence toucheth not.)
 
 64 
 
 Yet in this deep tranquillity, 
 
 When e'en the thistle's down is still, 
 
 Trembles yon towering aspen tree, 
 Like one whose bygone deeds of ill, 
 
 At hush of night, before him sweep, 
 
 To scare his dreams and " murder sleep." 
 
 Far off in Highland wilds 'tis said 
 
 (But Truth now laughs at Fancy's lore), 
 
 That of this tree the cross was made 
 Which erst the Lord of Glory bore, 
 
 And of that deed its leaves confess 
 
 E'er since a troubled consciousness. 
 
 We boast of clearer light ; but say, 
 Hath Science, in her lofty pride, 
 
 For every legend swept away 
 
 Some better, holier truth supplied? 
 
 What hath she to the wanderer given 
 
 To help him on his road to heaven ? 
 
 Say, who hath gaz'd upon this tree 
 With that strange legend in his mind, 
 
 But inward turn'd his eye to see 
 
 If answering feeling he could find,
 
 65 
 
 A trembling for that guilt which gave 
 His Saviour to the cross and grave ? 
 
 And who such glance did inward bend, 
 But scorn'd the apathy and pride 
 
 Which make him slight that more than friend. 
 For him who bled, for him who died ; 
 
 Nor pray*d his callous heart might prove 
 
 What 't is to tremble, weep, and love ?
 
 66 
 
 THE BIRCH. 
 
 BETULA ALBA. 
 
 " I find myself 
 
 Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful 
 Of forest trees, the lady of the woods)." 
 
 THIS sketch of the birch is not less correct than it is 
 poetical. There is an elegance in its general appearance 
 which fully justifies the poet's fancy, and entitles it to 
 the appellation he has given it, of " lady of the woods." 
 In every season, and under all circumstances, it is a 
 lovely object; nothing can exceed the tender hue of its 
 vernal leaves, as they wave to and fro in the sunshine. 
 In summer, perhaps, it loses something of its beauty, as 
 its bright tints then subside into a more sober green ; 
 still it preserves its gracefulness of aspect. In autumn it 
 almost more than regains what it lost in summer ; whilst 
 winter, which deprives most other vegetable productions 
 of their charms, by displaying more fully the slight 
 silvery stem and delicate ramifications of the birch, 
 seems but to invest it with new attractions.
 
 67 
 
 Notwithstanding its fragility of appearance, the birch is 
 a most hardy tree, refusing no soil or situation, however 
 unpromising: indeed, two of the species the dwarf 
 birch, Betula nana, and the hoary alder, Betula incana 
 will grow where scarcely any thing else will, approaching 
 nearer the arctic pole than any other tree, except the 
 dwarf willow. That diminutive species of birch, Betula 
 nana, has lately been discovered in the Highlands, 
 where a strange and superstitious notion is prevalent 
 accounting for its stunted growth, which they imagine 
 is owing to its having furnished the rod with which 
 Christ was scourged. 
 
 To the inhabitants of finely-timbered countries, the 
 birch, distinct from considerations of pictorial effect, is 
 a tree of small value; but to such as dwell in high 
 latitudes, it is inestimable, holding, in their regard, the 
 same rank in the vegetable kingdom as the rein-deer 
 does in the animal. Of its wood they form those light 
 canoes, which answer every purpose of their limited 
 navigation; its bark furnishes them with an almost 
 impenetrable roof for their huts, and is ingeniously 
 converted into various articles of clothing, whilst its 
 inner coat, dried and ground, is a substitute for flour in 
 times of scarcity; its sap affords them a refreshing 
 F 2
 
 68 
 
 beverage ; its branches yield them fuel ; and its leaves 
 " form a soft elastic couch for the cradle of infancy." 
 
 The birch is a beautiful appendage to mountainous and 
 rocky scenery, where it may often be observed springing 
 out of some tiny fissure, retaining its footing by so slight 
 a hold that it seems hanging in air. It is truly a Scottish 
 tree ; and as such, with great propriety, Sir W. Scott 
 gives it a place in his graphic description of Highland 
 scenery : 
 
 " With boughs that quaked at every breath, 
 Grey birch and aspen wept beneath." 
 
 How frequently, too, is it introduced into the poetry of 
 Burns, and under what alluring denominations, " the 
 gay green birk," " the fragrant birk ! " 
 
 " Down by the burn, where scented birk* 
 Wi' dew are hanging clear. " 
 
 " The birks of Aberfeldy," indeed, are almost as duly 
 immortalised by his little sprightly song bearing that title, 
 as even the " mountain daisy " itself by the pathetic 
 stanzas he has addressed to it. It has been remarked, 
 that " the very smell of the first springing leaves of this 
 tree wonderfully recruits and exhilarates the spirits." 
 Whether this effect be really produced by physical
 
 69 
 
 causes, or merely by the power of association, others 
 must decide; perhaps both lend their aid in bringing 
 about so pleasant a result. There is a variety, which, 
 from the pensile character of its foliage, is denominated 
 " the weeping birch." We are here reminded of a glow- 
 ing passage, in the article on trees before referred to, 
 denying the applicability of such an epithet to any thing 
 in inanimate nature. " That stem, white as silver and 
 smooth as silk, seen so straight in the green sylvan light, 
 and thus airily overarching the coppice with lambent 
 tresses, such as fancy might picture for the mermaid's 
 hair, is said by us, who vainly attribute our own sadness 
 to unsorrowing nature, to belong to a tree that weeps ; 
 though a weight of joy it is, and of exceeding gladness, 
 that thus depresses her pendant beauty till it droops, as 
 we think, like that of a being overcome with grief."* We 
 are glad the eloquent writer does not quarrel with Fancy, 
 for attributing to inanimate objects feelings and passions 
 in common with sentient beings, but merely with this 
 particular appropriation of them. His creed, perhaps, 
 is " In nature there is nothing melancholy ; " yet, as 
 uninterrupted happiness is not the lot even of the most 
 favoured of mortals, we rob Nature of her dearest 
 charm of companionship, if we may not call upon her to 
 sympathise with us in sorrow as well as in joy.
 
 70 
 
 O ! come to the meadows, the meadows are gay, 
 The green grass is springing, the lambs are at play; 
 To a zephyr the rude blast has sunk, and its sigh 
 Has awaken'd the daisy to gaze on the sky : 
 
 Earth smileth in gladness, 
 
 And sorrow and sadness 
 Have fled with dark winter, away then, away ! 
 
 O ! come to the glen, where the bright silver rill, 
 Like a newly freed captive, is roaming at will ; 
 Uncertain alike both its mood and its course, 
 Now softly 'tis singing, now murmuring hoarse ; 
 
 Now winding in error, 
 
 Now calm as a mirror 
 For Fay or for Dryad, it rests and is still. 
 
 O ! come to the woodlands, 'tis joy to behold 
 
 The new-waken'd buds in our pathway unfold; 
 
 For spring has come forth, and the bland southern breeze 
 
 Is telling the tale to the shrubs and the trees, 
 
 Which, anxious to show her 
 
 The duty they owe her, 
 Have deck'd themselves gaily in em'rald and gold. 
 
 But, though beautiful each, sure the fairest of all 
 Is yon birch, that is waving so graceful and tall :
 
 71 
 
 How tender, yet bright, is the tint that is flung 
 O'er each delicate spray, which so lightly is hung, 
 
 That, like breeze of the mountain, 
 
 Or gush of the fountain, 
 It owns not of rest or of slumber the thrall. 
 
 Yet 't is said that in climes o'er the far northern sea, 
 Of its sweet-scented leaves, though so restless they be, 
 The mother a couch for her infant doth spread ; 
 And sure, while she sings by his soft leafy bed, 
 
 And watcheth his slumbers, 
 
 The theme of her numbers 
 Is the gem of the forest, the bonnie birch-tree.
 
 72 
 
 THE COMMON ALDER. 
 
 ALNUS GLUTINOSA. 
 
 ' " From out the cavern'd rock, 
 
 In living rills a gushing fountain broke ; 
 Around it and above, for ever green, 
 The bushing alders form'd a shady scene. " 
 
 THE alder loves to make its home " beside all waters ; " 
 the clear lake, the sedgy pool, the majestic river, " the 
 crisped brook," all are alike to it. Wherever there is 
 water, there, almost to a certainty, shall we find the 
 alder. 
 
 By sylvan connoisseurs the alder is considered the 
 most picturesque of the aquatic tribe, except the weeping 
 willow. But it is not a mere beautifier of that description 
 of scenery to which it chiefly confines itself; it forms a 
 strong natural embankment against the encroachments 
 of the current ; and it is also said, in common with most 
 other trees that love the stream, to possess properties 
 for correcting the unhealthy air peculiar to such situ- 
 ations, in a much greater degree than those which grow 
 in places of less humidity.
 
 73 
 
 It is curious to mark, in the same genus, what diversity 
 is sometimes exhibited in the mode of growth, peculiar 
 habits, and choice of abode of the different species. Whilst 
 Alnus glutinosa (our common alder) shows such decided 
 preference for river scenery, the hoary or silver-leaved 
 alder quits the valley for the mountains, and grows at 
 an elevation of 6000 feet above the level of the sea. A 
 stunted growth is the consequence of its ambitious 
 propensities; for whilst the former attains a height of 
 from thirty to forty feet, the latter is a mere shrub, its 
 main stem being scarcely thicker than the human arm. 
 
 According to Linnaeus, the birch and the alder are 
 joined in the same genus. They differ widely in their 
 general aspect, the birch being remarkable for the 
 elegance of its form and the delicate tint of its foliage ; 
 whilst the alder sometimes "puts on so much of the 
 bold resolute character of the oak, that it might be 
 mistaken for that tree, but for the intense depth of its 
 green hue." It serves a variety of purposes. Immersed in 
 water it becomes exceedingly hard ; and, on that account, 
 was used by the ancients, and is still used by the moderns, 
 to form a foundation for buildings erected in swampy 
 situations. In the infancy of navigation it was employed 
 by them in the construction of their vessels. In reference 
 to which Virgil says,
 
 74 
 
 " When hollow alders first the waters tried. " 
 
 And again, 
 
 " And down the Po the rapid alders glide." 
 
 In the following passage he considers it as an emblem 
 of friendship : 
 
 " Gallus, my much belov'd ! for whom I feel 
 The flame of purest friendship rising still ; 
 So by a brook the verdant alders rise, 
 When fostering zephyrs fan the vernal skies." 
 
 What additional zest does this play of fancy give to a 
 country ramble ! There are some who value trees only 
 for then- timber or their shade; there are others to 
 whom they suggest a thousand varied images, some 
 pleasurable, some perhaps painful, but all interesting. 
 They hear them, 
 
 " As they bow their hoary heads, relate, 
 In murmuring sounds, the dark decrees of Fate ; 
 While visions, as poetic eyes avow, 
 Cling to each leaf, and swarm on every bough." 
 
 Trees that, like the alder, follow the stream, and hang 
 over it with seeming fondness, offer many such asso- 
 ciations : viewed in one light, they appear the types of
 
 75 
 
 a grovelling nature; thus Coleridge regarded them. 
 " Shall man," says he, " alone stoop ? shall his pursuits 
 and desires, the reflections of his inward life, be like 
 the reflected image of a tree on the edge of a pool, that 
 grows downward, and seeks a mock heaven in the un- 
 stable element beneath it, in neighbourhood with the 
 slim water-weeds and oozy bottom-grass, that are yet 
 better than itself and more noble, in as far as sub- 
 stances that appear as shadows are preferable to shadows 
 mistaken for substance ? " 
 
 To others they present an image of gratitude. 
 
 But the most familiar and the most pleasing idea 
 they can suggest is that of friendship. Virgil, as we 
 have already observed, regarded the alder in this point 
 of view ; other authors, also, have treated it in the same 
 manner, and indeed it is an idea which would naturally 
 and readily occur to the most unimaginative mind. 
 
 I know a nook just meet for Dryad's bower, 
 So pleasant 't is, and leafy ; hot a flower 
 That loves the shade is wanting, not a tree, 
 From the light birch that springs so airily, 
 To the wide-spreading beech and giant oak, 
 Whose massy shade no sunbeam ever broke.
 
 76 
 
 i 
 
 But chiefly there the alder, darkly green, 
 
 In such fix'd attitude doth fondly lean 
 
 O'er the clear brook, as 't would not lose one tone 
 
 Of its sweet parley as it murmur 'd on ; 
 
 And then, what time the soft winds gently stirr'd 
 
 Its darkling leaves, it too would breathe some word 
 
 Of answering kindness. Ah ! in by-gone hours, 
 
 When Fancy, proud to try her new-born powers, 
 
 From all she heard or saw stole some sweet thought, 
 
 Oft has that tree some theme for musing brought. 
 
 If harsh of mood, too hardly would she deem 
 
 'T was in self-homage bending o'er the stream, 
 
 Like Beauty o'er her mirror, pleased to find 
 
 Its image in that glassy stream enshrined. 
 
 Anon, repenting of a thought so rude, 
 
 'T would seem to her the type of gratitude, 
 
 Shading the brook that fed it, lest the sun 
 
 In mid career should gaze too fierce thereon. 
 
 And then a softer image it supplied, 
 
 For ever bending o'er that crystal tide, 
 
 For ever list'ning to its liquid chime, 
 
 Though all the sounds and sights of summer time 
 
 A sky all glory, and an earth all bloom, 
 
 Gales breathing only music and perfume
 
 77 
 
 Seem'd all intent to win its love ; but, no 
 It mark'd alone that streamlet's gentle flow. 
 
 Once ('tis long since) when Fancy thus had been 
 Framing sweet visions in that leafy scene, 
 I took my lyre, and bade each answering chord 
 Its silence break, her musings to record. 
 I was a mourner then ; I wept the dead ; 
 Yea, some I lov'd were not, and I had said 
 Too rashly said ! that joy would ne'er relume 
 A heart whose hopes were buried in the tomb. 
 Sad was my lay at first ; but as I pour'd 
 My feelings forth, my spirit seem'd restor'd 
 To wonted calmness, for I thought the while 
 On one whose gentle voice and kindly smile 
 Were mine, still mine. I touch'd my harp again, 
 Less sadly than before and such my strain : 
 
 And, said I, joy's bright sun had set, 
 
 No more to gild my path of shade ! 
 Well, on eve's dewy coronet 
 
 Shine moon and star when sunbeams fade 
 Then will I not desponding grieve, 
 
 Though dim my future path may be, 
 For such as are those lights to eve 
 
 Shall be thy smile of love to me.
 
 78 
 
 And, said I, joy's gay flowers no more 
 
 Will grace such sunless heart as mine ! 
 Well, be it so the sweetest flower 
 
 Not oft in gaudy tints doth shine. 
 The wild rose on the storm-beat rock 
 
 Than garden queen I 'd rather see, 
 And such, mid sorrow's tempest-shock, 
 
 Yea, such is now thy love to me. 
 
 When musing on the dead, my eye 
 
 Half wistful turns to holier sphere ; 
 I think of thee, and feel a tie 
 
 Still sweetly hold me captive here. 
 Should that too break oh ! then most lone, 
 
 Most desolate my heart would be ; 
 My bosom's evening star were gone, 
 
 And lost life's sweetest flower to me. 
 
 Yon aider leaning o'er the brook 
 
 Methinks doth type of love supply ; 
 Above, around, nought wins its look 
 
 From the clear stream that murmurs by. 
 And thus, when thou art near, I seem 
 
 To have no thought for aught but thee ; 
 Thou art the star, the flow'r, the stream, 
 
 The all of earthly joy to me.
 
 THE WEEPING WILLOW. 
 
 SALIX BABYLONICA. 
 
 " By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down ; yea, we wept, when 
 we remembered Zion. 
 
 " We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof." 
 
 AFTER contemplating the solemn sadness of this touch- 
 ing picture, drawn by the pen of inspiration, every other 
 association connected with the willow must not only 
 appear insipid, but almost impertinent; except, indeed, 
 such as may be borrowed from the same hallowed 
 source. 
 
 Every production of nature alluded to in the Bible 
 is at once invested with a sacred character, and pos- 
 sesses an indescribable interest. It is this which gives 
 the willow a claim on our regard, very far beyond 
 what it might derive from the graceful effect of its 
 drooping boughs, or, indeed, from any other quality by 
 which it is distinguished. At the Feast of Tabernacles, 
 when, in commemoration of their fathers' dwelling in 
 tents during their forty years' sojourn in the wilderness,
 
 80 
 
 the Israelites were commanded to dwell in booths made 
 of " goodly trees, and rejoice before the Lord their 
 God seven days ; " those selected for the occasion were 
 " branches of palm trees and willows of the brook : " to 
 which Nehemiah adds branches of olive, pine, and 
 myrtle. These, being all tied together with gold and 
 silver strings, were carried in procession by the people 
 during the feast. This festival was further designed as 
 a solemn acknowledgment of the mercy of God, " who 
 crowneth the year with his goodness," on the ingathering 
 of the various fruits of the earth. 
 
 The Latin name Salix, signifying to spring up, well 
 describes the rapid growth of the willow tribe. This 
 characteristic, as well as its choice of situation, is 
 beautifully alluded to in Isaiah, xliv. 4. : " They shall 
 spring up as among grass, as willows by the water- 
 courses." Not fewer than one hundred and forty-one 
 different species of Salix have been enumerated by Sir 
 James E. Smith. The one denominated Salix Babylonica, 
 (our English weeping willow) is a native of the Levant, 
 the coast of Persia, and other places in the East. The 
 manner of its introduction into England is curious : the 
 account is as follows : Pope, the celebrated poet, hav- 
 ing received a present of Turkey figs, observed a twig 
 of the basket in whjch they were packed, putting out a
 
 81 
 
 shoot This twig he planted in his garden ; it soon be- 
 came a fine tree, and from it all our weeping willows 
 have descended. This particular tree was felled in 1801 ; 
 a circumstance which one cannot help regretting. The 
 Salix babylonica is generally planted by a still pool, to 
 which it is a beautiful and appropriate ornament; and 
 when, in misty weather, drops of water are seen distilling 
 from the extremities of its branches, nothing can be more 
 descriptive than the title it has obtained of weeping 
 willow. 
 
 In ages past, where Babel's mighty waters 
 Roll'd darkly onward, sat a weeping band, 
 
 Poor remnant of proud Judah's sons and daughters, 
 Captives and exiles from their father-land. 
 
 And while their tears they mingled with the billow, 
 And while their foes the bitter taunt still flung, 
 
 " Sing us the songs of Zion," on the willow 
 Their silent harps with mournful meaning hung. 
 G
 
 82 
 
 And e'er since then, that tree so sadly waving 
 By the still gliding stream, or plashy spring, 
 
 Whether suns brighten or dark storms are raving, 
 " Seems link'd to sorrow like a holy thing ; " 
 
 And still it offers to the broken-hearted 
 The friendly covert of its drooping bough. 
 
 Oh well it were, meek tree, when joy's departed, 
 If man like thee could bend him to the blow !
 
 THE MOUNTAIN ASH, OR ROWAN TREE. 
 
 PYRUS AUCUPARIA. 
 
 " The mountain ash 
 
 No eye can overlook, when mid a grove 
 
 Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head, 
 
 Deck'd with autumnal berries, that outshine 
 
 Spring's richest blossoms ; and ye may have mark'd 
 
 By a brook side or solitary tarn, 
 
 How she her station doth adorn : the pool 
 
 Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 
 
 Are brighten'd round her." 
 
 THE common appellation of this beautiful tree, the 
 character of its foliage, and its choice of situation, have 
 led to some confusion respecting its classification. Ge- 
 rarde and Gilpin, for instance, have considered it a 
 variety of the true ash (Fraxinus) j an error which has 
 not escaped the animadversions of later botanists, who 
 all now concur in comprehending it in the genus Pyrus. 
 It is a tree of slow growth; the wood is compact 
 and tough, which made it, in the days of our warlike 
 G '2
 
 84 
 
 ancestors of some repute for bows : but now it is not 
 so much cultivated for the sake of utility, as for or- 
 nament. 
 
 It is very hardy, and will flourish in any soil or 
 situation; but it prefers the mountain to the valley, 
 and it is in wild alpine districts that we must look 
 for it in perfection : 
 
 " There clings the rowan to the rock, 
 And through the foliage shows its head, 
 With narrow leaves and berries red." 
 
 In these, its favourite haunts, it continually presents 
 itself to the eye of the traveller. Sometimes it is seen 
 adorning the side of a rugged mountain; sometimes 
 rising from a rock 
 
 Amid the brook, 
 
 Grey as the stone to which it clings, half root 
 Half trunk ; " 
 
 and now, overshadowing a Highland hut, 
 
 " Some three strides up the hill a mountain ash 
 Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters 
 O'er the old thatch." 
 
 When found in such a habitat, we may shrewdly 
 suspect it has been planted there by the hand of super-
 
 85 
 
 stition ; for the simple mountaineers, both in Scotland and 
 Wales, believe that in the neighbourhood of this tree 
 
 No evil thing that walks by night 
 
 In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, 
 Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost 
 That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, 
 No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, 
 Hath hurtful power." 
 
 Cattle were imagined to be especially indebted to 
 its protecting spells. Formerly it was no uncommon 
 sight to see a herd grazing each with a sprig of moun- 
 tain ash fastened with red tape to its left horn; and 
 still the Scottish dairy-maid drives her cattle to the 
 summer pastures with a twig of rowan.* 
 
 Its reputed abhorrence of the whole brood of ne- 
 cromancers, male and female, makes it appear a some- 
 what inappropriate material for the sacrificial pile of 
 that mysterious personage, half monk, half wizard, so 
 
 * The same beneficent influence was supposed to extend also to the 
 human species, as the following passage from " The Monastery " goes to 
 prove : " I have tied red tape round the bairnes' throats, and given 
 ilk ane o' them a riding wand of rowan tree, forby sewing up a slip of 
 witch elm in their doublets, and I wish to know of your reverence if 
 there be ony thing mair that alone woman can do in the matter of ghaists 
 and faeries ? "
 
 86 
 
 pictorially described by Sir Walter Scott in " The Lady 
 of the Lake:" 
 
 " A heap of wither'd boughs was piled, 
 Of juniper and rowan wild, 
 Mingled with shivers from the oak, 
 Rent by the lightning's recent stroke." 
 
 It is curious to observe kindred superstitions obtain- 
 ing in climes far distant from each other, amongst 
 people differing as widely as possible in appearance, 
 manners, and laws. We have an instance of this re- 
 corded by the late excellent Bishop Heber. He states, 
 that meeting with a species of mimosa very like the 
 mountain ash, he could not forbear staying awhile to 
 examine it; when, seeing him so employed, a native 
 came up to him, and informed him that that tree was 
 a security against magic, and that no wizard could 
 come within its shade. 
 
 The mountain ash was much esteemed by the Druids, 
 in proof of which it is found more frequently in the 
 neighbourhood of druidical circles than any other tree. 
 We should scarcely have expected this from the cha- 
 racter it has since borne. Its connection (in what way 
 we know not) with their mystic rites renders it but an 
 inappropriate appanage of a Christian burial-ground,
 
 87 
 
 yet in Wales it is almost as commonly found in that 
 sacred enclosure as the yew ; and in by-gone times, on 
 one particular day in the year, the Welsh peasantry 
 wore a cross made of its wood. 
 
 These superstitious notions and observances are 
 fading fast away, except in very remote places ; and it 
 is most desirable they should do so, for we would not 
 have Reason surrender herself hoodwinked to Cre- 
 dulity. Yet the imaginative mind will, at times, have 
 its own regrets that the dale, the mountain, and the 
 forest, should thus become stripped of their legendary 
 lore, and will enter into the feelings which prompted 
 the poet to ask, somewhat reproachfully, 
 
 " Do not all charms fly 
 
 At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? 
 There was an awful rainbow once in heaven, 
 We know her woof, her texture, she is given 
 In the dull catalogue of common things. 
 Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, 
 Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, 
 Empty the haunted air, and gnomcd mine, 
 Unweave a rainbow."
 
 88 
 
 Thanks to thee, Memory ! we do owe thee much, 
 
 Thou faithful chronicler of by-gone years ; 
 Yea, though thou sometimes wakest by sudden touch 
 
 " Thoughts which do lie almost too deep for tears ; " 
 For many a pleasure hast thou hoarded too, 
 
 And when the present on the sense doth pall, 
 When Hope no longer gilds the distant view, 
 
 Then dost thou, Memory, some sweet scene recall, 
 Not dimm'd, but soften'd by those clouds which cast 
 A magic twilight round each vision of the past. 
 
 The past ! ah, who would with its records part, 
 
 Because that some are blotted with a tear ? 
 The smiles which made sweet sunshine in the heart, 
 
 The tones that were as music to the ear, 
 " The scenes where erst our careless Childhood stray'd," 
 
 Or those which Youth's more fervid pleasures shared : 
 Oh ! ne'er may dark Oblivion's spells be laid 
 
 On aught so loved, so sacred, so endear'd : 
 Let not one look, one tone, one scene be lost, 
 Though many a tender tear the sweet remembrance 
 cost. 
 
 And other joys thou hast a motley train 
 Wherewith to while away a vacant hour ;
 
 89 
 
 Perchance they hold us by a slighter chain, 
 Yet the heart owns their fascinating power. 
 
 To those, whom Nature's sacred joys delight, 
 
 Oh ! what sweet visions, Memory, canst thou bring, 
 
 Of stream, of valley, or of wood-crown'd height, 
 Now in morn's pearly lustre glistening, 
 
 Now in the full broad glare of noon arrayed, 
 
 And now half hid from view in evening's purple 
 
 Oh ! to hold converse with the whispering trees, 
 
 To list the brooklet's sweet continuous chime, 
 The varying cadence of the evening breeze, 
 
 Or " song of early birds " at matin-time : 
 To view the first fair buds of Spring unclose, 
 
 Or youthful Summer round her laughing brow 
 With looks of triumph twine the first wild rose, 
 
 To view rich Autumn bend with fruit each bough, 
 Or ev*n stern Winter's desolate array, 
 His dazzling robe of snow, and frost-incrusted spray ! 
 
 Now, Memory, do thine office, disenthral 
 
 From present sights and sounds mine eye and ear : 
 
 To this some native melody recall, 
 
 To that some sunny landscape passing fair.
 
 90 
 
 Pent in a town, where never yet the sky 
 Wore its own azure, or where yet the sun 
 
 Unsullied rose, lift but before mine eye 
 Thy magic mirror, and these vapours dun 
 
 Shall roll away, and to my glance be given 
 
 Woods, vales, and meads, outspread beneath a cloudless 
 heaven. 
 
 One effort more, and now I seem to stand 
 
 On proud Helvellyn, feel around me blow 
 The keen, fresh breeze ; or tread " the silver strand " 
 
 Of the blue lake, and watch its gentle flow : 
 Now pierce the glen where Ayrey*s * torrent boils, 
 
 And mark the sunbeams dally with the spray, 
 Till o'er the troubled flood an iris smiles, 
 
 As if to charm its wrathful mood away ; 
 Or pitying view each little flower, bright-hued, 
 Weeping its life away in sunless solitude. 
 
 * Ayrey, or Ara-force, is one of the most picturesque waterfalls in the 
 lake district. In its descent it flings up clouds of spray, which, when 
 touched by the sun, form beautiful miniature rainbows. After pursuing 
 its troubled course jthrough a romantic glen, whose rocky walls are 
 overhung with native wood, amongst which the mountain ash is con- 
 spicuously beautiful, it empties itself into Ullswat er.
 
 91 
 
 Now glancing upward to a dizzy height, 
 
 I see the rowan fling its feathery sprays 
 O'er the cleft rocks, with scarlet fruit so bright, 
 
 It seems a sylvan iris to my gaze. 
 Fairest of trees that love the rushing stream, 
 
 The rocky glen, or mountain's shaggy side ! 
 Ah ! well, methinks, of yore might Fancy deem 
 
 No evil thing could in thy presence bide ; 
 So pure thou look'st, so fearless, and so free, 
 Owning no spells thyself save beauty's witchery. 
 
 But hark ! stern duty calls ; sweet dreams, farewell ! 
 
 I may no longer tread the winding glen, 
 But quit its lonely charms, its torrents' swell, 
 
 For dingy streets, " and busy hum of men." 
 Well, be it so : though all without be drear, 
 
 Within my home at least is peace and rest. 
 Methinks the lark that springs the dawn to cheer 
 
 Did never yet turn sorrowing to his nest; 
 No ! though he sings while soaring, yet his strain 
 Is blythest when he nears his lowly home again.
 
 THE WILD CHERRY. 
 
 PRUNUS CERASUS. 
 
 " See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring 
 With all the incense of the breathing spring." 
 
 " WHAT are those living hills of snow, or of some sub- 
 stance purer in its brightness even than any snow that 
 falls, and fades in one night, on the mountain-top? 
 Trees are they, fruit trees the wild cherry : and can 
 that be a load of blossoms ? Fairer never grew before 
 poet's eye of old in the fabled Hesperides. See, how 
 what we call snow brightens into pink*, yet still the 
 whole glory is white ! " 
 
 What woodland wanderer will say this description, 
 glowing as it is, is overcharged ? He who has once seen 
 this beautiful tree, covered with pearly blossoms, reliev- 
 ing with its lighter graces the massy foliage of the forest, 
 will be rather tempted to think that no description can 
 
 * The full-grown blossoms are perfectly white, but the buds have a faint 
 tinge of pink ; the calyx and stem also exhibit stronger shades of the same 
 colour, so that at a distance the appearance of the trees justifies the above 
 description.
 
 do it justice. So truly does it breathe of spring, that 
 if he be in a mood to "find tongues in trees," it reminds 
 him more emphatically, perhaps, than any of its sylvan 
 companions, that "the winter is past, the rain is over 
 and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, the time of 
 the singing birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is 
 heard in our land." Nor is it only when thus blended 
 with heavier trees that its value is chiefly felt ; it may, 
 perhaps, even more confidently challenge our admir- 
 ation when it is seen, as it frequently is, softening the 
 rugged features of the north, decorating some rocky 
 precipice or mountain torrent.' There are some very 
 fine specimens of the wild cherry in the neighbourhood 
 of our English lakes, especially near Rydal water ; one 
 or two of which measure seven or eight feet in circum- 
 ference near the ground, and rise to a proportionable 
 height. 
 
 Our native cherries, of which there are but two 
 species, Prunus cerasus, and Prunus padus, belong to a 
 very comprehensive genus, consisting for the most part 
 of cultivated species, which, besides adorning our 
 orchards with their blossoms, yield also delicious fruit 
 for our table. Apricots, and the various kinds of plums, 
 are comprised in this class, as well as the wild and gar- 
 den cherry.
 
 94 
 
 The latter was first brought to Rome from Pontus by 
 Lucullus, after the Mithridatic war : a cherry-tree, laden 
 with fruit, was borne in procession at his triumph ; and, 
 according to Sir William Temple, within the space of 
 a hundred years, it travelled westward with the Roman 
 conquests, till at last it gained a footing in Britain. 
 Some writers, however, affirm that it did not make its 
 appearance amongst us till the reign of Henry the 
 Eighth, giving the honour of its introduction to Richard 
 Haines, fruiterer to that monarch; but the remains of 
 aged cherry-trees, still visible in some of the old abbey 
 gardens, make its earlier cultivation probable. If Pliny 
 is to be trusted, we shall find his account verifies the 
 first-mentioned date ; for he says positively, " In less than 
 one hundred and twenty years after the conquest of 
 Pontus, other lands had cherries, even as far as Britain, 
 beyond the ocean." Towards the middle of the six- 
 teenth century, cherries were so common as to be hawked 
 about in the metropolis: it was customary to indicate 
 the commencement of the season by carrying a bough 
 laden with this tempting fruit through the streets and 
 alleys. The author, whose essay on gardening we have 
 just quoted, mentions cherries and apples, as " of all 
 other fruits, the most innocent food : " some may be 
 tempted to question this high authority, and to doubt
 
 95 
 
 whether he really has made the best possible selec- 
 tion. 
 
 Shakspeare names the cherry in one or two of his 
 plays ; thus, in Henry the Eighth, 
 
 " 'Tis as like you 
 
 As cherry is to cherry." 
 
 And again, in the Midsummer Night's Dream, 
 Helena, describing the close friendship subsisting be- 
 tween herself and Hermia, says, 
 
 " So we grew together 
 
 Like to a double cherry ; seeming parted, 
 But yet a union in partition." 
 
 Nor was the beautiful ruby tint of its fruit forgotten 
 by the lover when he would sing his lady's praises : 
 
 " Her lippes soft and mery 
 Emblemed like the chery." 
 
 And, moreover, not only did its fruit furnish him with 
 a comparison when he would extol her beauty, but its 
 bark also supplied him with a tablet whereon to transcribe 
 his admiration ; at least, so says Evelyn. Such are his 
 words : " These pretty monuments of courtship, I find,
 
 96 
 
 were much used on the cherry-tree (I suppose the wild 
 one), which has a very smooth rind : 
 
 " Repeat ; thy words on cherry-bark I'll take, 
 And that red skin my table-book will make." 
 
 The fruit of the wild cherry, though so beautiful to 
 the eye, is harsh and crude to the taste: it has been 
 suggested that cultivation might remedy this evil, and 
 change its uninviting properties to that delicious flavour 
 which distinguishes the garden species. But who, 
 merely to gratify the palate, would willingly allow it to 
 undergo any transmutation, lest the native gracefulness of 
 the tree should be impaired ? for no cultivated species can 
 exceed, or even equal, it in beauty. This, as we have before 
 intimated, may be rendered more attractive, by com- 
 parison with the scenes in which we most commonly find 
 it: it does not, like orchard trees, add "sweets to the 
 sweets," but "gives its beauties to the wilderness," and 
 maketh 
 
 " Gay the solitary place, 
 
 Where no eye sees it." 
 
 Lovely, however, as are its blossoms, they are, like 
 most lovely things short lived ; if they do not " come 
 up in a night, and perish in a night," yet their days are
 
 97 
 
 numbered: they bud, bloom, and die in less than a 
 fortnight. Their very frailty, however, has immortalised 
 them in the following touching lines by Herrick : 
 
 " Ye may simper, blush, and smile. 
 And perfume the air awhile ; 
 But, sweet things, ye must be gone ; 
 Fruit, ye know, is coming on : 
 Then, ah ! then, where is your grace, 
 When as cherries come in place? " 
 
 Season of hope and promise ! art thou come, 
 Come with thy changeful looks, thy smiles and tears, 
 Thy angry sallies, and relentings kind ? 
 I welcome thee, capricious as thou art; 
 Nay, oft I think thy very waywardness 
 Adds but more sweetness to thy gentler moods. 
 How have I long'd for thee ! how watch'd each sign 
 Which show'd me of thy coming from the hour 
 When the pale snowdrop, ever in the van 
 Of floral heralds, caught my gladden' d view, 
 Till now, when woods, and meads, and bowers, full-rob'd, 
 Proclaim thee in the zenith of thy power ! 
 H
 
 Oh what a world of beauty ! Summer's bloom 
 
 And Autumn's matron pride say what are they, 
 
 Compar'd with thee, thou Hebe of the year ? 
 
 As far thy budding graces theirs excel 
 
 As hope exceeds enjoyment, in a world 
 
 That never yielded half the promis'd bliss. 
 
 Look at these flowers, just peeping from their nest 
 
 Of moss and leaves, so beautifully shy 
 
 It may be that the sight as yet is new, 
 
 Or else, methinks, I love these lowly ones 
 
 More than the rose herself; and better far 
 
 Than boughs with fruitage crown' d, the dazzling wreaths 
 
 Which deck yon wilding cherry, white as snow, 
 
 Save where a faint soft blush, all but invisible, 
 
 Steals o'er the whiteness, as if Nature felt 
 
 Uncertain of the effect, and fear'd to mar 
 
 What seem'd already perfect. As I gaze 
 
 With kindling glance upon a scene so fair, 
 
 Like some fond mother, who, while she doth watch 
 
 The placid slumbers of her cradled babe, 
 
 Forgets, ah, bitter thought ! man's doom of ill, 
 
 So I forget a curse yet unrepeal'd, 
 
 All lovely as she looks, on Nature lies, 
 
 That all above, around me, and beneath, 
 
 Earth, sea, and sky, despite their present calm,
 
 99 
 
 Obnoxious are to change, and blight, and storm, 
 As man to sin and death. 
 
 Remembrance sad ! 
 And yet, though sad, sweet thoughts 'twill prompt at 
 
 times; 
 
 For if a. fallen world be still so fair, 
 A world which sin has marr'd, where sin doth dwell, 
 Oh ! what will be that paradise of God 
 Prepar'd for those who love Him ! Eye nor ear 
 Hath seen or heard the glory. There no blight, 
 No change of season comes, for sin is not ; 
 But God himself will be the light thereof, 
 " And one unbounded spring encircle all." 
 
 H 2
 
 100 
 
 THE YEW. 
 
 TAXUS BACCATA. 
 
 " The grave, dread thing, 
 
 Men shiver when thou'rt named. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew, 
 Cheerless, unsocial plant." 
 
 THE infinite diversity observable in the works and ap- 
 pearances of nature has already been remarked. In 
 proof of which the sylvan realm offers, perhaps, few 
 stronger contrasts, certainly not in our country, than 
 the light elegant tree we have just been considering, 
 the true similitude of youth and gaiety, and the gloomy, 
 funereal yew, the very sight of which makes us think 
 
 Of graves, of worms, and epitaphs, 
 
 And choose executors, and talk of wills." 
 
 And yet despite its sombre and mournful character, and 
 the opprobrious epithets which poetry has heaped on it, 
 it is a picturesque tree, and one of no inconsiderable
 
 101 
 
 renown. The yew is in high favour with Gilpin. " In 
 a state of nature," says he, " it is, perhaps, one of the 
 most beautiful evergreens we have. Indeed, I know 
 not whether, all things considered, it is not superior to 
 the cedar of Lebanon itself. I mean to such meagre 
 representations of that noble tree as we have in England. 
 The same soil which cramps the cedar is congenial with 
 the yew." 
 
 This tree is truly indigenpus. When left to its own 
 choice of situation, it grows most freely in mountainous 
 woods, or more particularly in the fissures of limestone 
 rocks ; in such places it is still abundant, though far less 
 so than formerly, when " it was to our ancestors what 
 the oak now is to their descendants, the basis of their 
 strength." In those days when we trusted to the bow 
 for our defence, it was ordained by statute that every 
 man should have an English bow, of his own height, 
 made of yew, wych, hazel, ash, or auburn (supposed to 
 be alder). But, "as for brasell, elme, wych, and ash," 
 says Roger Ascham, " experience doth prove them 
 to be mean for bows; and so to conclude, ewe of all 
 other things is that whereof perfite shootinge would 
 have a bowe made." Shakspeare countenances this 
 opinion by the epithet he bestows on it in Richard the 
 Second :
 
 102 
 
 " The very beadsmen learn to bend their bowt 
 Of double fatal yew against thy state." 
 
 Such being the mode of warfare, and such the estimation 
 in which the yew was held for bows, it is no wonder that 
 the cultivation of it was considered a matter of some 
 moment; but as the growth of our own country was not 
 sufficient for the demand, a law was passed by which 
 merchants were obliged to import a stipulated quantity 
 of staves for every ton of goods freighted from countries 
 where the yew was known to grow. 
 
 But the fame of this tree for archery does not rest 
 alone upon the service it rendered to our warlike sires ; 
 we trace it yielding similar aid to nations of high an- 
 tiquity. Homer thus speaks of it in the hands of the 
 Cretans: 
 
 Cydonians, dreadful with the bended yew." 
 
 And Virgil, in the JEneid : 
 
 " This foul reproach Ascanius could not hear 
 With patience, nor a vow'd revenge forbear ; 
 At the full stretch of both his hands he drew, 
 And almost join'd the horns of the tough yew.' 
 
 After considering it in this warlike capacity, it is
 
 103 
 
 rather derogatory to see it, as we frequently do, even 
 now, clipped into all sorts of strange and monstrous 
 shapes in the way of adornment. Perhaps no tree has 
 suffered more than this from the treasonable attempts of 
 art to thwart or supplant nature. By our forefathers, 
 who preferred novelty to reality, it was tortured into 
 various forms, as is evident from the relics yet preserved 
 in many old-fashioned gardens. Shenstone playfully 
 condemns this tampering with the wild graces of nature. 
 " Art," says he, " is indeed often requisite to collect 
 and epitomise the beauties of nature, but should never 
 be suffered to set her mark upon them. Why fantas- 
 tically endeavour to humanise those vegetables of which 
 Nature, discreet Nature, thought it proper to make 
 trees? Why endow the vegetable bird with wings, 
 which Nature has made momentarily dependant upon 
 the soil?" 
 
 The wood of the yew is red, beautifully veined, and 
 very hard and smooth, which makes it valuable for or- 
 namental purposes. Its twigs and leaves are poisonous, 
 and have frequently proved fatal to cattle, and some- 
 times to the human species. Some extend this pernicious 
 property to the berry ; but it is supposed groundlessly, 
 as many persons, ancient and modern, have eaten them 
 without injury. Southey gives countenance to this
 
 104 
 
 opinion when, mourning over the fall of some trees, he 
 says, 
 
 " If he had play'd about here when a child 
 In that fore-court, and ate the yew berries, 
 And sate in the porch threading the jessamine flowers 
 Which fell so thick, he had not had the heart 
 To mar them thus." 
 
 The leaves, however, as we have already stated, are 
 by common consent deemed poisonous ; and it is pro- 
 bably this deadly quality, together with its being usually 
 planted in churchyards, that has led Shakspeare to make 
 " slips of yew " one of the horrible ingredients in his 
 witches' caldron. 
 
 The yew is a tree of astonishing longevity ; it seems 
 a thing 
 
 " Produced too slowly ever to decay." 
 
 So that when we see an aged yew, we may fancy it 
 fraught with the history and legends of centuries. 
 
 Like the oak it has obtained much notice from writers 
 on sylvan scenery ; and many individuals, celebrated 
 for age, bulk, and legendary renown, are before the 
 public, for the benefit of those who are curious in such 
 subjects.
 
 105 
 
 We must, however, single one from its fellows, not 
 only on account of its great age for it is said to have 
 flourished upwards of a thousand years, but for the 
 memorable events with which it is connected. The yew- 
 tree at Ankerwyke, near Staines, " was the silent witness 
 of the conference of those brave barons who afterwards 
 compelled John to sign Magna Charta in its immediate 
 vicinity. It is also said to have been the ill-omened 
 witness of the meetings of the eighth Henry with Anne 
 Boleyn, who was placed at Staines to be near Windsor." 
 
 The yew, as has been already observed, delights in 
 mountainous woods and limestone rocks ; as, however, in 
 our days, the native stock is greatly diminished, we are 
 most familiar with it as the sentinel of the churchyard, 
 for which habitation its dark evergreen foliage renders 
 it peculiarly appropriate ; and we almost merge " the 
 good tough yew " of ancient times, in " the funereal 
 yew" of the present Yet had it, even in its days of 
 warlike renown, a close connection with the grave, for 
 it has immemorially been the ornament and guardian 
 of country burial places ; and what so fit 
 
 " In place of sculptur'd stone," 
 
 To mark " the resting place of men unknown ? "
 
 106 
 
 It was also used to deck the corpse, at least so Shak- 
 speare intimates in the following passage : 
 
 " My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 
 Oh prepare it ! " 
 
 and at the time of interment was carried by the 
 mourners, and afterwards deposited beneath the body, 
 its perpetual verdure being considered a happy emblem 
 of the immortality of the soul. 
 
 Few weeks have sped since from yonder pile 
 
 A merry chime was rung, 
 And blossoms meet for a fair young bride 
 
 On the churchyard path were flung. 
 
 But that chime is changed to a doleful knell, 
 And those flowers so gay and fair 
 
 To funeral wreaths for the youthful bride 
 Now lies shrouded on her bier. 
 
 And by white-robed maids is she borne along 
 To her grave beneath the shade 
 
 Of the lonely yew, and oh ! loud is their wail 
 As the last sad rites are paid.
 
 107 
 
 Spell-bound I stood by that sentinel tree, 
 And I could not choose but weep, 
 
 As one by one that sorrowing train 
 Left the dead to her lonely deep. 
 
 And as I mused on the fearful sights 
 
 That hoary yew had seen, 
 'Twas fancy, I know, but methought a voice 
 
 Thus sounded the gusts between : 
 
 ( Yes, mortal, yes I have that to tell 
 Would turn Beauty's bright cheek pale, 
 
 Would cause the sallies of mirth to cease, 
 And e'en warrior's heart to quail. 
 
 * I have seen the old, like a shock of corn, 
 
 Safe garner'd in the tomb ; 
 I have seen the babe of a few brief days 
 
 Cut off in its early bloom. 
 
 ' I have seen the maid, whose cheek was bright 
 
 As a rose in its summer prime, 
 Droop like that rose 'neath storms or blight, 
 
 And die in youth's budding time.
 
 108 
 
 ' I have heard, o'er the grave of her only son, 
 
 The widow her wailings pour; 
 Then I've seen her turn to her desolate home, 
 
 Now reft both of fence and flower. 
 
 * Mortal thou know'st not how passing short 
 
 Thy number'd days may be, 
 Oh ! then so live that, when comes the last, 
 
 Death may have no sting for thee.'
 
 109 
 
 THE HAZEL. 
 
 CORYLUS AVELLANA. 
 
 " Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 
 
 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun, 
 Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
 
 With fruit the vines, that round the thatch'd eaves run ; 
 To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees, 
 
 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 
 To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel-shells 
 With a sweet kernel." 
 
 THE setting in of autumn is characterised by an in- 
 crease of splendour in the general aspect of nature. 
 
 How clear the cloudless sky ! how deeply ting'd 
 With a peculiar blue ! the ethereal arch 
 How swelPd immense ! amid whose azure thron'd, 
 The radiant sun how gay ! how calm below 
 The gilded earth ! 
 
 At this time the garden assumes a more showy ap- 
 pearance than even summer boasts. The rose and 
 the lily are followed, in quick succession, by hollyhocks,
 
 110 
 
 dahlias, asters, and other gorgeous flowers, each striving 
 to outvie its neighbour in vividness and variety of 
 colour, not less than in dignity of form and growth. 
 If we look on the fields, 
 
 " Extensive harvests hang the heavy head, 
 A calm of plenty." 
 
 Or, in the more emphatic language of Scripture, " The 
 little hills rejoice on every side, the valleys are covered 
 with corn ; they shout for joy, they also sing." 
 
 If we turn to the woodlands, there is just sufficient 
 diversity in the tints to give beauty and richness to the 
 scene, without reminding us too strongly of decay. 
 
 But it is, perhaps, in the orchard that the glory of 
 autumn is most fully displayed. There, 
 
 " Whate'er the wintry frost 
 
 Nitrous prepar'd, the various-blossom'd spring 
 Put in white promise forth, and summer suns 
 
 Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view, 
 
 Full, perfect all." 
 
 In lands of " the sweet south," the olive> the fig, the 
 orange, and, above all, the vine, are seen mingling 
 their rich and varied fruitage. In our less genial cli- 
 mate, besides those fruits which require artificial heat, 
 we can show plums of various kinds, pears, apples,
 
 Ill 
 
 filberts; and not only in the orchard, but in every 
 coppice, and haunting every stream, the hazel, so eulo- 
 gized by the poet, so dear to our childhood. 
 
 Burns leads us adown many a hazelly path, where 
 " twin nuts cluster thick ; " and we almost hear 
 
 " The little birdies blythely sing, 
 While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
 Or lightly flit on wanton wing, 
 
 In the birks of Aberfeldy." 
 
 Virgil makes frequent mention of "the tangling 
 hazel." Indeed, in the following passage, he gives it 
 more Tionour than is due : 
 
 " Alcides' brows the poplar leaves surround, 
 Apollo's beamy locks with bays are crown'd, 
 The myrtle, lovely queen of smiles, is thine. 
 And jolly Bacchus loves the curling vine ; 
 But while my Phyllis loves the hazel -spray, 
 To hazel yield the myrtle and the bay." 
 
 In his second Georgic, however, he is less compli- 
 mentary to our favourite, positively forbidding, on 
 account of some supposed noxious quality, its entrance 
 into the vineyard : 
 
 " The hurtful ha/cl in the vineyard shun."
 
 112 
 
 Shakspeare, in the " Taming of the Shrew," says, 
 
 " Kate, like the hazel twig, is straight and slender; and brown in hue 
 .)s hazel nuts, and sweeter than the kernels." 
 
 And Thomson, whom no rural sound or sight escapes, 
 describing the various haunts which different birds 
 select for their nests, mentions some as choosing 
 
 " shaggy banks 
 
 Steep and divided by a babbling brook, 
 Whose murmurs soothe them all the livelong day 
 When by kind duty fix'd. Among the roots 
 Of hazel, pendent o'er the plaintive stream, 
 They form the first foundation of their domes." 
 
 These are but a few of the poetical notices of this 
 rural favourite; but it has other and dearer claims on 
 our regard than those which arise from its classical 
 fame. " When we think of the lovely scenes into 
 which the careless steps of our youth have been led," 
 says a writer we have frequently quoted, "in search 
 of its nuts, when autumn had begun to brown die 
 points of their clusters, we are bound to it by threads 
 of the most delightful associations with those beloved
 
 113 
 
 ones who were the companions of such idle but happy 
 days." How well can the heart respond to these remi- 
 niscences ! for a proneness to dwell with pleasure on the 
 sports of our early years, and to retrace those scenes 
 
 " Where erst our careless childhood stray'd, 
 A stranger yet to pain," 
 
 is a universal passion ; and among those sports nutting 
 has ever held the foremost place. What a lively picture 
 Thomson gives us of this rural pastime ; and how feel- 
 ingly, too, Wordsworth describes it, though, in this 
 instance, his was a solitary joy : 
 
 - " It seems a day 
 
 ( I speak of one from many singled out), 
 One of those heavenly days which cannot die ; 
 When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 
 I lea our cottage threshold, sallying forth, 
 With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung, 
 A nutting, crook in hand, and turn'd my steps 
 Towards the distant woods, a figure quaint, 
 Trick 'd out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds 
 Which for that service had been husbanded, 
 Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
 At thorns and brakes and brambles, and in truth 
 More rugged than need was. Among the woods, 
 And o'er the pathless rocks I forced my way, 
 I
 
 114 
 
 Until at length I came to one dear nook 
 
 Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
 
 Droop'd with its wither'd leaves, ungracious sign 
 
 Of devastation ; but the hazels rose 
 
 Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung 
 
 A virgin scene ! A little while I stood, 
 
 Breathing with such suppression of the heart 
 
 As joy delights in ; and with wise restraint 
 
 Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
 
 The banquet or beneath the trees I sate 
 
 Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play'd. 
 
 " Then up I rose, 
 
 And dragg'd to earth both branch and bough, with crash 
 And merciless ravage ; and the shady nook 
 Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, 
 Deform'd and sullied, patiently gave up 
 Their quiet being." 
 
 The hazel grows wild in almost every part of Great 
 Britain, but it most prefers a sandy soil, and cold 
 mountainous situations ; indeed, it ranks amongst 
 those hardy trees which are found in very high lati- 
 tudes. 
 
 There are only two species of corylus, our hazel, of 
 which the filbert is merely a variety; and corylus 
 colurna, the Byzantine nut. " The hazel," says Swin- 
 burn, " has the name Avellana from Avellino, a city
 
 115 
 
 of the kingdom of Naples, where it is much cultivated, 
 and covers the whole face of the neighbouring valley, 
 and in good years brings in a profit of sixty thousand 
 ducats. The nuts are mostly of the large round filbert, 
 which we call Spanish. They were originally brought 
 into Italy from Pontus, and known amongst the Romans 
 by the appellation of nux Pontica, which, in process of 
 time, was changed into that of nux Avellana, from the 
 place where they had been propagated with the greatest 
 success." 
 
 The origin of the euphonious title of Caledonia, by 
 which that tasteful people distinguished Scotland, arose, 
 according to Sir William Temple, from the following 
 circumstance : " The north-west part was called Cal- 
 Dun, signifying hills of hazel, with which it was covered; 
 from which the Romans, forming an easy and pleasant 
 sound out of what was harsh to their classical ear, gave 
 it the name of Caledonia." 
 
 The hazel is amongst our earliest flowering trees ; in 
 mild seasons, its beautiful pendulous catkins show them- 
 selves even in January. It is amongst trees what the 
 snowdrop is amongst flowers, the first herald of spring. 
 
 To sum up briefly its claims on our regard : it cheers 
 us with its bloom ere " the whiter is over and gone;" in 
 autumn it yields us "fruit, pleasant to the eyes, and 
 i 2
 
 116 
 
 good for food;" it furnishes us with many poetical asso- 
 ciations; it offers recreation to the young; and, more 
 than all, in later years, the sight of it sends such a re 
 newal of youthful feeling into the heart, that, for a while 
 at least, the present, with its perplexities and sorrows, is 
 merged in the past, when our cares were " as the morn- 
 ing cloud," and our tears " as the early dew that passeth 
 away." 
 
 Ere yet pale Autumn on the leaf-strew'd ground 
 
 Sits like a widow, sad and desolate, 
 Weeping, with mantle rent and head discrown'd, 
 
 The vanish'd glory of her early state, 
 She hath an hour of triumph and of pride, 
 When, bless'd and blessing, through earth's circuit wide 
 She walks with laughing Plenty at her side. 
 She looks around with warm, maturing smile, 
 And waving harvests ask the reaper's toil ; 
 She gives the vine (child of a southern sky) 
 Its pulpy nectar, and its Tyrian dye ; 
 She ripens the green germ which Summer won 
 From Spring's empurpled blossoms, and anon
 
 117 
 
 The orchard's mossy boughs, with fruitage crown'd, 
 Stoop with their mellow burden to the ground ; 
 While in the tangled copse of tawny hue, 
 The clustering hazel tempts the wanderer's view. 
 The clustering hazel ! ah ! as with a spell 
 Those few brief words recall the bygone hours, 
 When the heart's pulse was music, and on flowers, 
 Bright, thornless flowers, my footsteps ever fell. 
 Ev'n now, methinks, I see the bushy dell, 
 The tangled brake, green lane, or sunny glade, 
 Where " on a sunshine holiday," I strayed, 
 Plucking the ripening nuts with eager glee, 
 Which from the hazel boughs hung temptingly ; 
 Till falling dews, and floweret's closing bell, 
 To my unwilling heart did Eve's dim reign foretell. 
 
 'T is not, O Time ! that thou dost pale the rose 
 On youth's fair cheek, or stain the lily's snows ; 
 (Mar as thou wilt these graces of our prime) 
 'Tis not for this I dread thee, ruthless Time ! 
 'T is that thou tam'st the spirits, check'st the play 
 Of youthful fancy, turn'st our matin lay 
 To dirge-like music, changest hopes to fears, 
 And for one smile call'st forth uncounted tears.
 
 118 
 
 Season of bliss ! return, return once more, 
 When, yet untaught in sorrow's darkling lore, 
 The heart, all sunshine, with its own sweet light 
 Tinges whate'er arrests the wondering sight, 
 O'er Spring's blue skies a brighter lustre throws, 
 And gives a livelier tint to Summer's rose. 
 Take, keep, what else thou wilt, so thou restore 
 O, changing Time ! this youth of heart once more !
 
 119 
 
 THE FIG. 
 
 FICUS CARICA. 
 
 " Close to the gates a spacious garden lies, 
 From storms defended and inclement skies ; 
 Here the blue fig with luscious juice o'erflows, 
 With deeper red the full pomegranate glows ; 
 Here order'd vines in equal ranks appear, 
 And verdant olives flourish all the year. 
 The balmy spirit of the western gale 
 Eternal breathes on fruits untaught to fail ; 
 Each dropping pear a following pear supplies, 
 On apples, apples, figs on figs arise : 
 The same mild season gives the blooms to blow, 
 The buds to harden, and the fruits to grow." 
 
 " GOD ALMIGHTY first planted a garden," says Lord 
 Bacon : " it is the purest of human pleasures ; it is the 
 greatest refreshment to the spirits of man." And in so 
 saying he does not speak unadvisedly, or from envy or 
 ignorance, for he had tasted, and that not sparingly, all 
 the pleasures which station, wealth, and learning can 
 bestow; but, in despite of them all, he thus gives it
 
 120 
 
 as his opinion that the simplest pleasures are the best. 
 In the above description of the garden of Alcinous, we 
 have all that riches and taste can heap together ; but it 
 does not require " this gay profusion of luxurious bliss " 
 to make a garden the source both of healthful employ- 
 ment and sincere gratification. " Happy they that can 
 create a rose-tree, or erect a honeysuckle," says the poet 
 Gray ; " that can watch the brood of a hen, or see a fleet 
 of their own ducklings launch into the water." 
 
 In most parts of Italy the fig, the vine, and the olive 
 abound. 
 
 What a beautifully vivid picture the poet, lately 
 quoted, gives of the route towards Naples ! " The 
 minute one leaves his Holiness' dominions, the face of 
 things begins to change from wide uncultivated plains 
 to olive groves and well-tilled fields of corn, intermixed 
 with rows of elms, every one of which has its vine twin- 
 ing about it, and hanging in festoons between the rows 
 from one tree to another. The great old fig-trees, the 
 oranges in full bloom, and myrtles in every hedge, 
 make one of the most delightful scenes you can con- 
 ceive." 
 
 Dissimilar as are these trees, both in their mode 
 of growth and their produce, they are yet constantly 
 associated in the imagination. The reason of this is,
 
 121 
 
 not only because they are so frequently seen grouped 
 together in eastern and southern landscapes (the same 
 soil and temperature being common to each), but because 
 they are always mentioned conjunctively in the Scrip- 
 tures as symbols and proofs of prosperity and fertility. 
 " The Lord thy God bringeth thee into a good land ; 
 * * * a land of vines, and fig-trees, and pomegranates ; 
 a land of oil, olive, and honey." Deut. viii. 8. And 
 when Joshua sent men to see the promised land, and 
 bring a report of it and specimens of the fruits, "they 
 came unto the brook Eschol, and cut down from thence 
 a branch with one cluster of grapes, and they bare it 
 between two upon a staff: and they brought of the 
 pomegranates and of the figs." 
 
 But we must leave the vine and the olive for future 
 consideration, and direct our attention wholly to the fig. 
 It is confessedly a native of Asia, but whether of any 
 parts of Europe is a matter of conjecture ; if not really 
 indigenous, however, it has been cultivated there from 
 the most remote antiquity. It is mentioned by Homer, 
 not only in the lines selected for the motto, but also as 
 surmounting a rock near where " Charybdis holds her 
 boisterous reign." 
 
 " Full on its crown a fig's green branches rise, 
 And shoot a leafy forest to the skies."
 
 122 
 
 And in another passage he says, 
 
 " There figs, sky-dyed, a purple hue disclose. " 
 
 It was dedicated by the Romans to Saturn as the patron 
 of agriculture ; they crowned his statue with its fruit; 
 they planted it at the entrance to his temple ; and also 
 bore it in procession next in order to the vine in their 
 bacchanalian festivals. The fig was held in the highest 
 estimation, in early times, for its nutritious qualities; 
 and formed then, as now, a grateful repast to people 
 whose primitive taste requires little else than fruits, 
 vegetables, bread, and water. It was one of the articles 
 of food allowed at the common tables established by 
 Lycurgus ; and by the Athenians it was deemed of so 
 much importance, in this point of view, that their ex- 
 portation was strictly prohibited. A failure in the crop 
 was considered by the Jews a national calamity; and 
 when judgment was denounced against their land, this 
 was always part of the curse, " There shall be no grapes 
 on the vines, nor figs on the fig-tree." 
 
 Though this tree never attains any very considerable 
 height, yet its broad mantling foliage forms a delightful 
 shelter from the ardent rays of the sun in those burning 
 climes. This is often beautifully alluded to in holy writ ; 
 as in Micah, " And they shall sit every man under his
 
 1-23 
 
 vine, and under his fig-tree, and none shall make them 
 afraid." 
 
 It is gratefully mentioned by most modern travellers. 
 Burckhardt recalls with enthusiasm the refreshing shade 
 it afforded him in the neighbourhood of Tiberias, when 
 overcome by the intense heat of a mid-day sun. Hasel- 
 quist also bears the same testimony. We shall quote 
 his words, as they form quite a pastoral landscape 
 truly eastern : " We refreshed ourselves beneath a 
 fig-tree, under which was a well, where a shepherd and 
 his flock had their rendezvous ; but without either house 
 or hut." 
 
 Respecting the date of the introduction of the fig into 
 Britain, authors hold different opinions: some think it 
 was brought hither by our Roman conquerors; others 
 place it several centuries later, and state that Cardinal 
 Pole planted the first specimens in the palace garden at 
 Lambeth. These identical trees are still in being, and 
 till very lately were in a most flourishing condition, 
 covering a space of fifty feet in height and forty in 
 breadth, and bearing delicious fruit. 
 
 This fruit, however, appears never to have been con- 
 genial with the English taste; for, though it takes more 
 kindly to our climate than either the vine or the olive, 
 certainly than the latter, its cultivation has always been
 
 124 
 
 very limited ; the common proverb, too, which is in use, 
 when any thing is spoken of disparagingly, corroborates 
 this opinion. Shakspeare makes frequent mention of it 
 in this sense. Among later poets, Thomson names it in 
 his beautiful description of autumnal fruits : 
 
 " Here, as I steal along the sunny wall, 
 Where Autumn basks, with fruits empurpled deep, 
 My pleasing theme continual prompts my thought } 
 Presents the downy peach ; the shining plum ; 
 The ruddy, fragrant nectarine ; and, dark 
 Beneath its ample leaf, the luscious fig." 
 
 There are many species of the genus ficus, amongst 
 which are the sycamore fig, so frequently mentioned in 
 scripture, and the celebrated banian or Indian fig. 
 
 The fig sometimes bears a triple crop, thus supplying 
 the inhabitants of the countries where it grows with fruit 
 a great part of the year. The first ripe figs, according 
 to Dr. Shaw, " are called boccore, and come to maturity 
 about the latter end of June, though, like other fruit, 
 they yield a few ripe before the full season." These arc 
 probably of inferior value * ; for the prophet Hosea says, 
 " I found Israel like grapes in the wilderness; I saw 
 
 * This seems a little at variance with a passage in Jeremiah, xxiv. 2. 
 " One basket had very good figs, even like the fig* that are first ripe."
 
 125 
 
 your fathers as the first ripe in the fig-tree at her first 
 time." When the boccore draws near perfection, the 
 karmouse, or summer fig, begins to be formed. This 
 is the crop which is dried. When the karmouse ripens, 
 in Syria and Barbary, there appears a third crop, which 
 often hangs and ripens upon the tree after the leaves 
 are shed." 
 
 This tree is frequently alluded to in the New Tes- 
 tament. The curse denounced against the barren fig- 
 tree is too striking an event to be passed unnoticed. In 
 reference to it, Hartwell Home, in his Introduction to 
 the Critical Study of the Scriptures, has the following 
 remark : "It is a well-known fact that the fruit of 
 these prolific trees always precedes the leaves; conse- 
 quently, when Jesus Christ saw one of them in full 
 vigour having leaves, he might, according to the common 
 course of nature, very justly look for fruit, and haply 
 find some boccores or early figs, if not some winter figs 
 upon it." 
 
 Besides the immediate inference which our blessed 
 Saviour himself pointed out to his wondering disciples 
 from this circumstance, namely, the power of faith, it 
 seems capable of affording another lesson. Does it not 
 intimate the danger of a false and fruitless profession? 
 " Every branch," says our Lord, " in me that beareth 
 not fruit, he taketh away."
 
 126 
 
 Short time ago, and yonder tree 
 Waved in the light breeze gloriously ; 
 And to the morning sun displayed 
 Proudly its amplitude of shade. 
 
 Say, then, what storm, what sudden blast, 
 With poison'd breath, has o'er it pass'd, 
 That thus like shrivell'd scroll it shows 
 With wither'd leaves and drooping boughs ? 
 
 Each flower sleeps peaceful on its stem, 
 Each spray the pendent dew-drops gem ; 
 How then could sudden blast or storm 
 Have ravaged thus its stately form ? 
 
 It was His word who spake at first 
 Creation into life : He curs'd 
 That fated tree the spell of power 
 It own'd, and wither'd in an hour. 
 
 And what provoked the doom severe ? 
 Its trunk was firm, its boughs were fair ; 
 Its leaves in gold and emerald shone : j 
 
 He sought for fruit but fruit was none.
 
 127 
 
 Ah ! who so blind as not to read 
 A fearful meaning in the deed ? 
 On me, on all, a searching eye 
 Is bent in awful scrutiny. 
 
 What if within these hearts of ours, 
 For fruit, it sees but leaves or flowers ? 
 Ah ! who may tell how long the doom 
 Shall threaten ere its thunders come ! 
 
 Awhile, at Mercy's earnest suit, 
 The voice of Justice may be mute ; 
 But never will she sheathe her sword, 
 While man the worm defies the Lord ! 
 
 Oh ! strong to punish, strong to save ! 
 How long shall we Thy fury brave ? 
 How long? till Thou thyself embue 
 Each callous heart with heavenly dew. 
 
 Hast Thou not said, in wilds forlorn 
 The myrtle shall supplant the thorn ? 
 Fulfil Thy promise, then shall we 
 Yield fruits of holiness to Thee !
 
 128 
 
 THE VINE. 
 
 VITIS VINIFERA, 
 
 " Turn we a moment Fancy's rapid flight 
 To vigorous soils, and climes of fair extent, 
 Where, by the potent sun elated high, 
 The vineyard swells refulgent on the day 5 
 Spreads o'er the vale, or up the mountain climbs 
 Profuse ; and drinks amid the sunny rocks, 
 From cliff to cliff increased, the heighten'd blaze. 
 Low bend the weighty boughs ; the clusters clear 
 Half through the foliage seen, or ardent flame, 
 Or shine transparent, while perfection breathes 
 White o'er the turgent film the living dew." 
 
 BEAUTIFUL and glowing as is this description of the 
 vine, we may yet truly say it needs not the poet's pencil 
 to enhance its charms ; for when left to follow its own 
 elegant fancies, and to twine its tendrils to any prop 
 which offers itself, it does indeed 
 
 Outstrip all praise, 
 And make it halt behind."
 
 129 
 
 Such is its character in many parts of Spain and Italy, 
 where it is not cultivated for wine. It is then seen with 
 the most picturesque effect, hanging its gay festoons to 
 neighbouring trees, asking support, and giving beauty. 
 Southey has the following beautiful description of it : 
 
 " These scenes profusely blest by Heaven they left, 
 Where_o'er the hazel and the quince, the vine 
 Wide mantling spreads ; and, clinging round the cork 
 And ilex, hangs amid their dusky leaves 
 Garlands of brightest hue, with reddening fruit 
 Pendent, or clusters cool of glassy green." 
 
 In those parts, however, where it is cultivated for 
 wine, all its native gracefulness is lost; and in France 
 and Germany especially, " the pole-clipt vineyards," 
 as Shakspeare rightly designates them, are always dis- 
 appointing objects to travellers who are unprepared for 
 their appearance under culture. The vines are trained 
 to poles, seldom more than a yard high, and all their 
 wild luxuriance is pruned, the more to enhance the 
 size and flavour of the fruit. In the latter country 
 they are constantly seen mingling their trellised 
 branches, laden with translucent clusters, the very 
 image of plenty, with the ruined fortresses and ba- 
 ronial castles which overhang the Rhine; and there, 
 though still suffering from the pruning knife, they look
 
 130 
 
 well from contrast most assuredly they do so in 
 poetry : 
 
 " Above the frequent feudal towers, 
 Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, 
 And many a rock which steeply lours, 
 And noble arch in proud decay, 
 Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers. " 
 
 The earliest authentic history we have of the cultiva- 
 tion of this tree is in the book of Genesis, where we 
 are told, "Noah began to be a husbandman, and he 
 planted a vineyard." If, however, we might trust to 
 poetry, we should find that it was of yet prior date ; for 
 it is described as one of the pleasant pursuits of our 
 first parents to lead 
 
 " The vine 
 
 To wed her elm." 
 
 We also learn from the same authority, that in that 
 garden of bliss, there were 
 
 " Umbrageous grots, and caves 
 
 Of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine 
 Laid forth her purple grape, and gently crept 
 Luxuriant.-
 
 131 
 
 The next poetical intimation we have of its culture 
 is from Homer : 
 
 " Here order'd vines in equal ranks appear, 
 With all th' united labours of the year ; 
 Some to unload the fertile branches run, 
 Some dry the blackening clusters in the sun, 
 Others to tread the liquid harvest join, 
 The groaning presses foam with floods of wine ; 
 Here are the vines in early flower descried, 
 Here grapes discolour'd on the sunny side, 
 And there in Autumn's richest purple dyed." 
 
 Fiction, however, apart, the cultivation of the vine 
 was certainly a matter of great moment in the East. 
 The vineyards were most commonly planted on the 
 southern side of a hill, and surrounded by walls, or a 
 hedge of thorns, every thing being first cleared away 
 which might injure the growth of the plants ; a striking 
 commentary this on the first and second verses in the 
 fifth chapter of Isaiah. Palestine abounded in vines, 
 particularly in the district allotted to Judah ; in which 
 were contained Eschol and Engeddi, so famous for their 
 vineyards. Thus was the prediction of the patriarch ful- 
 filled : " Binding his foal unto the vine, and his ass's 
 colt unto the choice vine: he washed his garments in 
 wine, and his clothes in the blood of the grape." 
 K 2
 
 132 
 
 A.S a symbol of joy and plenty, the vine is perpetually 
 recurring in Scripture. Besides the prophecy just 
 quoted, we find when Isaac invoked a blessing on Jacob 
 he said, " God give thee of the dew of heaven, and the 
 fatness of the earth, and plenty of corn and wine." 
 
 Such are a few of the passages where it is referred to 
 in the Old Testament : in the Gospels it is connected 
 with more touching associations. With solemnised feel- 
 ings, we remember who hath said, " I am the vine, ye 
 are the branches ; he that abideth in me, and I in him, 
 the same bringeth forth much fruit." And with yet 
 deeper emotion we recall to mind the sacramental supper, 
 and who it was that " took the cup and blessed it, saying, 
 Drink ye all of it; for this is my blood of the New 
 Testament, which is shed for many for the remission of 
 sins." 
 
 Like most other choice fruits, the vine migrated from 
 the East to the West. Some writers affirm it is truly 
 wild in Greece, a circumstance which others doubt ; but 
 if not indigenous, from a very remote period it has been 
 completely naturalised both there and in other parts of 
 southern Europe, where its culture has long formed a 
 chief branch of rural economy. 
 
 Virgil, who seems almost as good a naturalist as a 
 poet, discourses very learnedly on the cultivation both
 
 133 
 
 of the vine and olive, in his second Georgic. He in- 
 forms us how, and when, and where to plant these 
 valuable trees, in strains so sweet that the rough labours 
 of husbandry appear no longer a part of the original 
 curse. Speaking of the natural habitat of the vine, he 
 says, 
 
 " Nor every plant on every soil will grow : 
 The sallow loves the wat'ry ground, and low ; 
 The marshes alders. Nature seems t' ordain 
 The rocky cliffs for the wild ash's reign ; 
 The baleful yew to northern blasts assigns, 
 To shores the myrtles, and to mounts the vines." 
 
 But when under culture, he allows the situation to be 
 a matter of choice, recommending only a corresponding 
 difference in the mode of planting : 
 
 " Choose next a province for thy vineyard's reign 
 On hills above, or in the lowly plain : 
 If fertile fields or valleys be thy choice, 
 Plant thick, for bounteous Bacchus will rejoice 
 In close plantations there. But if the vine 
 On rising ground be placed, or hills supine, 
 Extend thy loose battalions largely wide, 
 Opening thy ranks and files on either side ; 
 But marshall'd all in order as they stand, 
 And let no soldier straggle from his band."
 
 134 
 
 The softness of the Italian climate, and the luxuri- 
 ance of the vineyards, are supposed to have been the 
 lure which tempted the northern hordes to ravage that 
 fair land, whose curse has ever been " the fatal gift of 
 beauty." How fine is the poet's description ! 
 
 " The prostrate South to the destroyer yields 
 Her boasted titles and her golden fields : 
 With grim delight the brood of winter view 
 A brighter day, and heavens of azure hue, 
 Scent the new fragrance of the breathing rose, 
 And quaff the pendent vintage as it grows." 
 
 The vine appears to be more fastidious with regard to 
 temperature than to soil : it is almost equally adverse to 
 extremes of heat and cold, and is only cultivated with 
 advantage from the 21 to 51 of northern latitude; but 
 with respect to the latter, though it prefers such as is 
 light and gravelly, it will grow almost on any soil ; nay, 
 we are told by the poet that 
 
 " Leanest land supplies the richest wine." 
 
 It is a tree of amazing longevity, even superior to 
 that of the oak itself, and is in a condition to bear fruit 
 many hundred years. Its wood is very durable, and its 
 stem sometimes attains a considerable bulk. The great
 
 135 
 
 doors of the cathedral of Ravenna are made of vine 
 planks. 
 
 Of the first introduction of this beautiful and valuable 
 tree amongst us, there are no authentic records ; but it 
 is generally supposed we are indebted for it to the 
 Romans, towards the close of the time that they held our 
 island in subjection. 
 
 It was certainly cultivated here under the Saxon dy- 
 nasty, as vineyards are mentioned in the earliest Saxon 
 charters. Winchester, and many other places, are sup- 
 posed to have derived their name from the extensive 
 vineries in their immediate neighbourhood. The Vale 
 of Gloucester was famous for its vines ; and in the days 
 of popery every monastery had its vineyard, for the 
 foreign monks inherited from their own more genial 
 climes a predilection for the juice of the grape. And 
 still in some of our southern counties, 
 
 -^ " The vine her curling tendrils shoots, 
 Hangs out her clusters glowing to the south, 
 And scarcely wishes for a warmer sky." 
 
 Generally speaking, however, we find its culture dis- 
 regarded, except as an article of luxury in our stoves, 
 or blended with woodbine and other climbing plants as
 
 136 
 
 an ornament to our houses and cottages. Milton gives 
 us a beautiful sketch of it in this position : 
 
 " To hear the lark begin his flight, 
 And singing startle the dull night, 
 From his watch-tower in the skies, 
 Till the dappled morn arise : 
 Then to come in spite of sorrow, 
 And at my window bid good-morrow 
 Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, 
 
 Or the twisted eglantine." 
 
 * 
 
 No plant, perhaps, has so much classical fame as the 
 vine. It has been the favourite theme of poetry in all 
 ages and in all countries. We select the following from 
 Homer's multitudinous store : 
 
 " Depending vines the shelving caverns screen, 
 With purple clusters blushing through the green." 
 
 And from Virgil : 
 
 " For now the year in brightest glory shines, 
 Now reddening clusters deck the bending vines." 
 
 Among our own poets, Shakspeare, in Henry the Fifth, 
 speaking of the effects of protracted war in France, 
 says,
 
 137 
 
 " Her husbandry doth lie in heaps, 
 
 Corrupting in its own fertility ; 
 
 Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart, 
 
 Unpruned dies." 
 
 In Henry the Eighth he borrows prophetic imagery, 
 and applies it to the security and prosperity predicted 
 by the prelate under Elizabeth's sway : 
 
 " In her days every man shall eat in safety, 
 Under his own vine, what he plants ; and sing 
 The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours." 
 
 In Comus, when the disguised enchanter gives in- 
 formation to the lady of her belated brothers, he says, 
 
 r 
 
 " I saw them under a green mantling vine, 
 That crawls along the side of yon small hill, 
 Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots ; 
 Their port was more than human as they stood. 
 I took it for a faery vision 
 Of some gay creatures of the elements, 
 That in the colours of the rainbow live, 
 And play i' th" plighted clouds." 
 
 The whole description is so very beautiful, we could 
 not forbear quoting it. 
 
 In his fine poem of the " Messiah," Pope thus de- 
 scribes the blessings of His reign :
 
 138 
 
 " Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, 
 And the same hand that sow'd shall reap the field." 
 
 One more sketch from the pen of a modern poet, 
 which admirably comprises, in one glowing view, the 
 various features of a southern landscape : 
 
 " The horrid crags by toppling convent crown'd, 
 The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
 The mountain moss by scorching skies embrown'd, 
 The sunken glen whose sunless herbs must weep, 
 The tender azure of th' unruffled deep, 
 The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
 The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, 
 The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
 
 Mix'd in one mighty scene with varied beauty glow. " 
 
 The magnificent clusters of beautiful fruit which adorn 
 its branches are the produce of a remarkably small 
 insignificant flower, which possesses, however, in a con- 
 siderable degree, the redeeming quality of fragrance; 
 a quality for which Lord Bacon greatly commends it. 
 " Next to the violet," says he, " is the musk rose ; then 
 the strawberry leaves dying, with a most excellent cor- 
 dial smell; then the flower of the vine, it is a little 
 dust, like the dust of a bent, which grows upon the 
 cluster in the first coming forth." But we can adduce
 
 139 
 
 far higher authority than his in praise of the perfume of 
 this little flower : he who " spake of trees, from the cedar 
 tree that is in Lebanon, even unto the hyssop that 
 springeth out of the wall," says, " The fig-tree putteth 
 forth her green figs, and the vines with the tende 
 grapes give a good smell."
 
 140 
 
 THE VINE IN FLOWER. 
 
 * Is this thy whole of bloom ? Does Spring 
 No richer, brighter garland fling 
 
 Around thy stem? 
 Then surely it is but in sport 
 That thou dost ask in Flora's court 
 
 A place and name.' 
 
 ' Ah ! spare thy taunt ; I know full well 
 In me no floral beauties dwell : 
 
 The meanest weed 
 That blossoms in the public way, 
 In grace of form, in colours gay, 
 Doth me exceed. 
 
 * But come when Autumn's genial hour 
 Has changed to fruit my puny flower, 
 
 And from my bough 
 The purple nectar freely sip ; 
 And whilst it cools thy parched lip 
 
 And fever'd brow,
 
 141 
 
 Oh ! learn with more discerning eyes, 
 Whate'er its aspect or disguise, 
 
 True worth to scan ; 
 And, better taught, in time to come, 
 Pause ere thou hastily fore-doom 
 
 Thy fellow-man.' 
 
 IN FRUIT. 
 
 And such is then thy Autumn dower ! 
 Such clusters from so mean a flower ! 
 
 How can it be? 
 If Flora slight thee, yet I trow 
 Pomona's pride and boast art thou, 
 
 Thou glorious tree ! 
 
 Thou, to whom bards of old did string 
 The viol, and thy praises sing 
 
 In various lay, 
 I, too, though feeble be my lyre, 
 To laud thy beauty would aspire, 
 
 But not as they.
 
 142 
 
 Their loudest pajans were outpour'd 
 When freely at the festal board 
 
 Thy nectar fiWd ; 
 When in the cup it mov'd aright, 
 And to the eye like ruby bright 
 
 Its colour show'd. 
 
 Whilst I I love thee best, fair vine, 
 When thou from tree to tree dost twine 
 
 Thy fruitful boughs ; 
 When pleasant both to sight and taste, 
 With more than fabled beauty grac'd, 
 
 Each cluster glows. 
 
 If glad of heart, I'll sit and dream 
 Of vintage time, and to the theme 
 
 With cadence true 
 
 I'll wake to blithsome strains my lute, 
 Blithsome yet pure as on thy fruit 
 
 " The living dew." 
 
 If grave oh ! is't not thine to take 
 A more than moral tone, and wake 
 Sweet Sabbath moods,
 
 143 
 
 By minding us of what thou art 
 The type till lighter thoughts depart, 
 And on divinest themes the heart 
 In quiet broods.
 
 144 
 
 THE OLIVE. 
 
 OLEA. 
 
 '< And he stayed yet other seven days : and again he sent forth the dove 
 out of the ark. 
 
 " And the dove cam in to him in the evening ; and, lo, in her mouth 
 was an olive leaf plucked off: so Noah knew {hat the waters were abated 
 from off the earth." 
 
 SUCH is our first introduction to the olive; which 
 seems to be on earth what the bow is in the sky, the 
 harbinger and the token of peace. 
 
 Whether from the event which the sacred text records 
 is not certain, but its pacific character has been acknow- 
 ledged in all times, and. among all nations; it is, how- 
 ever, more than probable that it owes its celebrity in this 
 point of view to traditionary lore, for many ancient cus- 
 toms and notions among the heathen have so close an 
 affinity to transactions related in the Bible, that, how- 
 ever changed and blended with fable, it is almost beyond 
 conjecture that they were originally derived from that 
 sacred source. 
 
 In this character, as the symbol of peace, it is noticed 
 by innumerable authors, ancient and modern.
 
 145 
 
 " High on the stern Eneas took his stand, 
 And held a branch of olive in his hand." 
 
 And again, 
 
 " Now suppliants from Laurentum sent demand 
 A truce, with olive branches in their hand." 
 
 So sings Virgil. 
 
 In the pages of our own poets it figures largely. 
 Spenser mentions it thus : 
 
 " His right hand did the peaceful olive wield." 
 
 And Shakspeare in many passages; a few of which 
 must suffice. The following is from Antony and Cleo- 
 patra : 
 
 " The time of universal peace is near : 
 Prove this a prosperous day, the three-nooked world 
 Shall bear the olive freely." 
 
 In Timon of Athens 
 
 " Bring me into your city, 
 
 And I will use the olive with my sword : 
 Make war breed peace, make peace stint war." 
 
 And in the Twelfth Night, Viola, in declaring her mis- 
 sion to Olivia, says,
 
 146 
 
 " I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage ; I hold the olive 
 in my hand : my words are as full of peace as matter." 
 
 Milton associates it with holier recollections, and 
 brings us back to the Flood. 
 
 " Forthwith from out the ark a raven flies, 
 And after him the surer messenger, 
 A dove, sent forth once and again to spy 
 Green tree or ground whereon his foot may light : 
 The second time returning in his bill 
 An olive-leaf he brings, pacific sign. " 
 
 He introduces it again, most beautifully, in his Ode on 
 the Nativity : 
 
 " But he her fears to cease, 
 Sent down the meek-eyed Peace, 
 
 She, crown'd with olive^green, came softly gliding 
 Down through the turning sphere, 
 His ready harbinger 
 
 With turtle wings the amorous clouds dividing." 
 
 Unnumbered poetical allusions to the olive, of great 
 beauty, ancient and modern, present themselves, which, 
 for the sake of brevity, we pass by, selecting only from 
 the mass the following expressive lines from Prior : 
 
 " The winds fall silent, and the waves decrease, 
 The dove brings quiet, and the olive peace."
 
 147 
 
 The olive, as we have already stated, was held in the 
 highest esteem in Judea, and was there not only re- 
 garded as the emblem of peace, but also of plenty. 
 Under the Mosaic dispensation it was consecrated to the 
 most solemn uses. Its oil fed the lamps of the sanc- 
 tuary; of its wood Solomon made the doors of the 
 oracle, and also the two cherubim contained within. At 
 the feast of tabernacles, olive branches, blended with 
 pine, myrtle, willow, and palm, were borne in pro- 
 cession and formed into booths, according to divine 
 command. 
 
 The olive is also employed largely in prophetic 
 imagery, to denote the future peace and prosperity of 
 the church of God. " I will plant in the wilderness, the 
 cedar, the shittah tree, and the myrtle, and the oil (or 
 olive) tree." 
 
 But, like the vine, the most thrilling associations are 
 those which it derives from the events with which it 
 stands connected in the New Testament. What scene 
 so sacred, so endearing to the Christian, as " the Mount 
 of Olives ! " There the Redeemer of the world frequently 
 repaired; there he predicted the destruction of Jeru- 
 salem ; on his descent from it "he beheld the city, and 
 wept over it ; " and at its foot was the garden of Geth- 
 semane that hallowed spot which witnessed 
 L 2
 
 148 
 
 " The grief which angels cannot tell, 
 Our God in agony !" 
 
 Such are the recollections this tree awakens; recol- 
 lections which connect it how closely ! how touchingly ! 
 with the moral history of man. It bore tidings to the 
 patriarch of the assuaging waters, to the Christian it 
 speaks of a second deliverance, through Him who " in 
 his love and in his pity redeemed him." 
 
 As if to bear testimony to its former fertility, the olive 
 still grows plentifully in Judea, and also in Syria. From 
 these lands it is supposed originally to have been trans- 
 ported to southern Europe. Pliny, who gives the pre- 
 ference to the olive above all other fruit-bearing trees, 
 except the vine, says, that " Italy and Africa were both 
 strangers to it two centuries after the building of Rome ; 
 after being well naturalised in which countries, it was 
 carried thence into Spain and Gaul." 
 
 In Greece it was cultivated at a very early period ; 
 particularly in the neighbourhood of Athens, in which 
 place it was held in the greatest veneration. Super- 
 stition had its share in the esteem with which the in- 
 habitants regarded it; for they believed it to be the 
 special boon of Minerva herself to their favoured city, 
 on which account they chose her for their tutelary deity, 
 and paid her divine honours. The legend of the olive
 
 149 
 
 and the horse, the respective gifts of Minerva and Nep- 
 tune, is familiar to every reader. 
 
 The ancients supposed the olive to be a maritime 
 tree ; but though it does thrive better near the sea than 
 most others, it will flourish remarkably well at a distance 
 from that element, provided the temperature be mild 
 and balmy ; for, like its companion, the vine, it is more 
 affected by temperature than soil. It certainly prefers 
 calcareous soil, but will grow on any kind. This dif- 
 ference, however, marks its growth, according to the 
 ground in which it is planted : in such as is rich and 
 moist, it becomes a larger, handsomer tree; whilst in 
 poor and meagre land, it produces the best fruit. This 
 fact seems to illustrate the passage hi Deut. xxxii. 
 13. " He made him to suck honey out of the rock, and 
 oil out of the flinty rock." 
 
 It is a tree of tardy growth. To this Virgil alludes, 
 when he speaks of 
 
 " The slow product of Minerva's tree." 
 
 He also adverts to another property it possesses, its 
 power of resuscitation : 
 
 " E'en stumps of olives, bar'd of leaves and dead, 
 Revive, and oft redeem their wither 'd head."
 
 150 
 
 Its wood, which is of a reddish tint, is hard and close- 
 grained, and takes a fine polish; on which account it 
 was much prized by the ancients, both for ornamental 
 and useful works. We are told by Homer that the 
 handle of the axe given by Calypso to Ulysses was 
 
 " Smooth and plain, 
 
 Wrought of the clouded olive's easy grain." 
 
 The olive is cultivated to a great extent in Italy, 
 Spain, and the south of France, for the sake of the oil 
 produced from its berries. Gray speaks of it as growing 
 profusely in Lombardy. The olive is altogether too 
 tender to flourish well in our ungenial climate. In the 
 mildest winters it requires shelter ; and only under very 
 favourable circumstances will it produce fruit, which is 
 flavourless, and never ripens. It also changes its cha- 
 racter; and instead of retaining its leaves through the 
 winter, as it does in those " lands of the sun," it sheds 
 them like the deciduous trees. But, though we cannot 
 boast of 
 
 " Fruitful vines and the fat olive's freight, 
 
 Yet harvests heavy with their fruitful weight 
 Adorn our fields." 
 
 And whilst corn, the staff of life, is ours, we may well be 
 content to borrow wine and oil from our neighbours.
 
 151 
 
 Its mode of growth is peculiar. Several stems rise 
 from the same root to the height of from twenty to thirty 
 feet, covered with a grey bark. It bears a delicate white 
 flower, in some species very fragrant ; and its leaves are 
 of a lively green on the upper surface, but hoary under- 
 neath. 
 
 It is, individually, a beautiful and graceful object; 
 but when cultivated largely, as in the olive countries, 
 for purposes of commerce, it adds no charm to the 
 landscape. An olive ground has a dull and cold tone 
 of colouring, something the same in effect as a grove of 
 willows, which we know would require the relief of 
 brighter-hued trees. 
 
 But if such be the appearance of this tree in nature, 
 under the alchymical touch of poetry it looks all that the 
 untravelled have ever imagined it. How beautifully is 
 it introduced into this Spanish landscape ! 
 
 In such an hour 
 
 The vesper melody of dying bells 
 
 Wanders through Spain from each grey convent's tower, 
 
 O'er shining rivers pour'd, and olive dells." 
 
 Here is another picture by the same gifted pencil, 
 and from the same bright realm :
 
 152 
 
 " Here the eye roves through slender colonnades, 
 O'er bowery terraces and myrtle shades ; 
 Dark olive woods beyond, and far on high 
 The vast sierra, mingling with the sky." 
 
 These are Spanish scenes ; but now the muse leads 
 us to another land, where we still keep the olive in view ; 
 for lo ! 
 
 " Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 
 
 Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
 
 A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
 
 Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
 
 Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
 
 To laughing life with her redundant horn. " 
 
 " In such a world, so thorny," so full of jarring 
 interests and conflicting passions, how sweet is any thing 
 which breathes of peace ! It is for this we love the 
 olive. " They who rejoice when their corn, and their 
 wine, and their oil are increased," will delight in it as 
 the symbol of plenty ; but the meek and gentle-hearted, 
 the wounded in spirit, will love it best as the harbinger 
 of peace.
 
 153 
 
 I would not, if I might, 
 Child of my heart ! the hidden page unseal, 
 That would thy future destiny reveal. 
 
 How should I shrink aghast 
 
 To see fierce passions glass'd 
 On that fair brow, which feels as yet no blight ! 
 Enough to know that often thou must stray, 
 
 With sackcloth round thee spread, 
 
 And ashes on thy head, 
 A weeping pilgrim on life's weary way. 
 
 Oh ! rather let me pray, when bursts the cloud 
 When deep to deep is calling long and loud, 
 
 That He, the heavenly Dove, 
 
 With healing wing would move 
 Upon these troubled waters of the soul, 
 Hushing their turbulence with sweet control ; 
 And when the storm has work'd His will who gave 
 Strength to the wind and fury to the wave, 
 He, like the bird which told the flood's decrease, 
 Would yield to thee at last like pledge of love and peace. 
 
 Oh ! were it mine to choose from earthly bower 
 Aught that might shape, with talismanic power,
 
 154 
 
 Thy future path, not Beauty's type the rose 
 Should tempt my hand, because 'mid thorns it grows; 
 
 Nor myrtle's lovelorn spray, 
 
 Nor ivy-wreath, nor bay, 
 
 Should thy fair brow entwine, 
 
 Or in thy bosom shine. 
 
 All, all which they proclaim, 
 
 Mirth, beauty, pleasure, fame, 
 Child of my heart ! I gladly would resign, 
 If but that richer boon sweet peace be thine. 
 What would 1 more ? If but to thee be given 
 The olive-bough on earth, the conqueror's palm in 
 heaven !
 
 155 
 
 THE BAY AND PALM. 
 
 THE BAY. 
 
 I.AURUS NOBILIS. 
 
 " The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors 
 And poets sage." 
 
 THE Laurus Nobilis, or sweet bay, though but a shrub 
 in our country, in Asia and the southern parts of 
 Europe, its proper birthplace, attains to the height of 
 twenty or thirty feet. It grows very freely on the banks 
 of the river Peneus in Thessaly; and hence, perhaps, 
 the fable of the metamorphosis of Daphne, daughter 
 of that river. It also, with classic propriety, adorns 
 mounts Ida and Athos. There has long been some 
 confusion between the laurel and the bay * ; the former, 
 
 * Gray (the poet) observes and corrects an error on this subject. 
 Speaking of a work he had just been reading, he says, the author 
 " fancies the Roman laurus to be our laurel ; though it is undoubtedly 
 the bay-tree, which is odoratum, and, I believe, still called Lauro or 
 Alloro at Rome."
 
 156 
 
 though but known to modern times, has been believed 
 by the ignorant to be the tree so venerated by " the 
 mighty dead," the classic bay ; the mistake may have 
 originated in the latter being called laurel and its fruit 
 being named bayes. Various writers have, however, 
 come forward to assert its just rights, and restore to it 
 its " local habitation and its name ; " and the Laurus 
 nobilis at last occupies that station in botanical works 
 which, from its " old renown," it may fairly demand. 
 
 It was commonly believed by the ancients that the 
 bay was instrumental in quickening the fancy, and 
 exciting poetic inspiration; on which account the vo- 
 taries of the muse were wont to sleep on its leaves. 
 
 The bay being held sacred to Apollo, the poet only 
 seems to have a right to claim it as his own ; but we 
 have the authority of the ancients for extending the 
 privilege to other aspirants after fame, as in early times 
 it was seen by turns encircling the brows of the prince 
 and warrior, as well as the poet. The Abbe Resnel 
 considers the custom of crowning poets to be coeval 
 with poetry itself; but other writers fix it at a much 
 later date, even so late as the reign of Domitian, before 
 which period, they affirm, no authentic account can be 
 produced of such ceremonial ever being observed. It 
 certainly appears strange that the Greeks a people so
 
 157 
 
 ready to appreciate and reward merit of every kind and 
 degree should forget the claims of the poet. 
 
 In these rites the bay was generally in requisition, 
 though sometimes it was left to the choice of the indi- 
 vidual whether bay, ivy, or myrtle, should compose his 
 crown. 
 
 After contemplating its lofty destiny, as being the 
 meed of the conqueror and the poet, there is something 
 inexpressibly ludicrous in viewing the part it was for- 
 merly called to sustain in the festivities of Christ- 
 mas: 
 
 " Then the grim boar's head frown'd on high, 
 Crested with bays and rosemary." 
 
 Alas ! " how fallen from its high estate ! " 
 Evelyn says that while young this tree grows best 
 under its " mother's shade, where nothing else will 
 thrive ; " thus forming a comment on a passage in 
 Virgil, translated by Martin, "The little Parnassian 
 bay shelters itself under the shade of its mother." It 
 also possesses, in a remarkable degree, the power of 
 resuscitation : long after it has appeared dead, if left 
 undisturbed, it will put forth leaves again, and assume 
 its pristine vigour. On this account a sprig of bay was 
 formerly thrown on the coffin at the time of interment ;
 
 158 
 
 being considered a striking symbol of the resurrection of 
 the dead. 
 
 Many more interesting anecdotes and associations 
 connected with the bay might be added to the above, 
 but we must leave them to other hands, and notice its 
 noble rival, the palm. 
 
 THE PALM. 
 
 " Meek souls there are, who little deem 
 Their daily strife an angel's theme, 
 Or that the rod they take so calm 
 Shall prove in heaven the martyr's palm." 
 
 WHATEVER praise may be awarded to the bay, there 
 are few but will be disposed to give yet higher honour 
 to the palm. Like its classic associate (with which it 
 was often blended), it was considered an appropriate 
 meed for the victor, but more generally it was reserved
 
 159 
 
 for religious triumphs ; and from this, as well as from 
 the prominent place it occupies in Holy Writ, we feel 
 the epithet of " celestial palm," bestowed on it by Pope, 
 not inapplicable. But we must leave these consider- 
 ations for a while, till its natural peculiarities and real 
 utility have been briefly noticed. 
 
 There are many beautiful species of this magnificent 
 genus ; one of the most beautiful of which, perhaps, is 
 found on the shores of the Orinoco, which, 
 
 ^ " Like a sunborn king, 
 Its proud tiara spreads elate," 
 
 far above the dense mass of foliage amongst which it 
 grows. Its graceful beauty, however, is but a secondary 
 consideration ; for when the country is under water 
 a circumstance of frequent occurrence it affords both 
 food and habitation to the natives. The whole scene is 
 thus forcibly described by the poet : 
 
 " Wide o'er his isles the branching Oronoque 
 Rolls a brown deluge ; and the native drives 
 To dwell aloft on life-sustaining trees, 
 At once his dome, his robe, his food, and arms." 
 
 Valuable, however, as this species is, it yields in im- 
 portance to the cocoa-nut, sago, and date palms; more
 
 160 
 
 especially the latter, par eminence, the palm of the an- 
 cients ; the cultivation of which, throughout the East, 
 is considered a matter of great moment. Indeed, " in 
 the interior of Barbary, Egypt, Arabia, and the dry dis- 
 tricts of Syria, it is almost the sole object of agriculture ; 
 and the date harvest is anticipated with as much anxiety, 
 and, when a plentiful one, is attended with as general 
 rejoicing, as the vintage in the South of Europe." And 
 no wonder ; for " this tree alone," as Raleigh says, 
 " giveth unto man whatsoever his life beggeth at nature's 
 hand;" forming, either in a fresh or prepared state, 
 the chief sustenance of the inhabitants during ten 
 months of the year. Its trunk, also, supplies a sap from 
 which a fermented liquor is made, called " Lakhlsy." 
 Thomson thus refers to it : 
 
 " And from the palm to draw the fresh'ning wine." 
 
 And Waller says, - 
 
 " The sweet Palmettos a new Bacchus yield, 
 With leaves as ample as the broadest shield ; 
 Under the shadow of whose friendly boughs, 
 They sit carousing where their liquor flows." 
 
 Whilst the method of procuring it, which is by break-
 
 161 
 
 ing off the crown and hollowing the top of the trunk 
 into the shape of a basin, seems thus alluded to by 
 
 Milton : 
 
 " The savoury pulp they chew, and in the rind 
 Still as they thirsted scoop the brimming stream." 
 
 Nor must we forget, while enumerating the benefits it 
 confers, to notice the effect of a palm, or group of 
 palms, when seen in the distance, on the mind of the 
 weary and thirsty wanderer of the desert. Not only is 
 the shelter it offers from a vertical sun anticipated with 
 feelings he only can experience, but he thinks of the 
 fountain which springs at its foot ; and, in his eagerness 
 to obtain the life-dispensing draught, he hurries on, 
 forgetful alike of difficulties and fatigue: and seldom 
 or never is he disappointed ; for " though it often 
 grows in apparently dry and sterile soil, a subterraneous 
 supply of water may be always calculated upon : " con- 
 firmatory of which fact is the assertion of Sir Sidney 
 Smith, who, when in Egypt, informed the British 
 officers that they might always find water by digging to 
 the roots of a palm tree. Other travellers also make the 
 same statement. 
 
 The palm is a tree of slow growth ; and, " even in the 
 M
 
 16*2 
 
 soil and clime most congenial, old trees do not gain 
 above a foot in height in five years ; so that, supposing 
 the increase uniform, the age of a tree sixty feet high 
 cannot be less than three hundred years." Though 
 there are fine forests of the date-palm in the more 
 luxuriant parts of the province of Valencia, and though 
 it grows abundantly in some other places in the south 
 of Europe, yet it diminishes both in size and beauty as 
 it approaches the temperate zones ; and it is only in its 
 own proper climate, which has a mean annual temper- 
 ature of from 75 to 83 of Fahrenheit, that it perfects 
 its fruit. South America, it is said, contains the finest 
 portion of the palm country ; but, from early association, 
 perhaps, when we name this tree, we generally connect 
 it with the East, and immediately turn our eyes towards 
 Egypt, Arabia, and 
 
 " The neighbouring land, whose palmy shore 
 The silver Jordan laves." 
 
 In the latter country it grew plentifully, especially in 
 the plain of Jericho, with the distinctive tide of which, 
 " the City of Palms," we are early familiarised. 
 
 The graceful form of the palm, its growing on the 
 verge of great deserts where few other vegetable pro- 
 ductions will live, and the high esteem in which it is
 
 163 
 
 held in Eastern countries, on account of its real utility, 
 have secured for it the favour of the muse. Milton 
 names it with other trees as forming " the enclosure 
 green" which encircled the garden of Eden: 
 
 Overhead upgrew 
 
 Insuperable height of loftiest shade, 
 
 Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm ; 
 
 A sylvan scene." 
 
 But we must turn from the page of poetry to that of 
 inspiration, as the palm derives its chief honour from 
 the frequent notice it there obtains. In the book of 
 Ecclesiasticus its stately beauty furnishes Wisdom with 
 an apt similitude : "I was exalted like a palm tree in 
 Engaddi." " To express or delineate prosperity and 
 opulence," says Bishop Lowth, " a comparison is as- 
 sumed from the cedar or the palm : " thus, in the ninety- 
 second Psalm, verse 1 2., " The righteous shall 
 flourish like the palm tree." Its common use in religious 
 ceremonies has been before adverted to ; indeed, its in- 
 troduction into all the solemn festivals of the Jews was 
 by divine appointment ; and these were so frequent, 
 that Judea was typified by the palm tree upon the coins 
 of Vespasian and Titus. 
 
 Since the Christian era it is associated with more 
 M 2
 
 164 
 
 touching and glorious recollections, our Saviour's 
 triumphal entry into Jesusalem ; which event was 
 formerly commemorated in Christian countries by car- 
 rying branches of palm in solemn procession : on that 
 account the Sunday before Easter still retains the name 
 of Palm Sunday. There is yet another honour reserved 
 for it. When earthly distinctions have passed away " as 
 a tale that is told," the palm is held forth in the Book of 
 Revelations as symbolic of the final victory of the just. 
 
 " After this I beheld, and, lo, a great multitude, 
 which no man could number, of all nations, and kyi- 
 dreds, and people, and tongues, stood before the Lamb, 
 clothed with white robes, and palms in their hands." 
 
 After considering the different species of fame which 
 these two noble trees memorialize, the one " of the 
 earth, earthy," the other, that which shall subsist eter- 
 nally, who would hesitate which to prefer ? 
 
 " If endless ages can outweigh an hour 
 Let not the laurel, but the palm inspire." 
 
 Yes; let the bay still crown the warrior and the 
 poet, the Christian, humbly, yet hopefully, aspires to 
 the palm !
 
 165 
 
 TO THE BAY. 
 
 Not around the peaceful bower 
 
 Should thy verdant branches twine, 
 Though thy leaves through wintry hour 
 
 With unchanging lustre shine ; 
 There are fitter scenes than this for thy bloom 
 On the poet's lofty brow 
 Let thy classic garlands glow, 
 Or, if he lieth low, 
 On his tomb. 
 
 Or, return'd from well-fought field, 
 
 When the victor throws aside 
 Both his dinted helm and shield, 
 
 And his sword in crimson dyed, 
 O'er his trophies let thy green branches wave ; 
 For what so fit a meed 
 From the country he has freed, 
 As the laurel-wreath decreed 
 To the brave ? 
 
 Such the deeds thou lovest to grace 
 But, thou proud triumphal tree,
 
 166 
 
 Soon shall time thy wreaths deface, 
 
 And those deeds forgotten be ; 
 Born of earth, with things of earth they must die : 
 But there is a fame shall last, 
 When earth's flitting glory's past, 
 And a branch no adverse blast 
 Shall destroy. 
 
 'Tis, like thee, the victor's meed ; 
 
 But it decks not poet's grave, 
 Nor the warrior's martial deed, 
 No 'tis only seen to wave 
 Where the martyr's honour'd dust doth repose ; 
 Or his, who broke the gloom 
 Long of pagan lands the doom, 
 And made " the desert bloom 
 As the rose." * 
 
 How beauteous are the feet of those who bear 
 Mercy to man, glad tidings to despair ! 
 Far from the mountain's top they lovelier seem 
 Than moonlight dews, or morning's rosy beam ; 
 Sweeter the voice than spell or hymning sphere, 
 And listening angels hush their harps to hear."
 
 167 
 
 But where 's the power of thought 
 
 Which may pierce those scenes sublime, 
 When the Christian's fight is fought, 
 And o'er Sin and Death and Time 
 Through heaven-imparted might, he hath won ; 
 When he joins the glorious band 
 Who as crowned victors stand, 
 Each with palm-branch in his hand, 
 Round the throne?
 
 168 
 
 THE BANYAN TREE. 
 
 FICUS INDICA. 
 
 " The fig-tree, not that kind for fruit renown'd, 
 But such as at this day to Indians known, 
 In Malabar or Deccan spreads her arms, 
 Branching so broad and long, that in the ground 
 The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow 
 About the mother tree, a pillar'd shade 
 High overarch'd, and echoing walks between." 
 
 So many and so definite are the descriptions, both in 
 prose and verse, of the Banyan, that the mind feels 
 almost familiar with it, though perhaps no tree is more 
 strongly impressed with foreign lineaments. In our 
 conservatories, " foreigners from many lands," 
 
 " Unconscious of a less propitious clime," 
 
 are seen mingling in social union ; not only flowers and 
 shrubs, but trees of considerable magnitude. Such, 
 however, is the astonishing bulk of this leafy giant, 
 that the broad bosom of earth, and the overarching
 
 sky, alone afford " ample room and verge enough " for 
 the full developement of its fair proportions. What a 
 graphic description we have of its mode of growth and 
 general appearance, not only in the motto above quoted, 
 but in the following lines by Southey ! They convey 
 a stronger and more perfect impression than any sketch 
 could do : 
 
 " 'Twas a fair scene wherein they stood, 
 A green and sunny glade amid the wood, 
 And in the midst an aged Banyan grew. 
 
 It was a goodly sight to see 
 
 That venerable tree, 
 For o'er the lawn, irregularly spread, 
 Fifty straight columns propp'd its lofty head, 
 
 And many a long depending shoot, 
 
 Seeking to strike its root, 
 Straight like a plummet, grew toward the ground. 
 
 Others of younger growth, unmov'd, were hung 
 Like stone drops from the cavern's fretted height. 
 
 Beneath was smooth and fair to sight, 
 Nor weeds nor briers deformed the natural floor : 
 And through the leafy cope which bower'd it o'er 
 
 Came gleams of chequer'd light. 
 So like a temple it did seem, that there 
 A pious heart's first impulse would be prayer."
 
 170 
 
 And the voice of prayer is heard within this sylvan 
 oratory ; but, alas ! it is not directed to Him who 
 alone can answer prayer, but " unto gods that cannot 
 save." 
 
 " Each tree," says Forbes, " is itself a grove, and 
 some are of an amazing size, as they are continually 
 increasing, and, contrary to most other animal and 
 vegetable productions, seem exempted from decay; for 
 every branch from the main body throws out its roots, 
 at first in small fibres, several yards from the ground, 
 which continually grow thicker, until by a gradual 
 descent they reach its surface, where, striking in, they 
 increase to a large trunk, and become a parent tree, 
 throwing out new branches from the top. These in 
 time suspend then- roots, and receiving nourishment 
 from the earth, swell into trunks, and shoot forth other 
 branches : thus continuing in a state of progression so 
 long as the first parent of them all supplies her sus- 
 tenance, forming the most beautiful walks, vistas, and 
 cool recesses that can be imagined." 
 
 Well may the poet speak of 
 
 " The maze 
 
 Embowering endless, of the Indian fig." 
 
 The leaves of this tree are large, soft, and of a lively
 
 171 
 
 green; the fruit is a small fig, when ripe of a bright 
 scarlet ; affording sustenance to monkeys, squirrels, 
 peacocks, and various birds which dwell among the 
 branches. 
 
 The astonishing magnitude of this gigantic tree recalls 
 some sweet lines by Montgomery, occasioned by the 
 subjoined remarks of Dr. Carey, the Baptist missionary 
 at Mysore : " With great labour I have preserved, for 
 six or seven years, the common field daisy, which came 
 up accidentally in some English earth ; but my whole 
 stock now is one plant. The proportion of small plants 
 in this country is very inconsiderable, the greater number 
 of our vegetable productions being either large shrubs, 
 immense climbers, or timber trees." The copy of verses 
 alluded to is too long to insert the whole ; but one of 
 the stanzas, immediately bearing on the subject, we 
 cannot forbear quoting : 
 
 " Thrice welcome, little English flower ! 
 
 To this resplendent hemisphere, 
 Where Flora's giant offspring tower 
 
 In gorgeous liveries all the year ; 
 Thou, only tliou, art little here, 
 
 Like worth unfriended and unknown, 
 Yet to my British heart more dear 
 
 Than all the torrid zone."
 
 172 
 
 In another stanza of the same poem the splendid 
 monotony of India is strikingly contrasted with the 
 freshness and variety which characterise both the cli- 
 mate and productions of England. Instead of periodical 
 returns of dry and wet weather, we have showers and 
 sunshine throughout the year ; instead of trees chiefly 
 evergreens, and which, in consequence, even if the 
 climate permitted it, could display but little change 
 of tint, ours are mostly of a description which show 
 the alternations of season. The freshness of spring, 
 the splendour of summer, the gorgeousness of autumn, 
 and the desolation of winter, are all exhibited by 
 our British sylva. When we consider, too, that ex- 
 tremes, either of heat or cold, tend to deteriorate both 
 the mind and the body of the human species ; above all, 
 when we reflect that " the glory of the Lord has risen 
 on our land," while "gross darkness covers" those regions, 
 who would not say with the poet, 
 
 " England, with all thy faults, I love thee still, 
 My country ? "
 
 173 
 
 We read of India's " spiced air," 
 
 Her forests vast, her gorgeous bowers ; 
 Of trees, which at one moment bear 
 
 The richest fruit, the fairest flowers. 
 But they for whom these wonders smile, 
 
 Who breathe this " spiced air," are slaves ; 
 Then hail, to thee, my native isle ! 
 
 Whose only vassals are the waves. 
 
 We read of trees of mighty size, 
 
 Each forming in " itself a grove ; " 
 Whose drooping boughs, to Fancy's eyes, 
 
 Seem into aisles and cloisters wove. 
 Pierce we the shade, what meets the sight? 
 
 Idolatry's polluted shrine. 
 Then hail, dear England ! land of light I 
 
 Where heaven-revealed truth doth shine. 
 
 Give me, fair land, thy healthful gales, 
 With sweet but simple perfume fraught ; 
 
 Give me thy forests, mountains, dales. 
 
 What though they do not cumber thought 
 
 With such oppressive grandeur, still 
 They're grand and fair enough for me :
 
 174 
 
 There's health upon thy breezy hill, 
 There's shelter 'neath thy greenwood tree. 
 
 The cots, where dwell thy peasant sons, 
 
 Each with its garden-plot so gay; 
 The dingle, where the mill-stream runs, 
 
 The green, where children meet to play. 
 The village church, but barely scann'd, 
 
 Just peeping forth from tufted trees ; 
 Oh ! what in India's gorgeous land 
 
 May be compared with scenes like these ? 
 
 The spreading Banyan's proud array 
 
 I heed not, while the oak is ours, 
 Nor would I change thy ivy spray 
 
 For " creepers threading ruby flowers." 
 But, oh ! though many a precious boon 
 
 To thee, my native land, be given, 
 A gem yet brighter decks thy crown, 
 
 Thine is " the light that leads to Heaven ! "
 
 175 
 
 THE CEDAR. 
 
 PINUS CEDRUS. 
 " The cedar proud and tall." 
 
 IT has been remarked that the fig, the vine, and the 
 olive, are richer in scriptural associations than any other 
 trees : this statement must be recalled, for even they, 
 honoured as they are, yield to the cedar. The cedar of 
 Lebanon ! what a crowd of interesting recollections 
 rush on the mind at the very mention of it ; for we meet 
 with it in almost every page of the Bible! In the 
 poetical parts, it is made the constant symbol of pros- 
 perity, majesty, and duration. 
 
 It is called upon to figure the flourishing state of 
 u the righteous : " 
 
 " He shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon." 
 
 To denote the prosperity of the Jewish nation, 
 
 " The boughs thereof were like the goodly cedars."
 
 176 
 
 Nay, even to aid our conceptions of the grandeur and 
 majesty of the Messiah, 
 
 " His countenance is like Lebanon, excellent as the cedars." 
 
 Every subject it is employed to illustrate, every epithet 
 by which it is distinguished, speaks its unrivalled pre- 
 eminence. Thus, in the 1 04th psalm, 
 
 " The trees of the Lord are full of sap ; even the cedars of Lihanus, which 
 he hath planted." 
 
 In another psalm, along with all that is grand and 
 beautiful in nature, it alone is called upon by name, as 
 if to represent " all the stately inhabitants of the forest," 
 to adore the great Creator, 
 
 " Praise the Lord, mountains and all hills ; fruitful trees and all 
 cedars." 
 
 The accuracy of its description by the sacred writers, 
 even when using it figuratively, is worthy of remark. 
 Its great strength is implied by the very power men- 
 tione'd as effecting its destruction : " The voice of the Lord 
 breaketh the cedars, yea, the Lord breaketh the cedars 
 of Lebanon ; " while its mode of growth and general 
 appearance is as strikingly intimated by Ezekiel, in his 
 highly-wrought comparison of the Assyrian monarch to 
 " a cedar in Lebanon with fair branches, and with a
 
 177 
 
 shadowing shroud, and of an high stature, and his top 
 was among the thick boughs. His boughs were mul- 
 tiplied, and his branches became long. The fir trees 
 were not like his boughs, nor the chestnut- trees like his 
 branches, nor any tree in the garden of God like unto 
 him for beauty." " In this description of the prophet," 
 says Gilpin, " the two principal characteristics of the 
 cedar are marked : first, the multiplicity and length of 
 its branches ; and, secondly, its close- woven leafy canopy, 
 when, having attained its perfect growth, no distinction 
 of any spiry head or leading branch appears ; but, in the 
 language of Eastern sublimity, ' its top is among the 
 thick boughs.' " 
 
 But we must reluctantly turn from these notices of 
 sacred literature to those of science, and state, as briefly 
 as the subject will allow, a few other points in its natural 
 history. 
 
 Though there are many sylvan aspirants to the title 
 and dignity of the cedar, there are in fact but two 
 species of this genus, the cedar of Lebanon (Pinus 
 cedrus), and the Indian cedar (Pinus deodara), neither 
 of which are known in the European market as a timber 
 tree. The cedar partakes of the nature and character 
 both of the pine and larch; the leaves are evergreen 
 like those of the former, but smaller, less glossy, and
 
 178 
 
 not so blue in colour; whilst they resemble the latter 
 in being bound together in a little tuft, the pines 
 having seldom more than from two to five leaves in each 
 sheath. 
 
 No tree exceeds the cedar in durability; ages roll' 
 away without apparently making an impression on it. 
 There is something, too, in its wood so offensive to the 
 worm (that destructive little foe to most of the giants of 
 the forest) as entirely to secure it from its depredations : 
 on this account, its timber was chosen by the ancients 
 for the images of then* gods, for embalming the bodies 
 of their deceased kings and heroes, and also for the 
 coffins in which they were enclosed. It is of a fine 
 colour and most pleasant scent; but unless great care 
 be observed in the drying of it, it is said to be liable to 
 split 
 
 The cedar was introduced into England about one 
 hundred and fifty years ago ; but, though so ornamental 
 and so patient of our climate, it has hitherto been but 
 sparingly cultivated. It likes humidity of soil and 
 atmosphere, a circumstance not overlooked in the sacred 
 writings: "How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob, and 
 thy tabernacles, O Israel ! as the valleys are they spread 
 forth, as cedar-trees beside the waters" 
 
 We are, however, so accustomed to connect it with
 
 179 
 
 mountain scenery, from its being so constantly associated 
 with Lebanon, that it is almost difficult to imagine it 
 adorning the plain ; but it seems as if it would thrive, 
 with a very little care, in any situation ; and perhaps, if 
 the attention of cultivators be properly drawn towards 
 it, we shall see it completely naturalised amongst us, 
 and mingling its patrician dignity with the more sturdy 
 robustness of the oak. From its own peculiar habitat, 
 Mount Lebanon, the cedar has now almost entirely dis- 
 appeared ; a very small number of trees, and some of 
 them decayed and shattered from age, are all that are 
 now left of the boasted forests that formerly crowned 
 that ancient mountain. 
 
 As there is but one other true species of this genus 
 (Pinus deodara), we must not pass it altogether without 
 notice ; the more so, because it is very closely allied, 
 both in appearance and in general properties, to its 
 more celebrated rival. In durability it is said even to 
 excel it ; its timber is exceedingly compact, and abounds 
 in aromatic resin, which fits it for the very great elevation 
 at which it is found to grow ; it can, indeed, bear greater 
 variation of temperature than either the spruces or 
 pines, for it is seen both higher and lower on the Hima- 
 laya than they. Its numerous beneficial and ornamental 
 qualities give it the same sacred character, in the eyes of 
 N 2
 
 180 
 
 the Hindoos, as the cedar of Lebanon has in ours ; and 
 consequently we find it blending with their mythology, 
 adorning their temples, and perfuming their sacrifices. 
 A tree of so much beauty, usefulness, and renown as 
 the cedar, must necessarily have acquired much poetic 
 homage. Its height, its durability, its far-spreading 
 shade, its " dainty odours," have each been brought into 
 view. 
 
 Homer selects it, on account of the fragrance of its 
 wood, as fuel for the cave of Calypso : 
 
 " Large was the grot, in which the nymph he found 
 (The fair-hair'cl nymph, with every beauty crown'd) : 
 She sat and sung ; the rocks resound her lays : 
 The cave was brighten'd with a rising blaze ; 
 Cedar and frankincense, an od'rous pile, 
 Flam'd on the hearth, and wide perfum'd the isle." 
 
 Its use in building is adverted to by Virgil : 
 
 " Yet Heaven their various plants for use designs ; 
 For houses, cedars ; and for shipping, pines." 
 
 Milton describes 
 
 " the garden of God with cedars crown'd, 
 
 Above all hills."
 
 181 
 
 In Henry the Sixth, Shakspeare compares the dying 
 Warwick to a falling cedar : 
 
 " Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, 
 Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, 
 Under whose shade the ramping lion slept ; 
 Whose top-branch over-peer'd Jove's spreading tree, 
 And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind." 
 
 And in Henry the Eighth, he makes Cranmer say, when 
 predicting the birth of King James, 
 
 He shall flourish, 
 
 And like a mountain cedar reach his branches 
 To all the plains about him." 
 
 Innumerable are the passages, both in ancient and 
 modern poetry, which have reference to this noble tree ; 
 but one more must suffice, and that from Thomson, who 
 gives such a magic beauty to every subject he undertakes 
 to illustrate. We almost feel the balmy gale playing 
 around us, and see the cedar wave, as we read the fol- 
 lowing lines : 
 
 " Or thrown at gayer ease, on some fair brow, 
 Let me behold, by breezy murmurs cool'd, 
 Broad o'er my head the verdant cedar wave, 
 And high palmettos lift their graceful shade."
 
 182 
 
 The cedar is said to possess the very peculiar property 
 of " raising its branches to support the load which may 
 oppress them." This property is mentioned by many 
 writers, and, amongst others, it is incidentally alluded to 
 by Sir Walter Scott, as follows : " Brave men as well as 
 cowards are subject to nervous agitation ; with this dif- 
 ference, that the one sinks under it, like the vine under 
 the hail-storm, and the other collects his energies to 
 shake it off, as the cedar of Lebanon is said to elevate 
 its boughs to disperse the snow which accumulates upon 
 them/' 
 
 " Said'st thou the cedar in its mountain-hold 
 Did meet with drooping boughs the glance of summer, 
 But that when storms were rife, no longer then 
 Unstrung and nerveless, with a quick rebound 
 Recovering all at once its stately beauty, 
 It rais'd itself to meet the falling snows?" 
 
 " I did : but prithee what has that to do 
 With this calm burial-place, or those low graves, 
 Apart from all the rest, which thou hast stood
 
 183 
 
 So long contemplating ? Methinks the yew 
 
 Would blend more naturally with churchyard musings 
 
 Than doth the kingly cedar." 
 
 " True, most true : 
 Yet in that trait of sylvan character 
 ( Which I would deem more than a traveller's tale) 
 Something there is that minded me (how aptly 
 Thyself shalt judge when thou hast heard my story) 
 Of one who occupies the nearest grave. 
 Wilt hear the tale ? Come, sit we on this bank ; 
 The scene above, around us these green mounds, 
 Yon sacred pile, the calm which eve now sends 
 Through earth and sky, will suit my theme, and aid. 
 
 - 
 
 " Didst mark that decent cottage by the green, 
 Deck'd with such creeping plants as best become 
 A rustic dwelling, woodbine, and brier-rose, 
 And that pale clematis we wont to call 
 The Traveller's Joy ? Well some years since, 
 A widow dwelt there with her only child. 
 She came from distant parts, but why she chose 
 This lonely nook none ever rightly knew ; 
 Certain it is she was not hither drawn 
 Either by kindred or by social ties ;
 
 184 
 
 A stranger came she, and such still remain'd ; 
 
 For though each kindly act of neighbourhood 
 
 She took and gave with seemliest courtesy, 
 
 Companionship she sought not : her sweet boy, 
 
 And her own thoughts, seem'd all the world to her. 
 
 She look'd like one who had seen better days, 
 
 Such, too, her manners show'd : her pallid brow 
 
 Wore traces more of sorrow than of time, 
 
 But what her cause of grief she never told : 
 
 This much her garb reveal'd that she had kept 
 
 A widow's vigils, shed a widow's tears. 
 
 Seldom she smil'd, save when her blooming boy, 
 
 Now her sole earthly prop, some tale would tell 
 
 With childhood's sweet, beguiling playfulness, 
 
 Or when at his close suit she shared some game 
 
 Which call'd perforce for two, then would she try 
 
 To throw aside her gentle pensiveness, 
 
 And give him answering smiles. As for the child, 
 
 He doated on his mother. Acts, not words, 
 
 Were his o'erflowing heart's interpreters ; 
 
 When village clocks announced a double boon, 
 
 Freedom alike to scholar and to master, 
 
 He play'd not with his mates upon the green, 
 
 But hasten'd home to trim the garden plot, 
 
 And tie such flowers as droop'd from their own weight,
 
 185 
 
 Because he knew his mother's love for flowers. 
 There was one rose-bush far or near its like 
 Could not be found a sort of village-wonder 
 That bush was her delight, and therefore his ; 
 And had it been endow'd with consciousness, 
 He scarce had tended it with nicer care ; 
 Duly 'twas watch'd and water'd, duly pruned, 
 And it repaid him with unrivalPd bloom. 
 Well may you guess how such sweet winning ways 
 Would steal into her heart, her widow 'd heart; 
 And oft, when through the lattice she look'd forth 
 And saw him busy at his duteous task, 
 Tears would she shed, but they were not of grief. 
 But I am tedious, and will hasten on. 
 
 " Years pass'd, and told on each. With him you 
 Youth verging on to manhood ; but in heart 
 The same as ever, duteous, tender, kind. 
 With her, alas ! they left far other tokens^ 
 Deep wrinkles, blanched locks, and failing strength : 
 Such was Time's dealing with the outward frame. 
 The mind he touch'd more gently ; rather say, 
 He aided sweet religion's proper task, 
 In healing grief's dark ravages ; and now 
 Life's setting sun had merg'd from that dark cloud
 
 186 
 
 Which veil'd its noontide beam. Her faith and hope 
 Had found sure anchorage, and she appear'd 
 To grow in meetness for a better world. 
 One tie, with strength almost unlawful, bound 
 Her soul to earth ; she had one idol left : 
 True it was hidden in her heart of hearts ; 
 But He, whose eye pierces that sanctuary, 
 Beheld it shrin'd wliere He alone should be ; 
 Beheld, and frown'd. He did prepare a worm, 
 Which smote the gourd she had too fondly priz'd, 
 And soon it droop'd. To speak without a figure, 
 Her son, her only son, fell sick and died. 
 'Twere vain to tell thee how, with almost more 
 Than mother's love, she nurs'd him in his sickness ; 
 Night saw her at her post, and early dawn ; 
 Nature in her seem'd chang'd, for food, sleep, rest, 
 Appear'd no longer needful to sustain 
 Th' animal life. How long this might have been 
 'Twere hard to say ; but fever did its work 
 Swiftly and surely ; on the fourteenth day 
 He lay a lifeless corpse, and she became 
 A childless mother ! 
 
 " Ah ! if words were vain 
 To picture what she felt when hope's soft beam
 
 187 
 
 Mingled, though tremblingly, with anxious fear, 
 
 How doubly vain their power when hope was none ! 
 
 You might have seen her watching by the dead 
 
 As if he were but slumb'ring, and anon 
 
 Look at the clock, as if to calculate 
 
 How long he yet might sleep ; then sudden wake 
 
 To the full knowledge of her wretchedness, 
 
 Till sorrow darken'd into deep despair. 
 
 Thus pass'd those few sad days which intervene 
 
 Between the dying and the funeral hour : 
 
 And now the bell with intermittent toll 
 
 Proclaim'd the last solemnities at hand. 
 
 Its awful summons from the hamlets round 
 
 Brought many mourners to the widow's cot, 
 
 Anxious to show this tribute of respect 
 
 Both to the dead and living. Some there were 
 
 Who strove to speak of comfort, but the words 
 
 Died on the lip ; some wept aloud, but she, 
 
 She the chief mourner, neither sigh'd nor wept ; 
 
 Widow'd and childless, hers was that deep woe 
 
 Which tears can neither measure nor relieve. 
 
 " Slow through the churchyard path, with funeral dirge 
 The corpse was borne ; she followed close behind : 
 And some among that simple village train
 
 188 
 
 Appear'd expectant that an unseen hand 
 Again would stay the bier awake the dead 
 And to the widow her lost son restore. 
 Ah, foolish thought ! on, on they slowly moved : 
 No hand omnipotent outstretch'd to save : 
 The grave receiv'd its tenant, * dust to dust ' 
 Those solemn words were spoken, and the earth 
 Shower'd on the coffin, told the rite was o'er. 
 
 " There were who would have follow'd to her home 
 The poor bereaved one, that she might not feel 
 * So utterly alone ;' but there was that 
 In her deep, voiceless grief, which seem'd to check 
 Th' expression of the sympathy it rous'd. 
 So, to her desolate home alone she went, 
 Enter'd the dreary threshold clos'd the door. 
 What met her gaze ? the now forsaken couch, 
 Wearing the impress still heart-sickening sight ! 
 Of the lov'd burden it so lately bore. 
 With shudd'ring dread, she turn'd her eye away, 
 And in its meaningless survey, it fell, 
 Shall I say, heav'n-directed, or by chance ? 
 On her son's Bible ; with a trembling hand 
 She opened it, scarce knowing what she did, 
 And hurriedly from text to text she glanc'd.
 
 189 
 
 But th' abstracted mind no import gave 
 To threat'ning, or to promise ; both alike 
 Fell unregarded ; till, as with a spell, 
 These solemn verses fix'd both eye and soul : 
 
 * Brethren, I would not have ye ignorant 
 Concerning them that sleep, that ye weep not 
 Even as others do which have no hope ; 
 
 For if we do believe that Jesus died 
 
 And rose again, even so them also 
 
 Which sleep in Jesus, God will bring with Him.' 
 
 She read them o'er and o'er, until it seem'd 
 
 To her excited mind as if a voice, 
 
 * A still, small voice,' did breathe them in her ear. 
 She knew that he so slept, he whom she mourn'd, 
 Then wherefore thus in hopeless sorrow grieve ? 
 
 " The rock was smitten, tears, soft, healing tears, 
 Gush'd from her aged eyes ; she knelt, she pray'd, 
 Pray'd from- her inmost heart ; and she did find, 
 By the sweet hopes which dawn'd upon her heart, 
 The earnest of an answer ere she rose. 
 Hard task was hers, and slow was she to learn, 
 But her resource was prayer ; and strength was given 
 When most 'twas needed, so that she bore up 
 Against the cruel storm, which all had deem'd
 
 190 
 
 Even to the earth would crush her ; and at last 
 
 Upon the sod, the very sod that wrapt 
 
 Her soul's dear idol, could she kneel and say, 
 
 ' Thou, Lord, didst give, and Thou didst take away 
 
 For ever blessed be thy holy name ! ' 
 
 " Now know'st thou why that story of the cedar 
 Blent with my musings by those lowly graves."
 
 191 
 
 THE SANDAL TREE. 
 
 SANTALUM. 
 
 Groves of myrrh, 
 
 And flowering odours, cassia, nard, and balm : 
 A wilderness of sweets ; for Nature here 
 Wanton'd as in her prime, and play'd at will, 
 Her virgin fancies pouring forth more sweet, 
 Wild above rule or art ; enormous bliss ! " 
 
 THIS exquisitely glowing picture of the bowers of 
 Paradise seems, as regards the vegetable productions of 
 the East, even at the present day, scarcely over-charged. 
 The very prose descriptions of modern travellers assume 
 much of the character of poetry from the varied and 
 fervid terms they are constrained to use in order to con- 
 vey even a faint idea of the fragrance and beauty of the 
 oriental forests and groves 
 
 " Groves, whose rich trees weep odorous gums and balm." 
 
 Palms of various species, guavas, plaintains, bananas, 
 tamarinds, mangos, sandal trees, and a long train of 
 et caeteras, are seen adorning both their woods and
 
 192 
 
 hedgerows, often yielding support to the most lovely 
 climbing plants. 
 
 " There sportive creepers, threading ruby flowers 
 On emerald stalks, each vernal arch entwin'd, 
 
 Luxuriant though confin'd ; 
 He heard sweet-breathing gales in whispers tell 
 From what young bloom they sipp'd their spicy smell." 
 
 The sandal tree grows in many parts of India, and is 
 one of the most valuable productions on the Malabar 
 coast, where, when permitted by the traders, it attains a 
 considerable size, somewhat resembling the myrtle in 
 appearance. Forbes describes it as a beautiful tree, the 
 branches regular and tapering ; the leaf, like the narrow 
 willow, shorter and delicately soft, with pendulous 
 bunches of small flowers, sometimes white and sometimes 
 red. It was supposed the white and yellow sandal- 
 wood was the produce of different trees, but Miller de- 
 nies this. When the Sandal has acquired some bulk, 
 in common with most old Indian trees, it becomes 
 coloured towards the centre, and this heart-timber, as it 
 may be called, is the part most esteemed, not only on 
 account of its tint, but also for its superior fragrance 
 and durability ; the exterior part being white and scent- 
 less. This inner wood is much used for cabinets and
 
 193 
 
 other ornamental furniture, and forms an article of great 
 importance in oriental commerce. 
 
 The Sandal is one of the sacred trees of the Hindoos. 
 It is made frequent mention of by their ancient writers, 
 both in poetry and prose. It is planted near their 
 temples, and from its shavings and dust an aromatic 
 oil is extracted, which, with other odoriferous offerings, 
 is used by them in their sacrifices and religious cere- 
 monies, particularly at the cremation of the bodies of 
 the higher castes. An allusion to their dark idolatry at 
 once casts a veil over 
 
 " This gay profusion of luxurious bliss, 
 This pomp of nature ; " 
 
 and thankfully we turn to our own favoured island, 
 externally, indeed, " less winning fair," but blest with 
 the " light that leads to heaven ; " and whilst ours is 
 that inspired volume which directs fallen man to " the 
 Tree whose leaves are for the healing of the nations," 
 whilst we live under a mild government and equal 
 laws, 
 
 " Let India boast her plants, nor envy we 
 The weeping amber, and the balmy tree, 
 While by our oaks the precious loads are borne, 
 And realms commanded which those trees adorn."
 
 194 
 
 But this should not be our only feeling : the more we 
 appreciate our own advantages, the more desirous should 
 we be to extend them to others; and, both nationally 
 and individually, help on the day, when one song shall 
 employ all people, " Worthy is the Lamb that was 
 slain!" 
 
 " O shame on thee, thou peerless tree, 
 That such debasing task is thine, 
 To yield thy boasted fragrancy 
 As incense on an idol's shrine ! " 
 
 Such were my musings as I caught 
 The lovely Sandal's perfumed sigh : 
 
 Then paused, heart-stricken, for methought 
 Elsewhere the censure might apply. 
 
 Born in an age, a land, of light, 
 'Tis true I yield not worship vain 
 
 To sun by day, to moon by night, 
 Or golden image on the plain * : 
 
 * Daniel, iii.
 
 195 
 
 Yet often at that solemn hour 
 
 When to my closet I repair, 
 And fain 'gainst all would " shut the door," 
 
 Save Him, who hears and answers prayer ; 
 
 Yea, even then, oh, thought abhorr'd ! 
 
 How do I start appalPd to find 
 That " other gods beside the Lord" 
 
 Within my bosom are enshrined ! 
 
 Some thought I care not to control, 
 
 Some cherished friend, some darling aim : 
 
 These have the homage of my soul, 
 E'en whilst I name Jehovah's name. 
 
 Then point the well-earn'd censure home 
 Erst lavish'd on the sandal tree, 
 
 Till never more an idol come, 
 
 False heart ! between thy God and thee. 
 
 For thee, fair tree, whose sweets misplaced, 
 Have roused this self-condemning strain, 
 
 Grateful, I wish thou ne'er may'st waste 
 Those sweets on idol-shrine again, 
 o 2
 
 196 
 
 No ! soon may He, whose word is might, 
 Whose will is triumph, so unveil 
 
 His glory in the heathen's sight, 
 
 That shrine and votary both may fail. 
 
 May error's darkling shades depart 
 Where'er His banners are unfurPd; 
 
 His altar be the human heart, 
 His temple a converted world !
 
 197 
 
 THE ARBUTUS. 
 
 ARBUTUS UNEDO.* 
 
 ; Great Spring, before, 
 
 Green'd all the year, and fruits and blossoms blush'd 
 In social sweetness on the self-same bough." 
 
 IF this were the only criterion of the golden age, we 
 might fancy, whilst gazing on the Arbutus, that it was 
 returned again, for this beautiful tree is indeed 
 
 " loaden with fairest fruit, 
 
 Blossoms, and fruit at once." 
 
 But, alas ! short would be the illusion ; a momentary 
 glance at some neighbouring tree would at once re- 
 mind us we are yet in a fading, fallen world : for the 
 Arbutus is profuse of its fruit and flowers when all the 
 rest of the grove have " fallen into the sere, the yellow 
 leaf." 
 
 * Arbutus unedo : the meaning for this word, " you will eat but one."
 
 198 
 
 This beautiful peculiarity, however, though it does 
 sometimes feed fanciful conceits and baseless visions, 
 makes the Arbutus a very valuable addition to the lawn 
 and the shrubbery, where it is now no longer the rarity 
 which Evelyn describes it to have been in his day. It is 
 valuable also in such situations on another account; 
 its old leaves never fall off till replaced by new ones, so 
 that it is clothed with verdure all the winter through ; 
 its foliage, both in shape and colour, has a resemblance 
 to that of the bay. " It rises," says Miller, " to from 
 twenty to thirty feet in height, but rarely with an up- 
 right stem. It usually puts forth branches very near 
 the ground ; the berries are roughened with the tu- 
 bercles of the seeds." The Arbutus is a native of the 
 South of Europe, and many parts of Asia : it is also 
 found wild on the barren limestone rocks near the lake 
 of Killarney, where its fruit is eaten by the natives: 
 this is also the case in Spain and Italy. In very early 
 times we are told this practice was universal ; but surely 
 not in the golden age to which we have before alluded, 
 otherwise we should be tempted to believe, that, at least 
 in the article of food, the nineteenth century surpassed 
 " those prime of days." 
 
 This tree is not without classical fame. It is men- 
 tioned by Virgil, Horace, and Ovid. The former, it
 
 199 
 
 is true, does not associate it with any thing very sub- 
 lime or ennobling, for he chiefly recommends it as 
 peculiarly agreeable to goats in the winter, when other 
 sustenance fails ; for basket-work, and for the purposes 
 of engrafting : 
 
 " Rough arbute slips into a hazel bough 
 Are oft engrafted." 
 
 Horace, however, gives it higher praise. He com- 
 mends it for its shade ; and Ovid for the beauty of its 
 ruby fruit. It has received but little poetical notice in 
 our own country ; less, surely, than it deserves ; but its 
 not being much cultivated here till lately may account 
 satisfactorily for the omission, without impugning the 
 taste of such of our forefathers as were skilled " to sing 
 and build the lofty rhyme." 
 
 We find it thus noticed in modern poetry : 
 
 The leafy Arbute spreads 
 
 A snow of blossoms, and on every bough 
 Its vermeil fruitage glitters to the sun." 
 
 And again : 
 
 Glowing bright 
 
 Beneath the various foliage, widely spreads
 
 200 
 
 The Arbutus, and rears his scarlet fruit 
 Luxuriant, mantling o'er the craggy steeps." 
 
 There are several species of this beautiful genus; 
 most of which affect mountainous situations. The An- 
 drachne, or oriental strawberry tree, grows both on 
 Mounts Ida and Helicon, and the Arbutus alpina is 
 seen clothing the Lapland Alps, from their summits to 
 their base; it also cheers the dreary district around the 
 White Sea, and other inhospitable regions. 
 
 Youthful maiden, wouldst thou know 
 Why, to deck thy sunny brow, 
 I this graceful garland bring ? 
 Not for lack of brighter thing, 
 Not because the grove, now serey 
 Proffers nothing sweet or fair, 
 Not because the garden's prime 
 Vanish'd with the summer-time ;
 
 201 
 
 No, if roses nigh at hand 
 Woo'd me now with whisper bland, 
 Or the lily, purest gem, 
 Sought to form thy diadem, 
 Still I would this chaplet twine 
 Round that laughing brow of thine. 
 Wherefore? Youthful maiden, try 
 To resolve the mystery. 
 
 Mark upon this lovely bough 
 How in social beauty grow 
 Flowers and fruit, a fairy throng, 
 Fitting theme for poet's song; 
 Sure not brighter wreaths than this 
 Graced the famed Hesperides. 
 Yet a lovelier sight I know : 
 (Ay, thou read'st my riddle now) 
 "Pis, when in the social bower 
 Wisdom's fruit, and youth's fair flower, 
 (Combination rare as sweet) 
 On the self-same scion meet. 
 
 Youthful maiden, I would see 
 These rare graces meet in thee ;
 
 202 
 
 'Twas this gentle hint to breathe 
 That for thee I pluck'd this wreath 
 Take it, then, and on thy brow 
 Let its mingled beauty glow, 
 But the moral it imparts, 
 Wear thai in thy heart of hearts.
 
 203 
 
 SORROWFUL NYGTANTHES. 
 
 NYCTANTHES, ARBOR-TRISTIS. 
 
 Is not your world a mournful one 
 
 When your sisters close their eyes, 
 And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone 
 
 Of song in the starry skies ? 
 Take ye no joy in the day-spring's mirth 
 
 When it kindles the sparks of dew ? 
 And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth 
 
 Shall they gladden all but you ? 
 
 IT is said of the birds which inhabit the torrid zone, 
 that what they gain in beauty of plumage over those of 
 colder climates, they lose in melody; for when, as the 
 poet says, 
 
 : Nature bids them shine 
 
 Array'd in all the beauteous beams of day, 
 Yet, frugal still, she humbles them in song." 
 
 Not so, however, with the productions of the vegetable 
 world : they, for the most part, possess both a gorgeous- 
 ness of bloom, and a richness of fragrance, of which, one
 
 204 
 
 may readily conceive, such as have not visited those 
 lands can form no idea : 
 
 " Another Flora there, of bolder hues, 
 And richer sweets, beyond our gardens' pride, 
 Plays o'er the fields, and showers with sudden hand 
 Exuberant spring." 
 
 The same also may be said of their sylva. To one 
 whose eye has been accustomed to the plain, unpretend- 
 ing grandeur of our woods, how strange must be the 
 appearance of forest trees, covered with large, showy, 
 odoriferous flowers, 
 
 Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue ; " 
 
 and of creepers, which he only knows as choice hot-house 
 specimens, festooning their stems and branches as in 
 England the ivy does those of the oak and the elm. 
 
 All oriental travellers are eloquent in praise of the 
 exquisite perfume and astonishing luxuriance of the 
 gardens, groves, and forests of Hindoostan. Forbes, 
 speaking of the Nabob's gardens on Narranseer Lake, 
 says, " After sunset, the atmosphere was filled with fra- 
 grance from the orange trees, champahs, and oriental 
 jasmines, wafted by gentle breezes over the lake." Not 
 less " sweet is the breath of morn : " after describing
 
 205 
 
 the shrubs, trees, and creeping plants that adorn the 
 enclosed lands in Dhuboy, and which in the rainy sea- 
 son are profusely covered with blossoms of every hue, 
 he adds, " their early fragrance is delicious ; the nightly 
 dews, impregnated by the odours, exhale their short- 
 lived sweets, and render a morning walk delightful." 
 This glowing sketch brings to mind a sentiment in a 
 Turkish ode : 
 
 " The sweetness of the bower has made the air so fragrant, 
 That the dew before it falls is changed into rose-water ; " 
 
 which is thus rhythmically rendered by Sir William 
 Jones : 
 
 " The dew-drops sprinkled, by the musky gale 
 Are changed to essence, ere they reach the dale." 
 
 This elegant and profound scholar speaks with the 
 most delighted enthusiasm of the vegetable wonders of 
 the East : sometimes appearing almost at a loss for terms 
 to describe their variety, beauty, and fragrancy; and to 
 his spirit of research we are indebted for an introduction 
 to many exquisite Indian plants before unknown. 
 
 Amongst those which he mentions with the most lavish 
 encomiums, are the Nyctanthes, a tribe nearly allied to 
 the jasmines ; indeed, it is a disputed point amongst
 
 206 
 
 botanists to which genus some of the different species 
 belong. The proverbially fragrant sambac, or zambac, 
 according to Sir W. Jones, is called Nava mallica, or 
 many-flowered nyctanthes, and Gaertner also considered 
 it of the same genus ; whilst Miller classes it with the 
 jasmines. When the learned differ, who may decide? In 
 two delightful qualities, however, the rival genera cer- 
 tainly agree, namely, in their beauty and perfume. 
 
 The tree selected for our purpose is the sep'halica, 
 after the Sanscrit nomenclature ; the sorrowful nyctanthes 
 of Linnaeus (triste being the epithet he always gave to 
 night-blowing flowers). It is thus described by our 
 author: " This gay tree (for nothing sorrowful appears 
 in its nature) spreads its rich odour to a ponsiderable 
 distance every evening ; but at sunrise it sheds most of 
 its night-flowers, which are collected with care for the use 
 of perfumers and dyers. My pundits unanimously assure 
 me, that the plant before us is the sep'halica, thus named 
 because bees are supposed to sleep on its blossoms." 
 
 This nocturnal fragrance has a twofold spell ; it not 
 only regales the senses, but affects the imagination, by 
 reminding us of that incense of the heart which is offered 
 " in secret to Him who seeth in secret"
 
 207 
 
 Silence and Darkness ! mighty are your spells 
 To search the spirit ! Guilt, that walks by day 
 With shameless front, and every fear repels, 
 Trembles like sentenc'd victim 'neath your sway ; 
 For ye do tear each false disguise away, 
 And summon forth from memory's dread abyss 
 Follies and crimes, a long and black array, 
 Till, all unmask' d, he feels the thing he is, 
 One to whom cleaves that curse which shuts the soul 
 from bliss ! 
 
 Not so with him whose heart is purified ' 
 
 By heavenly grace ; he loves your solemn reign ; 
 
 He joys to see the pomp of day subside, 
 
 And trace your distant footsteps on the plain. 
 
 By day he communes with his fellow-men, 
 
 By night with God ! 'Tis then his spirit pours 
 
 Its holiest sacrifice of prayer and praise ; 
 
 Like that fam'd tree, the pride of eastern bowers, 
 
 Which keeps its choicest sweets for midnight's stilly hours. 
 
 Men call it sad that fair and fragrant tree 
 Because it wakens while the forest sleeps ; 
 As false they deem of him who silently 
 Through the still night his prayerful vigil keeps.
 
 208 
 
 Ah ! little do they know, even when he weeps, 
 
 How much of peace blends with his very tears, 
 
 Healing as dew, whose balmy nectar steeps 
 
 The sun-smit flower : while Hope, sweet Hope ! appears, 
 
 An iris on the cloud, and smiles away his fears. 
 
 Silence and Darkness ! soon the hour will come 
 When all must brave ye, for that all must die : 
 The night of death, the silence of the tomb ! 
 These are realities which none may fly. 
 Thrice happy they who, when that hour is nigh, 
 Do feel their faith secure, their sins forgiven : 
 Soon 'twill be past ; and then to ear and eye 
 What sounds, what sights of rapture shall be given ! 
 For darkness, endless day ! for silence, songs of 
 Heaven !
 
 209 
 
 THE IVY. 
 
 HEDERA HELIX. 
 
 " Oh ! how could Fancy crown with thee, 
 
 In ancient days, the god of wine, 
 And bid thee at the banquet be, 
 
 Companion of the vine ? 
 Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound 
 
 Of revelry hath long been o'er, 
 Where song's full notes once peal'd around, 
 
 But now are heard no more." 
 
 WE may indeed wonder, with the writer of these sweet 
 lines, that the ivy should be desecrated to such unhal- 
 lowed purposes. Besides the consideration of its usual 
 haunts, there is something so sombre in its appearance 
 as makes it seem but little akin to revelry. One might 
 almost imagine that in wreathing the goblet with its 
 graceful branches, garnished with handsome but poison- 
 ous berries, it was designed to point a moral by alluding 
 to " the sweet poison of misused wine." 
 
 We are indebted to the ivy for the picturesque 
 beauty it throws around every object to which it at- 
 p
 
 210 
 
 laches itself: no architectural ornament, however clas- 
 sical, no tracery, however light and elegant, can vie in 
 graceful effect with this " wild tapestry." But not only 
 is the eye indebted to it; the imagination also shares 
 in the obligation for the touching imagery it supplies. 
 Springing wherever there is ruin and decay, it decks 
 indiscriminately " the loftiest height" and " the humblest 
 grave;" and with such exquisite grace, that we doubt 
 whether Adam, to whom his fair consort (according to 
 the poet) assigned the task of directing " the clasping 
 ivy where to climb," could have twined it more taste- 
 fully. 
 
 Besides decorating the ruined remains of feudal 
 and monastic splendour, there is not a more beautiful 
 or characteristic feature of forest scenery than this trail- 
 ing plant. Every where it may be seen, covering the 
 ground with its natural mosaic, and climbing the tallest 
 trees, especially such as are dead or dying (for which it 
 has a decided preference), round which it throws its 
 verdant garlands, as if to hide the traces of decay. 
 Once arrived at then: summit, where further support is 
 denied, it is necessitated to assume more independence 
 of character, and it then makes an effort to sustain itself; 
 to effect which its slight flexible stems become short 
 and woody. In this position, its leaf also undergoes a
 
 211 
 
 change : from being lobed, it becomes heart-shaped ; 
 then too it puts forth its umbels of pretty pale green 
 flowers, which first show themselves in October, and 
 continue, in mild seasons, through December, and are 
 then succeeded by large black berries, which are fully 
 formed in February, but do not ripen till April. 
 
 The eulogisers of the ivy, however, must not forget 
 that it has had its calumniators, by whom it has been 
 sometimes considered a fit emblem of perfidy and in- 
 gratitude. Shakspeare insinuates this, when, in " The 
 Tempest," he makes Prospero say of his treacherous 
 brother, 
 
 " He was 
 
 The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, 
 And suck'd my verdure out on't." 
 
 And in another play he entitles it "usurping ivy." 
 Nor has it met with more mercy from some modern 
 authors, one of whom thus pointedly condemns it : 
 
 " The oak that rears it from the ground, 
 
 And bears its tendrils to the skies, 
 Feels at its heart the rankling wound, 
 And in its poisonous arms he dies." 
 
 To these charges we offer the following eloquent 
 extract from the author of " Les Etudes de la Nature," 
 p 2
 
 212 
 
 who regards the ivy as the symbol of unchanging friend- 
 ship : " Rien (dit-il) ne peut le separer de 1'arbre 
 qu'il embrasse une fois, il le pare de son feuillage dans 
 la saison cruelle ou ses branches noircies ne soutiennent 
 plus que des frimas ; compagnon de ses destinees, il tombe 
 quand on le renverse; la mort meme ne Ten detache 
 pas, et il decore de sa constants verdure le tronc tout 
 desseche de 1'appui qu'il adopta." 
 
 Hast thou e'er seen the moon's soft splendour 
 Sleep peaceful on some ruin'd pile, 
 
 Gilding with radiance mild and tender 
 Each broken arch and mouldering aisle ? 
 
 Hast thou e'er seen the ivy clinging 
 Round fragments broken and decay*d, 
 
 As if its mantling wreaths 't were flinging 
 To hide the breaches Time had made ? 
 
 Oh ! thus, should care or sorrow wound thee, 
 Be Friendship's soft endearment thine, 
 
 And fondest sympathy around thee 
 As close her thousand tendrils twine.
 
 213 
 
 And when, at last, each youthful token 
 
 Shall yield to wasting and decay, 
 And thou like arch or column broken, 
 
 Shalt feel proud manhood's strength give way ; 
 
 Oh ! then may Love, by time unshaken, 
 
 Around its earliest prop still cling, 
 (For when was mouldering arch forsaken 
 
 By the fond wreath it caused to spring ? ) 
 
 Still may one smile, as moonbeam tender, 
 
 E'en to the last unwearied shine, 
 Gilding thy manhood's waning splendour, 
 
 And oh, may that one smile be mine f
 
 214 
 
 THE ASO'CA. 
 
 " But come, my muse, 
 Thou, like the harmless bee, shall freely range 
 From mead to mead bright with exalted flowers, 
 Through palmy shades and aromatic woods." 
 
 THE Asoca is another oriental beauty on which Sir 
 William Jones bestows the warmest praise. He de- 
 scribes it as a new genus ; and as he only gives the 
 vernacular name, not the Linnaean, it would be difficult 
 to discover further particulars of its history than those 
 with which he himself has favoured us. He strongly 
 objects to the genuine names of Asiatic plants being 
 superseded by trivial, and, according to his opinion, 
 unmeaning appellations. The former are mostly very 
 comprehensive, and highly poetical ; thus the Hindoos 
 give the scarlet hibiscus a title which answers to " gem 
 of the sun;" the ipomea they call Camalata, or " Love's 
 creeper" (after the Indian Cupid) ; and to all beautiful 
 aquatic flowers they give the general name of " Cu- 
 muda," which signifies " delight of the waters." 
 
 But to return to the Asoca, the description of which 
 is as follows : " Flowers fascicled, fragrant just after
 
 215 
 
 sunset and before sunrise, when they are fresh with 
 morning and evening dew ; beautifully diversified with 
 tints of orange-scarlet, of pale yellow, and of bright 
 orange, which grows deeper every day, and forms a 
 variety of shades according to the age of each blossom 
 that opens in the fascicle. The vegetable world scarcely 
 exhibits a richer sight than an Asoca tree in full bloom. 
 It is about as high as an ordinary cherry-tree." 
 
 The peculiarity mentioned by this elegant scholar of 
 the late and early fragrance of the Asoca is of a kind 
 that addresses itself at once to the imagination. The 
 whole volume of nature (secondary only to that of reve- 
 lation) is indeed replete with pure and holy lessons; 
 and if duly and properly studied, would not only en- 
 rich the mind and elevate the fancy, but amend the 
 heart. 
 
 Pilgrim of life ! if friends caress, 
 
 If youth's gay flowers thy path be strewing, 
 If joy so ready is to bless 
 
 He yields his gifts without the wooing ;
 
 216 
 
 Oh ! pray that He whose hand has spread 
 
 Thy path of bliss may guide thee ever, 
 Pour His own dews upon thy head, 
 
 And in " all time of wealth deliver ; " 
 And like that tree which hastes to shower 
 
 Its fragrance soon as morn has given 
 Her liquid balm, oh ! ever pour 
 
 The incense of thy soul to heaven ! 
 
 Pilgrim of life ! if grief's dim eve, 
 
 Or deeper night be fallen upon thee, 
 If youth be past if friends deceive 
 
 Friends, who once fondly wooed and won thee ; 
 Oh ! hie thee, mourner, to the bower 
 
 What time dim eve is duly flinging 
 Her chilly dews on tree and flower, 
 
 And mark the sweetness thence up-springing 
 Meekly to bow the willing head, 
 
 E'en when the heart is blighted riven ; 
 To trust, to praise, when light is fled, 
 
 This this is incense meet for heaven !
 
 217 
 
 THE MISLETOE. 
 
 VISCUM ALBA. 
 
 " Not far away, for ages past had stood 
 An old, inviolated, sacred wood ; 
 Whose gloomy boughs, thick interwoven, made 
 A chilly, cheerless,, everlasting shade : 
 There barbarous priests some dreadful power adore, 
 And lustrate every tree with human gore ; 
 The pious worshippers approach not near, 
 But shun their gods, and kneel with distant fear." 
 
 FROM time immemorial, trees, either standing apart in 
 solitary majesty, or congregated in groves and forests, 
 have been consecrated to the solemnities of religion. 
 " Paradise itself," says Evelyn, " was but a kind of 
 nemorous temple, planted by God himself, and given to 
 man." This appropriation of them to sacred purposes 
 may be traced even in the patriarchal ages. Abraham, 
 we are told, " planted a grove in Beer-sheba, and called 
 there on the name of the everlasting God." It was 
 in a bush, or, as some commentators render it, a grove, 
 that the angel of the Lord appeared to Moses " in the
 
 '218 
 
 wilderness of Mount Sinai : " and when the same glo- 
 rious Being visited Gideon, " he came and sat under 
 an oak." 
 
 Trees have also been solemnized by funeral obsequies. 
 When " Deborah, Rebekah's nurse, died, she was buried 
 beneath Bethel, under an oak ; and the name of it was 
 called Allon-bachuth, which signifies oak of weeping." 
 The bones of Saul and his sons had also a similar place 
 of sepulchre. 
 
 Such was the sanctity of trees and groves in the 
 earlier ages of the world ; and such it continues still in 
 many places. Nor can we wonder at it, for their 
 shadowy recesses seem made for meditation : 
 
 ' Still let me pierce into the midnight depth 
 Of yonder grove, of wildest, largest growth : 
 These are the haunts of meditation, these 
 The scenes where ancient bards the inspiring breath 
 Ecstatic felt ; and, from this world retir'd, 
 Convers'd with angels and immortal forms, 
 On gracious errands bent. 
 
 These " angel visits," always " few and far be- 
 tween," have long ceased to bless our world; but he 
 .who has a mind attuned to devotion may, in these 
 " sweet retired solitudes," enjoy yet higher and holier
 
 219 
 
 communion; he may, like our first parents but with 
 what different feelings ! hear " the voice of the Lord 
 God walking in the garden in the cool of the day." 
 
 This is the true and proper use of these natural 
 oratories. But, alas ! they were soon desecrated to 
 other purposes. Even the Israelites themselves soon 
 borrowed the customs of their heathen neighbours, and 
 devoted those very groves to idol-worship which their 
 fathers had planted and consecrated to the one true God. 
 -" They set up images and groves," says the sacred text, 
 " in every high hill, and under every green tree ; and 
 there they burnt incense in all high places, as did the 
 heathen whom the Lord carried away before them." 
 And again : " They sacrifice upon the tops of the 
 mountains, and burn incense upon the hills, under oaks, 
 and poplars, and elms, because the shadow thereof is 
 good." Hence the needful prohibition, " Thou shalt 
 not plant a grove of any trees near unto the altar of the 
 Lord thy God." 
 
 Thus if we cast our eye through the deeps of time, 
 travelling from the East to the West, we shall find all 
 nations, the Israelites, the Persians, the Egyptians, the 
 Grecians, the Romans, each had their sacred groves, 
 over which certain deities presided, whence oracles 
 spake, and where priests and priestesses officiated, till
 
 220 
 
 at last we arrive in Britain, and find the Druid per- 
 forming his horrid rites under our native oak. 
 
 Could we give credence to the poet, we should recall 
 the harsh epithet we have bestowed on the superstitious 
 observances of Druidism. He, more lenient, says, 
 
 " There, where the spreading consecrated boughs 
 Fed the sage misletoe, the holy Druids 
 Lay wrapt in moral musings." 
 
 Truth, however, which is often called in to correct the 
 dreams of fiction, speaks another language, and gives 
 a widely different character of their religion ; for though 
 it is true they held some few primary truths in greater 
 purity and distinctness than could be found in the my- 
 thology even of Greece or Rome, yet these were blended 
 with a mass of error, and were made to sanction the 
 most bloody and abominable superstitions. 
 
 We have been led very naturally to this train of 
 thought by the subject selected for illustration, the 
 far-famed misletoe. The utmost solemnity was used in 
 the gathering of it ; it took place always at the close of 
 the year, when the moon was just six days old. Two 
 white bulls, which had never felt the yoke, were fastened 
 by their horns to the fortunate oak whereon the misletoe
 
 221 
 
 had been discovered ; a priest, clad in a white vesture, 
 then ascended the tree, and detached the plant with a 
 golden hook or bill, whilst others stood ready to receive 
 it in a white woollen cloth: this done, they then pre- 
 pared to offer the best of their flocks and herds in 
 sacrifice, " mumbling many orisons, and praying de- 
 voutly that it would please God to bless this gift of his 
 to the good and benefit of all those to whom he had 
 vouchsafed to give it." Water, in which it had been 
 steeped, they considered a panacea for diseases of every 
 description ; hence the name they gave it, " omnia 
 sanans, or all-heal." 
 
 Having no attachment to earth, it was considered of 
 celestial origin; it was held in the greatest veneration 
 by the Druids, and indeed by most of the northern 
 nations. 
 
 Many are the fables attached to this really singular 
 plant: and it must be owned that its peculiar habits, 
 the obscure mode of its propagation, &c. might almost 
 countenance the superstitious regard in which it was 
 held in those dark ages when ignorance and credulity 
 reigned paramount over the human mind. The horrors 
 with which it was associated in the bloody and cruel 
 rites of Druidism, have probably obtained for it, in the
 
 following quotation from Shakspeare, " a local habitation 
 and a name " by no means enviable : 
 
 " A barren and detested vale you see it is : 
 The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean : 
 O'ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe ; 
 Here never shines the sun, here nothing breeds 
 Unless the nightly owl, or fatal raven." 
 
 Connected as it is with gloomy reminiscences, it is 
 somewhat strange that this plant should ever administer 
 to " heart-easing mirth ; " and yet, wherever old customs 
 are preserved, 
 
 Forth to the woods do the merry men go 
 To gather in the mistleto ; * 
 
 and it is chosen, as it were, to preside over the Christmas 
 gambols; at least in the servants' hall or the kitchen, 
 where a large bunch is hung up in great state, and is 
 the occasion of much merrjment. 
 
 The misletoe belongs to a genus containing twelve 
 species, one only of which, viscum alba, is found in our 
 groves. It is mostly seen on the apple-tree, the haw- 
 thorn, and the lime ; Sir J. E. Smith adds the oak, 
 though most other botanists affirm it is but very rarely 
 found on that tree. This species is also a native of 
 many parts of Europe and Japan.
 
 223 
 
 The manner of its propagation is thus described by 
 Miller : " The misletoe thrush, which feeds upon the 
 berries of this plant in winter when it is ripe, doth open 
 the seed from tree to tree ; for the viscous part of the 
 berry which immediately surrounds the seed, doth some- 
 times fasten it to the outward part of the bird's beak, 
 which to get disengaged of, he strikes his beak at the 
 branches of a neighbouring tree, and so leaves the seed 
 sticking by this viscous matter to the bark, which, if it 
 lights upon a smooth part of the tree, will fasten itself, 
 and the following winter put out leaves, and grow." 
 
 Its parasitical character has suggested the following 
 stanzas. 
 
 A parasite ! I would not be, 
 
 For worlds, that servile thing ; 
 Not royalty itself, from me 
 E'er homage won of heart or knee ; 
 
 To Power I would not cling 
 (Like this vile plant to oaken bough), 
 Though it had kingdoms to bestow ! "
 
 224 
 
 'T is proudly said yet pause for Power 
 
 A crown not always wears ; 
 Oft hundred-headed (as of yore 
 The monster, famed in classic lore,) 
 
 Its Proteus-form appears : 
 And thus disguised from mortal ken 
 Hast thou ne'er worshipp'd in its train ? 
 
 Not always with aspiring aim 
 
 The plant thou dost despise, 
 Seeks out the forest-king, 't will claim 
 From trees of meaner growth and name 
 
 The wish'd-for help to rise : 
 Thus, he who boasts he ne'er has bow'd 
 To kings oft basely courts the crowd. 
 
 Then when thou seest the misletoe 
 
 Hang with its bunches green, 
 On hawthorn or on wilding's bough, 
 Ere thou condemn'st it pause lest thou 
 
 Hast like delinquent been. 
 Far off are courts, and crowns, and kings, 
 But men may rise by meaner things.
 
 225 
 
 Believe me, Freedom ne'er did mate 
 
 With dark ambition's crew; 
 She shuns " the rebel's noisy hate," 
 Not less than " tyrant's sceptred state ; " 
 
 Yet honour yields where due. 
 Submiss not servile, firm not proud, 
 She worships neither king nor crowd.
 
 226 
 
 THE GUELDER-ROSE, OR WAY-FARING 
 TREE. 
 
 VIBURNUM LANTANA. 
 
 " Way-faring tree ! what ancient claim 
 Hast thou to that right pleasant name ? 
 Was it that some faint pilgrim came 
 
 Unhopedly to thee, 
 In the brown desert's weary way 
 'Mid toil and thirst's consuming sway, 
 And there as 'neath thy shade he lay, 
 
 Bless'd the way-faring tree ? 
 Or is it that thou lov'st to show 
 Thy coronals of fragrant snow 
 Like life's spontaneous joys that flow 
 
 In paths by thousands beat ? 
 Whate'er it be, I love it well ; 
 A name, methinks, that surely fell 
 From poet, in some evening dell 
 
 Wandering with fancies sweet" 
 
 THE way-faring tree is a native of most countries of 
 Europe, those only excepted which are situated far to 
 the north. It is found chiefly on a limestone soil in 
 woods and hedges, but is said to delight most of all in
 
 227 
 
 the vicinity of roads. It puts forth its many-flowered 
 cymes, in scent resembling the hawthorn, towards the 
 middle of May, and perfects its berries in autumn, 
 which hi an immature state are red on the outside and 
 yellow on the other, but which when fully ripe are 
 quite black. 
 
 This tree belongs to a genus containing many species, 
 of which the favourite little winter-flowering shrub lau- 
 rustinus is one, and the well-known elder another. A 
 very elegant variety may be met with in almost every 
 ornamental plantation. Who is not familiar with the 
 garden guelder-rose, or snowball, which when in bloom 
 harmonises so well with all the gayer shrubs of spring ? 
 How beautifully descriptive of its general appearance 
 and mode of growth are these lines by Cowper, where, 
 however, he groups it with more sombre associates ; for 
 he speaks of it, as 
 
 " Throwing up into the darkest gloom 
 
 Of neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew, 
 Its silver globes, light as the foamy surf, 
 That the wind severs from the broken waves. " 
 
 It has also been sketched by the elegant pen of Miss 
 Landon : 
 
 " Here the guelder rose shall fling 
 Silver treasures to the spring." 
 Q 2
 
 228 
 
 But to return to our homely subject. 
 
 The way- faring tree is partly indebted to its name 
 for popularity ; not but that its pretty fragrant flower, 
 might justly entitle it to regard; but many a flowering 
 shrub as pretty and as fragrant we pass without notice, 
 whilst this always obtains a share of observation. 
 
 Who gave it this appellation, and wherefore, is left 
 to poetical conjecture ; but whatever may have suggested 
 the trivial names of this, and other plants, we are in- 
 debted to them for many a pleasant and it may be im- 
 proving reflection. They supply a text on which the mind 
 delights to make its own comments ; and there is scarcely 
 an affection or feeling of which the heart is conscious, that 
 may not be in some degree called into exercise by an 
 acquaintance with the habits, properties, and names of 
 the various productions of the vegetable kingdom. 
 
 Hail ! sportive Fancy, visionary Power, 
 Oh ! soothly tell me in what favour'd hour 
 
 Thou first didst visit earth ? 
 Didst thou descend upon the earliest ray 
 Whose magic chased chaotic gloom away, 
 
 And smiled on Nature's birth ?
 
 229 
 
 Say, wert thou cradled in the first fair rose 
 That did in Paradise its sweets disclose, 
 And with superior loveliness arose 
 
 To reign the queen of flow'rs ? 
 And wert thou rock'd by each soft gale, whose wing 
 Caught the rich scent that new-born rose did fling 
 
 O'er Eden's blissful bowers ? 
 
 Or didst thou spring in after years 
 From that fair bow which spanned the skies, 
 When Phoebus, pitying Nature's tears, 
 First gemm'd the falling drops with dyes 
 So bright, so fair, that of her grief beguiled 
 She gazed upon the vision * gazed and smiled. 
 
 Whate'er thy origin may be, 
 Sweet Fancy, thou art dear to me ; 
 And whether in the sunny glade 
 I stray, or pierce the forest-shade ; 
 Whether I tread the moorlands wide, 
 Or track the brooklet's silver tide, 
 Or " sometimes wander not unseen 
 By hedgerow elms, or hillocks green ; " 
 Still be thou nigh, companion dear, 
 Breathing thy lessons in my ear,
 
 230 
 
 Until I feel, and hear, and see 
 
 Sweet, visionary Power, like thee. 
 
 For thou canst suit thy varying lore 
 
 To sheltered cot, or lonely shore, 
 
 To river broad, or tiny rill, 
 
 To cultured vale, or barren hill. 
 
 There's not a flower can ope its eye 
 
 To greet us as we wander by, 
 
 Or dewdrop gem the bloomy spray, 
 
 Or Zephyr with that dewdrop play, 
 
 But, if thy magic thou dispense, 
 
 'T is gifted with intelligence. 
 
 Sometimes by virtue of a name 
 
 Thou givest to lifeless things a claim 
 
 On man's regard ; from its fair bower 
 
 How sweetly pleads yon little flower, 
 
 " Forget me not ; " while further on 
 
 The Speedwell breathes its benison. 
 
 And here's a fair and fragrant tree, 
 
 Which from its name might seem to be 
 
 The wanderer's friend ; and so it proves ; 
 
 For when with weary step he roves, 
 
 It greets him on his toilsome way 
 
 With flowers which yield the breath of May,
 
 231 
 
 And proffers all it hath of shade 
 
 When noon's fierce heats his frame invade. 
 
 And while reclined its boughs beneath, 
 
 If, Fancy, thou thy spirit breathe 
 
 Into each fair and fragrant wreath, 
 
 Oh ! then, what thrilling memories, 
 
 What thoughts within his bosom rise 
 
 Of some fond friend, perchance, who showers 
 
 His daily path with fairest flowers, 
 
 Who greets him with a smile so sweet, 
 
 'Twas worth the absence thus to meet. 
 
 Or, if a graver mood be thine, 
 
 Thou mind'st him of a hand divine ; 
 
 A friend, all other friends above, 
 
 " Whose nature and whose name is love ; " 
 
 Who marks his steps, appoints his way, 
 
 Attempers joy's too fervid ray, 
 
 And for the dark and stormy hour 
 
 Reserveth still some precious flower; 
 
 And Who, when life's rough ways are past, 
 
 Receives him to Himself at last.
 
 232 
 
 THE BIRD-CHERRY. 
 
 PRUNUS PADUS. 
 
 " The cherry here hung for the birds of heaven 
 Its fruit on high." 
 
 THIS beautiful tree, which is now so commonly intro- 
 duced into our parks and pleasure-grounds, is no 
 naturalised foreigner, but a real genuine native ; for it is 
 found in situations which cultivation never reached 
 situations so wild and inaccessible, as to establish its 
 aboriginal character to the satisfaction of the most scep- 
 tical naturalist. In such places, its loose bunches of 
 snowy flowers, and its light foliage, come out with the 
 best possible effect, contrasted with the dark hue of the 
 pines, the stunted oaks, and other rugged features pe- 
 culiar to mountain scenery. But such, indeed, is its 
 native gracefulness, that it is a beautiful appendage to 
 any scene ; and 
 
 whether fringing the fell 
 
 Or cheering the forest, or gracing the dell, 
 Or skirting the mountain, 
 Or shading the fountain,"
 
 233 
 
 it always captivates the fancy, and we are apt to imagine, 
 for the time being, that that is the one spot which it was 
 made to adorn. Nor is it only when in flower that it 
 claims our admiration. Its fruit, which ripens towards 
 the end of summer, scarcely yields in beauty to its blos- 
 soms ; it hangs in long bunches, varying in colour as the 
 season advances, from green to full black. In this state 
 it is a most tempting morsel for the birds : hence its 
 English appellation. 
 
 The bird-cherry is indigenous in most parts of Europe ; 
 it even opens its fragile flowers to the nipping air of 
 Russia and Siberia. It abounds in the northern counties 
 of England, and is profusely scattered among the woods, 
 and on the borders of the mountain torrents of Scotland. 
 In these natural fastnesses, where it is more likely to es- 
 cape the stroke of the axe, it often rises to the height of 
 fifteen feet from a stem eighteen inches in diameter, and 
 spreads its branches to a considerable distance. 
 
 The wood of the whole genus is very compact, and in 
 some species of a fine colour. In others, especially some 
 of the bird-cherries, it is beautifully marked, which 
 makes it in request for ornamental cabinet work. 
 
 When in bloom, no tree, either in the plantation or 
 the forest, bears about it more unequivocally the impress 
 of spring. " To a fanciful view," it might seem that
 
 sweet season embodied ; and the sight of it must have 
 a tendency to awaken feelings of a hopeful and plea- 
 surable nature. In the hey-day of youth, and health, 
 and joy, the mind, as if by way of contrast to its gene- 
 ral tone, is too apt to luxuriate hi a sort of morbid 
 melancholy, and " in these sullen fits " it seeks such 
 scenes and associations as are most likely to promote it. 
 A fading flower, a falling leaf, the sober sadness of an 
 autumnal day, have then a charm far beyond the 
 brightest and gayest trophies of spring. Not so in after- 
 life : by that time the heart has generally become so 
 well acquainted with real sorrow, that it has no room 
 for such as is fictitious ; and it rather turns from those 
 objects which suggest images of gloom and decay, to 
 such as resuscitate hope and gladness. 
 
 Such were the feelings awakened in the mind of the 
 author, when she received the spray of bird-cherry 
 (whence the drawing is taken) from a kind contributor 
 of botanical specimens for this work.
 
 235 
 
 Time was, when shadowy eve 
 
 Was dearer to my heart than smiling morn, 
 And than the lovely garlands Spring doth weave, 
 
 The faded hues by pensive Autumn worn. 
 
 'Twas in my youthful prime, 
 
 When life itself put on the look of Spring ; 
 Ere Care, that ever tracks the steps of Tune, 
 
 Seem'd other than a visionary thing. 
 
 Untouch'd by real grief, 
 
 E'en from its own excess of joy, my heart 
 In fancied ills would ofttimes seek relief, 
 
 And sport with Sorrow's yet unvenom'd dart : 
 
 But now, when every sigh 
 
 Is fraught, alas ! with meaning full and deep ; 
 When Hope resigns her seat to Memory, 
 
 And leaves me o'er her vanish'd dreams to weep ; 
 
 Oh ! now I turn away 
 
 From Autumn's sered wreaths to Spring's gay bloom ; 
 Those all too sadly mind me of decay, 
 
 These bid sweet Hope once more her sway resume.
 
 236 
 
 More chaste, indeed, her glow 
 
 Than erst it was in Youth's enchanting prime ; 
 Then were her dreams of earth alone but now 
 
 She aids my spirit's flight o'er things of time.
 
 237 
 
 THE CYPRESS. 
 
 CUPRESSUS SEMPERVIRENS. 
 
 " Dark tree ! still sad when other's grief is fled, 
 The only constant mourner o'er the dead." 
 
 " IN nature there is nothing melancholy," says Cole- 
 ridge, an assertion which none can gainsay ; yet it is 
 an assertion we should have expected from the philo- 
 sopher rather than the poet; for he whose magic spell 
 invests inanimate objects with life and consciousness, 
 might surely endow them with feelings either " grave or 
 gay, lively or severe," according as his own mind might 
 dictate. If in nature there is nothing actually melan- 
 choly, there are both sounds and sights which appear 
 so, and that, even independently of association, though 
 doubtless this faculty greatly aids the impression. How 
 different, for instance, the plaintive coo of the dove to 
 the sprightly trill of the lark ; the faded foliage of No- 
 vember to the vivid burst of vegetation in May : and if 
 the mind be so disengaged as to be open to impressions
 
 238 
 
 from outward things, how different the emotions pro- 
 duced by each ! Who can view with similar sensations the 
 birch and the yew, or the hawthorn and the cypress? 
 Does not the one awaken feelings of cheerfulness, the 
 other of gloom ? 
 
 The cypress is a dark, pyramidal evergreen, growing 
 to a considerable size in a soil and climate favourable to 
 its development. Its proper birthplace is the Levant, 
 particularly the island of Candia, where it grew in such 
 profusion, that the Romans, and after them the Vene- 
 tians, obtained a considerable revenue from its timber. 
 Though our easterly winds are very prejudicial to it, the 
 cypress does not fear cold in the land of its nativity, for 
 it is seen climbing the snowy top of Mount Ida. From 
 Candia it was brought first to Italy, where it is now so 
 completely naturalised, and forms so prominent and 
 acknowledged a feature in the sylva of that classic 
 country, that no Italian scene is perfect without it. 
 
 Bearing in mind the associations connected with this 
 tree, what touching effect, what mournful grace, does it 
 throw over the architectural remains of ancient Rome ! 
 
 " come and see 
 
 The cypress, bear the owl, and plod your way 
 O'er steps of broken thrones and temples."
 
 239 
 
 " Cypress and ivy, weed and wall-flower grown 
 Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
 On what were chambers, arch-crushed, column strown 
 In fragments, choked-up vaults and frescos steep'd 
 In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, 
 Deeming it midnight." 
 
 This is desolation ! To such mournful relics it is the 
 fittest ornament ; yet we sometimes meet with it in live- 
 lier company and in gayer scenes, and there too it looks 
 beautiful. " Only figure to yourself," says Gray, writing 
 from Genoa, " a vast semicircular basin, full of fine blue 
 sea, and vessels of all sorts and sizes, some sailing out, 
 some coming in, and others at anchor; and all round 
 it palaces and churches peeping over one another's 
 heads, gardens and marble terraces full of orange and 
 cypress trees, fountains and trellis-works covered with 
 vines, which altogether compose the grandest of theatres." 
 Again he introduces it in a picture, which, though it 
 wants the rhythm, has all the glow of poetry : " There 
 is a moon ! there are stars for you ! Do not you hear 
 the fountain ? do not you smell the orange flowers ? 
 That building you see yonder is the convent of St. Isi- 
 dore; and that eminence, with the cypress trees and 
 pines upon it, the top of Mount Quirinal." 
 
 Such a description costs the mind but little effort to
 
 240 
 
 identify itself with a scene so vividly sketched. We do 
 see the moon and the stars; we do hear the fountain, 
 and mark the cypresses 
 
 " Cleave with their dark green cones the silent sky." 
 
 The wood of this classical tree is sonorous, fragrant, 
 and of the most imperishable nature ; in the latter respect 
 surpassing that of the cedar itself.* It shared, with the 
 cedar, the honour of inclosing the bodies of the illus- 
 trious dead, when Egypt and Athens were in their 
 glory, in both which countries it was applied to such 
 purposes. 
 
 Hunter enumerates only four species of this genus ; 
 later writers extend the number to two and twenty. 
 Rapid as is " the march of mind " in our days, this 
 difference in so few years is surprising, and excites a 
 conjecture how many more may be discovered before 
 science really comes to a stand. 
 
 The true cypress, as every one knows, is a tree of much 
 classical celebrity. Its name, according to ancient fable, 
 
 * It is on record that the doors of St. Peter's, in Rome, were made 
 of cypress wood, and were found perfectly sound after the lapse of eleven 
 hundred years, when, at the command of Eusebius the Fourth, they were 
 superseded by gates of bronze.
 
 241 
 
 was derived from Cyparissa, a youth beloved by Apollo, 
 who, having accidentally killed a favourite stag belonging 
 to his patron, was so concerned at the luckless deed, that 
 he earnestly prayed to share the fate of the beautiful 
 animal he had slain. 
 
 It has always been considered the type of grief, and is 
 generally accompanied by some mournful appellative. 
 
 Virgil speaks of 
 
 " fun'ral cypress rising like a shroud." 
 
 Notwithstanding its gloomy character, however, Homer 
 plants it near the cave of Calypso, on account of its 
 fragrance : 
 
 " Poplars and alders ever quivering play'd, 
 And nodding cypress form'd a fragrant shade." 
 
 Why the shafts of Cupid should have been made of 
 this tree, as some writers report, it is difficult to deter- 
 mine ; it might be, because then, as now, 
 
 " the course of true love never did run smooth." 
 
 Its being consecrated to Pluto and Proserpine in those 
 days of dark superstition, causes no surprise: perhaps
 
 '242 
 
 our Shakspeare thought of this, when he makes the Earl 
 of Suffolk, whilst invoking curses on his enemies, wish 
 
 " Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees." 
 
 Consistently with their notions of its character, the 
 ancient Romans, on the death of any high-born indi- 
 vidual, were wont to place a branch of cypress before 
 the door of the house where the corpse lay previous to 
 interment; boughs were also strewn on the bier and 
 borne by the mourners to the grave. These usages are 
 not altogether obsolete even in our day, for in many 
 
 Eastern countries may yet be seen 
 
 / 
 
 " The mournful cypress rising round 
 Tapering from the burial ground." 
 
 The Turks, especially, plant this tree with other aro- 
 matics in their cemeteries, not only from respect to the 
 dead, but to benefit the living, as the balsamic odour is 
 supposed to purify the air. Hasselquist speaks of seeing 
 cypresses of remarkable size and beauty adorning their 
 burial grounds. It is said the ancients chose this tree 
 when they celebrated their funeral obsequies, from a 
 notion that if once cut down it never sprung again.
 
 243 
 
 Viewed in this light, as it has been well observed, " the 
 cypress is no meet emblem for the Christian's grave :" 
 no "the Gospel, which has brought life and immor- 
 tality to light," teaches us, that 
 
 " It is not all of life to live, 
 Nor all of death to die ; " 
 
 " for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be 
 raised." 
 
 If it be sleep that seals his brows, 
 
 And softly shuts his eye, 
 Then whither is the tint of rose 
 Which childhood's cheek in slumber knows ? 
 
 Oh ! where the quick, short sigh, 
 And gently heaving breast, which tell 
 To watchful mother all is well ? 
 R 2
 
 244 
 
 Too deep such calm for that sweet rest, 
 
 Which he was wont to know, 
 When on thy fond maternal breast 
 His cheek and brow were closely prest, 
 
 Not motionless as now, 
 But varying with each winged dream 
 That on his infant mind did beam. 
 
 Now must his cradle be the tomb, 
 
 His pillow earth supply ; 
 Yet weep not, for since such our doom, 
 Seems it not sweet hi life's first bloom 
 
 To bow the head and die, 
 Ere scarce the hidden worm hath power 
 To mar one folding of the flower ? 
 
 Each year we heave a deeper sigh, 
 Our hopes are more o'ercast ; 
 
 And had this shaft flown harmless by, 
 
 Think'st thou, that calm as infancy, 
 Youth, manhood, age had pass'd ? 
 
 Or soft had been as thy fond breast 
 
 The pillow of his future rest?
 
 245 
 
 Ah ! no, the blow thy hopes which cross'd, 
 
 To him was sent in love; 
 For whilst to thee a child is lost, 
 Another seraph swells the host 
 
 Of glorified above ; 
 Then calmly dust to dust resign, 
 Since gone the gem 'twas wont to shrine. 
 
 And let us strew his cradle bed 
 
 With fragrant flowers and fair ; 
 Flowers that beseem the early dead, 
 Such as do soonest bloom and fade 
 
 The firstlings of the year ; 
 And when we lay him in his grave, 
 Let the sad cypress o'er him wave. 
 
 The cypress? nay, that were to throw 
 
 On faith and hope a stain, 
 By Christian grave ne'er should it grow, 
 For is't not said, if once laid low 
 
 It never springs again ? 
 Whilst, to thy babe, the dying strife 
 But usher'd in undying life.
 
 246 
 
 Hear'st thou a new, sweet voice essay 
 
 The strains which angels sing ? 
 See'st thou along the star-paved way 
 A seraph blest in bright array 
 
 Soar on exultant wing, 
 
 With harp in hand, and palm-crown'd brow ? 
 Fond mother, such thine infant now. 
 
 And would'st thou round the free the blest 
 
 Earth's fetters re-entwine ? 
 Or once again with thorns invest 
 Those brows, where now sweet peace doth rest, 
 
 And cloudless bliss doth shine? 
 No thy sole wish is now, to rise, 
 And join thy loved one in the skies.
 
 247 
 
 THE HAWTHORN, OR MAY. 
 
 CRATJEGUS OXYCANTHA. 
 
 " Amongst the many buds proclaiming May, 
 Decking the fields in holiday's array 
 (Striving who shall surpasse in braverie) 
 Marke the faire blooming of the hawthorne tree ; 
 Who finely cloathed in a robe of white, 
 Feeds full the wanton eye with May's delight." 
 
 SOON as " the hawthorn whitens," we know that spring 
 is in its zenith, and looking around we realize the vivid 
 picture of the poet, 
 
 " And see the country far diffused around, 
 One boundless blush, one white-empurpled shower 
 Of mingled blossoms." 
 
 Various species of hawthorn are common in different 
 lands ; but our own may surely vie with any in beauty 
 and fragrance. It is amongst the early-leafing trees, 
 and none put forth a sunnier, richer tint : and then its 
 blossoms they are every thing one would wish ; their 
 perfume and appearance are alike exquisite, and fully
 
 248 
 
 entitle it to the post of honour assigned to it by the poet, 
 of being " the virgin flag of Spring." It has also an- 
 other charm : concealed in its flowery recesses, the little 
 birds " warble their native woodnotes wild," and seem 
 as if they would repay it for their winter's sustenance 
 by the sweetness and variety of their strains. Burns, the 
 poet of nature, makes frequent allusion to this circum- 
 stance ; thus, in " The Petition of Bruar Water : " 
 
 " And for the little songster's nest 
 The close embowering thorn." 
 
 In another poem he again introduces it : 
 
 " Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
 Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
 Her feithfu' mate will share her toil, 
 Or wi' his song her cares beguile." 
 
 Yet one more quotation on the same subject, and 
 from the same pen : 
 
 " The scented birk and hawthorn white 
 Across the pool their arms unite, 
 Alike to screen the birdie's nest." 
 
 Gilpin always speaks disparagingly of this tree; 
 which, in a lover of the picturesque, is matter of wonder;
 
 249 
 
 for the sight of it in full bloom always suggests pastoral 
 or rural images. In describing such images it is never 
 forgotten by the poet. Milton says, 
 
 " And every shepherd tells his tale, 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale." 
 
 And Shakspeare, in "Henry the Sixth:" 
 
 " Gives not a hawthorn bush a sweeter shade 
 To shepherds looking on their silly sheep, 
 Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy 
 To kings that fear their subjects' treachery ? 
 O ! yes, it doth ; a thousand fold it doth." 
 
 In " The Deserted Village," Goldsmith rather varies 
 the picture, and shows us 
 
 " The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made." 
 
 The hawthorn is the usual accompaniment of that 
 characteristic feature of English rural scenery, the 
 village-green. With what truth and beauty has the poet, 
 just quoted, described the merry gambols of which this 
 tree is, we were going to say, the almost sympathising 
 witness, so well does its cheerful, rustic aspect, suit the 
 scene :
 
 250 
 
 '< How often have I bless'd the coming day 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 And all the village train, from labour free, 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ! 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 The young contending as the old survey'd ; 
 And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
 And sleights of art, and feats of strength went round. " 
 
 Formerly, on May-day and at Whitsuntide, as well as 
 at Christmas, houses, and even churches, were profusely 
 decorated with flowers or evergreens peculiar to the 
 season. This custom is still preserved at Christmas, 
 when almost every temple and every window boasts 
 its sprig of holly : and in some places May-day is thus 
 appropriately ushered in ; the hawthorn blossom, when 
 the season is a forward one, being substituted for the 
 evergreen ! These practices, however, to the joy of 
 some, and to the grief of others, are now certainly on 
 the decline ; but we are assured by the greatest poet of 
 the day, that the feeling which suggested them is still 
 alive. In his beautiful address to May he says, 
 
 " And if, on this thy natal morn, 
 
 The pole, from which thy name 
 
 Hath not departed, stands forlorn 
 
 Of song, and dance, and game ;
 
 251 
 
 Still from the village-green a vow 
 
 Aspires to thee addrest, 
 Wherever peace is on the brow, 
 
 Or love within the breast." 
 
 May we be allowed another quotation from the same 
 author, addressed to the same auspicious season ; it will 
 serve, perhaps, as a useful hint to those who complain 
 that May is not the beautiful month it used to be : 
 
 " Season of fancy and of hope, 
 
 Permit not for one hour 
 A blossom from thy crown to drop, 
 
 Nor add to it a flower ! 
 Keep lovely May as if by touch 
 
 Of self-restraining art, 
 This modest charm of not too much, 
 
 Part seen, imagined part. " 
 
 They tell me storms o'er life do lower, 
 They tell me man to grief is born ; 
 But I have ranged through mead and bower, 
 Still asking, as I cull'd the flower, 
 Where lurks the thorn ? "
 
 252 
 
 Avowal sweet of youth's blithe day ! 
 
 Made only ere the heart is torn ; 
 Ah ! who in after years can say, 
 With smile incredulously gay, 
 
 Where lurks the thorn ? 
 
 How true a type this hawthorn bough 
 Of youthful dreams in life's first morn ; 
 
 So thick the fragrant blossoms grow, 
 
 What curious eye detects below 
 The frequent thorn ? 
 
 But wait a few brief days, and soon 
 That bough, of all its glory shorn, 
 
 Its fragrance spent, its blossoms gone, 
 
 Will to thine eye show one by one 
 Each pointed thorn. 
 
 Thus crown'd with light, and link'd with flowers, 
 
 Seems life, in youth's enchanting morn ; 
 But soon, how soon, the tempest lowers, 
 And, stripping Fancy's fairy bowers, 
 Lays bare the thorn !
 
 253 
 
 THE COMMON MAPLE. 
 
 ACER CAMPESTRE. 
 
 " No tree in all the grove but has its charms, 
 Though each its hue peculiar : 
 Some glossy-leav'd and shining in the sun, 
 The maple, and the beech of oily nuts 
 Prolific." 
 
 THE common maple belongs to a genus containing 
 many species, of which it seems to be the only undis- 
 puted native. It rarely grows to any size, being held 
 in very little esteem, so little, that Gilpin remarks, 
 " We seldom see it employed in any nobler service than 
 in filling up its part in a hedge, in company with thorns 
 and briars and other ditch trumpery." 
 
 But, though disregarded by the moderns, it can draw 
 upon the past for fame ; few trees having been in 
 greater repute amongst the ancients. It is mentioned 
 by many of the classical writers. Virgil represents 
 .^Eneas at the court of Evander as seated on a maple 
 throne : 
 
 " On sods of turf he set the soldiers round : 
 A maple throne raised higher from the ground 
 Received the Trojan chief."
 
 254 
 
 Doubtless that author selected it on account of the 
 estimation in which it was held for ornamental works. 
 
 " In the most high and palmy state of Rome," at least 
 as refers to luxury and refinement, tables, and various 
 other elegant articles, were made out of the knots or 
 swellings of the wood, which, being often beautifully and 
 curiously marked, commanded immense prices. 
 
 The enormous sums expended in that madly luxurious 
 age on these fancies, it is supposed, originated the well- 
 known proverb of " turning the tables " upon any one : 
 for when the men at any time reproached their wives 
 for their wanton expensiveness in pearls and other rich 
 trifles, they were wont to retort, and turn the tables upon 
 their husbands. 
 
 Such is the by-gone fame of the maple; and, when 
 we consider that its timber possesses the same beautiful 
 veins and marks now as formerly, it is surprising it 
 should not be in greater demand. 
 
 A modern association connected with this tree, but 
 of a totally different character from those already no- 
 ticed, attaches great interest to it. 
 
 Beneath a large maple in Boldre churchyard, in ac- 
 cordance with his own request, lie the remains of the 
 Rev. William Gilpin, whose elegant and interesting 
 work on " Forest Scenery " is familiar to most readers ;
 
 255 
 
 and to which the author of this volume is indebted 
 for much valuable information, which she takes this 
 opportunity of gratefully acknowledging. 
 
 The sycamore, or great maple, is one of the most 
 noted species of this genus. If not indigenous, against 
 which there seems a well-grounded suspicion, it is at 
 least so far naturalised as to be admitted into Sir J. E. 
 Smith's English Flora ; where it is spoken of as " com- 
 mon, but not truly wild;" a testimony corroborated 
 by that of Gerarde and Parkinson, who mention it as 
 a stranger in England, and " only planted in walkes 
 and places of pleasure for the shadowe's sake." But, 
 whether a native or a foreigner, it is a noble tree, and 
 the richness and variety of its tints, both in spring and 
 autumn, add so greatly to the beauty of the grove, that 
 none can 
 
 " unnoticed pass 
 
 The sycamore, capricious in attire, 
 
 Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet 
 
 Have chang'd the woods, in scarlet honours bright." 
 
 On incision, the sycamore yields a liquid containing 
 saccharine matter. This property is, indeed, common to 
 other species of the maple family, one of which derives 
 its distinctive title, Acer saccharinum, from the abundant 
 supply of sugar contained in the sap.
 
 256 
 
 Before earthenware was so much in use as it now is, 
 the wood both of the greater and lesser maple was in 
 considerable demand for various household utensils. 
 We are familiar with it in poetry, as furnishing those 
 bowls and dishes which are as needful appendages to 
 a hermit's cell, as a mirror to a lady's toilet : this seems 
 implied in the following quotations : 
 
 " His dwelling, a recess in some rude rock, 
 Books, beads, and maple-dish his meagre stock." 
 
 Many a visitant 
 
 Had sat within his hospitable cave ; 
 From his maple-bowl the unpolluted spring 
 Drunk fearless, and with him partook the bread 
 That his pale lips most reverently had bless'd." 
 
 " No tradition tells 
 
 That ever hermit dipp'd his maple-dish 
 
 In the sweet spring that lurks mid yon green fields," 
 
 1 For who would rob a hermit of his weeds, 
 His few books, or his beads, or maple-dish ? " 
 
 Some give to the sycamore alone the special honour 
 of thus ministering to the frugal comfort of these mis- 
 taken recluses ; but, as it was of comparatively late
 
 257 
 
 introduction, and as our own native maple was certainly 
 used for domestic purposes, why may it not share this 
 "help to fame?" 
 
 " And may at last my weary age 
 Find out some peaceful hermitage, 
 The hairy gown, the mossy cell, 
 Where I may sit and rightly spell 
 Of every star that heaven doth shew, 
 And every herb that sips the dew, 
 Till old experience doth attain 
 To something of prophetic strain." 
 
 O Poesy, bewitching power ! 
 What fascinations are thy dower ! 
 Thou dwellest in a fairy round, 
 Thou treadest on enchanted ground ; 
 " The common air, the sun, the skies, 
 To thee are opening paradise." 
 Thy touch can turn to more than gold 
 The meanest object we behold ; 
 Thy master spell all nature owns, 
 Thou giv'st a meaning to the tones
 
 258 
 
 Of summer breeze and wintry gale ; 
 Thou add'st a shade to midnight's veil, 
 Splendour to noon, to pensive eve 
 More touching softness, and dost weave 
 For morn a coronal of flowers, 
 Such as but grow in Fancy's bowers. 
 While Science, with unpitying hand, 
 " Unweaves the rainbow," thou dost stand 
 In tranced gaze, but dost not pause, 
 Pleased with th' effect, to ask the cause. 
 
 Ev*n now, what charms thy magic spell 
 Has thrown around a hermit's cell : 
 Who that has read that witching lay, 
 " But long'd for wings to flee away" 
 To some sweet spot of rest, and share 
 The hermit's cell, the hermit's fare, 
 Such fare, as Nature in the wild 
 Can proffer to her lowly child, 
 Served up in quaint but fitting sort, 
 In dish of veined maple wrought ; 
 And there to learn the saintly lore 
 Which holy Nature has in store 
 For those who view with thoughtful eye 
 The wonders of the earth and sky,
 
 259 
 
 And, freed from turmoil and annoy, 
 There woo sweet Peace, and Peace enjoy. 
 
 Peace ! fond enthusiast, deem'st thou, then, 
 She needs must live in lonely glen, 
 In desert wilds, or mountain cave, 
 Lull'd by the fountain's welling wave, 
 Or by the many-voiced trees, 
 Slow waving in the midnight breeze ? 
 
 Ah ! foolish one recall that thought ; 
 There 's not on earth one certain spot 
 Where Peace doth make her home. Oh ! yes, 
 One home she hath, one dwelling-place, 
 From which, for heav'n she scarce would part 
 The loving, lowly, contrite heart ! 
 She hath (though rarely there, I ween) 
 In courts and stately halls been seen ; 
 More frequent in the humble cot, 
 Smoothing the peasant's rugged lot ; 
 In busy mart, and dusky street 
 Sometimes her gentle form we meet; 
 And sometimes by the loathsome bed 
 Where squalid sickness rests her head. 
 s 2
 
 Go, pierce yon murky alley, where 
 None ever breathed untainted air, 
 Where all in vain the glorious sun 
 Struggles to chase the smoke-wreaths dun : 
 Ascend yon broken, winding stair, 
 Enter that room, what meets thee there? 
 Nay, shrink not with fastidious pride, 
 But take thy stand that couch beside ; 
 There, though disease, and want, and pain, 
 Their victim bind with triple chain, 
 There shalt thou see earth's noblest sight, 
 A spirit wing'd for heavenward flight. 
 There Peace, sweet Peace, has found her way, 
 And turn'd thick midnight into day. 
 
 Now, hie thee hence, and dream no more 
 Of hermit's cell, and frugal store; 
 Of skull, of maple-dish, or glass 
 Which marks how swift the hours do pass ; 
 But ply in Duty's path thy feet, 
 'Tis likeliest there sweet Peace thou'lt meet; 
 And, if a lowly heart be thine, 
 Be sure she '11 make that heart her shrine.
 
 261 
 
 CHRIST'S THORN. 
 
 RHAMNUS PALIURUS. 
 
 "'Twas sin marr'd all ; and the revolt of man, 
 That source of evils not exhausted yet. 
 Garden of God, how terrible the change 
 Thy groves and lawns then witness'd ! " 
 
 WHEN Nature " lectures man in heavenly truth,'* how 
 wise, how various are her lessons ! If the mind needs 
 soothing and encouraging, she leads us to those objects 
 which afford pure proofs of the wisdom and goodness 
 of the great Creator ; if elevating, she bids us look on 
 " the heavens, the work of His fingers ; " if warning, 
 she tells us of the earthquake and the tempest, or, per- 
 haps, with more of pathos, she points to the thorns 
 and the thistles, which beset our every-day path, thence 
 taking occasion to remind us, for whose offence " the 
 prickly curse" was inflicted. " Cursed is the ground 
 for thy sake ; thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth 
 to thee." Such was a part of the doom denounced 
 against man when he eat of the forbidden tree.
 
 262 
 
 Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat 
 Sighing through all her works, gave sign of woe 
 That all was lost." 
 
 The thorn is repeatedly alluded to in Scripture in 
 the way of threatening. " Thorns and snares are in the 
 way of the froward." " They have sown wheat, but 
 they shall reap thorns." " And now go to, I will tell 
 you what I will do to my vineyard : I will lay it waste ; 
 it shall not be pruned or digged ; but there shall come 
 up briers and thorns." " Thorns shall come up in 
 her palaces, nettles and brambles in the fortresses 
 thereof." 
 
 These are a few of the many texts where the thorn is 
 employed, sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively, 
 to express the sterility and desolation which should visit 
 those nations and people "whose ways had been perverse 
 before God." 
 
 The species of thorn here signified has furnished a 
 subject of much ingenious disquisition amongst the 
 learned. Haselquist fully believes the thorny whin, 
 (Anonis spinosa) with which, he says, whole fields in 
 Syria are covered, is the one alluded to in the Scriptures. 
 It would be difficult, one thinks, to decide on a matter 
 so entirely conjectural; nor is it a thing of much con-
 
 263 
 
 sequence : thorns and thistles abound every where ; and, 
 as " all have sinned," it is more natural to imagine the 
 allusion was not to the peculiar growth of any one 
 climate or country in particular, but to the noxious and 
 troublesome weeds which, without unceasing labour and 
 care, would mock the hopes of the husbandman. 
 
 In those climates, however, where various causes con- 
 spire most fully to develope vegetative life, thorny 
 shrubs and trees are most abundant, and are armed 
 with stronger and sharper spines than those with which 
 we are familiar. Of such the poet speaks when describ- 
 ing " the wonders of the torrid zone." 
 
 " Here lofty trees, to ancient song unknown, 
 The noble sons of potent heat, and floods 
 Prone rushing from the clouds, rear high to heayen 
 Their thorny stems, and broad around them throw 
 Meridian gloom." 
 
 Denon says that " nine tenths of the trees and shrubs 
 which compose the thickets in Egypt are armed with in- 
 exorable thorns, and allow only an unquiet enjoyment 
 of the shade that is so desirable, from the precaution 
 necessary to guard against them." 
 
 Many of the Mimosa genus are signalised by their 
 tremendous spines. Dr. Drummond mentions one,
 
 264 
 
 a native of the south of Africa, which from top to 
 bottom is clothed with enormous double thorns, from 
 four to six inches in length, pointing in every direc- 
 tion, and forming thickets impenetrable to every ani- 
 mal except the rhinoceros. The prickly-pear is another 
 formidable plant, which "renders travelling extremely 
 difficult along some parts of the banks of the Missouri, 
 where its spines are so strong, that they will pierce a 
 double shoe sole made of dressed deer skin." 
 
 These instances have been selected as bearing the 
 broader lineaments of the curse ; and, surely, it would 
 be impossible for a believer in Revelation to traverse 
 the regions where such trees are indigenous, without 
 frequent recurrences to the awful truth with which they 
 appear to stand connected. 
 
 Christ's thorn (Rhamnus paliurus) forms a species 
 of a very comprehensive genus. It is described as a 
 tree rising to the height of eight or ten feet, " sending 
 out weak slender branches, garnished with oval leaves 
 of a pale green ; the flowers coming out at the wings 
 of the stalk in clusters, almost the length of the young 
 branches ; of a greenish-yellow colour. They are suc- 
 ceeded by broad, buckler-shaped seed-vessels, which 
 have borders like the brims of a hat; hence called by 
 the French, porte-chapeau. It is a native of the south
 
 265 
 
 of Europe, Caucasus, and Barbary, and is one of the 
 most common shrubs in Judaea. This circumstance, 
 and the pliability of its branches, may account for the 
 notion that of it the crown of thorns was composed : 
 hence its name. Haselquist, however, contends for an- 
 other plant, and states his reasons for the supposition 
 with some show of probability. 
 
 But, after all, these learned disquisitions on such 
 deeply affecting subjects have more the appearance of 
 solemn trifling than of any useful tendency. 
 
 The thorn is certainly more immediately connected 
 with gloomy remembrances (gloomy, but salutary) ; yet 
 we need not confine our view to such. Though it na- 
 turally leads us back to the Fall, it may also remind us 
 of those happier times, when " there shall be no more 
 curse," " when the wilderness and the solitary place 
 shall be glad, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom 
 as the rose ; when, instead of the thorn, shall come up 
 the fir tree, and instead of the briar, shall come up the 
 myrtle tree. For the earth shall be full of the know- 
 ledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea."
 
 Go, child of dust, and from thy brows, 
 
 Oh ! tear the myrtle and the rose : 
 
 If crown thou wear'st, this prickly stem 
 
 For thee were fitter diadem, 
 
 Since earth thorns bore not, till thy fall 
 
 Threw blight and ruin over all. 
 
 Gaze on the sky there was a time 
 When storms ne'er dimm'd its arch sublime 
 Look on the ground once not a weed 
 Was mingled with the precious seed ; 
 Behold the rose the garden's gem, 
 Once thomless was its graceful stem. 
 
 Sad types ! yet would that they were all 
 Which mark'd the sin original ! 
 Ah ! go, where lingers pale decay, 
 And watch life's pulses ebb away ; 
 Go to the grave ; that narrow bed 
 Must pillow soon thy lonely head. 
 
 Ay, weep, for tears become thee well ; 
 Weep whilst thou hear'st yon passing bell, - 
 So sternly eloquent, declare 
 Of what sad doom thou art the heir.
 
 Y< s, thou must sicken, thou must die, 
 Tlie hour is fix'd it may be nigh. 
 
 Yet weep not in despair : ah ! see, 
 A victim bleeds, He bleeds for thee ; 
 The thorns thy sin had sown He wears ; 
 The death thou earn'dst, for thee He bears ; 
 Then rises from the grave, that thou 
 Might'st find in death a baffled foe. 
 
 Still weep'st thou ? ay, but hope and love 
 Thy spirit's depths now gently move ; 
 Contrition meek not guilty fears, 
 Has op'd a fount of holier tears : 
 Such tears bespeak a soul forgiven, 
 Such tears awaken joy in heaven. 
 
 And does no change, no second birth, 
 Await the desolated earth ? 
 Yes, earth, sore smitten for man's sake, 
 Shall of his glorious change partake. 
 Arise, O Lord ! disperse the gloom, 
 Redeemer, let thy kingdom come !
 
 268 
 THE EVERGREEN THORN. 
 
 MESPILUS PYRACANTHA. 
 
 " Phillyria, here, and pyracantha spread 
 Their verdant foliage, and berries red 
 In glowing clusters." 
 
 THIS well-known shrub is a native of the South of Eu- 
 rope : it also grows plentifully on Mount Caucasus, in 
 the Chersonesus, and in China. It was introduced here 
 early in the seventeenth century, but has never yet got 
 beyond the pale of the garden or shrubbery, notwith- 
 standing Evelyn's hint that it might be cultivated, 
 with little trouble, for fences and other common pur- 
 poses. " The pyracantha, paliurus, and like preciouser 
 sorts of thorns and robust evergreens, adorned with cara- 
 lin berries," says he, " might easily be propagated by 
 seeds, layers, or cuttings, into plenty sufficient to store 
 even these vulgar uses, were men industrious ; and then 
 how beautiful and sweet our fields would be ! For there 
 are none of the spinous shrubs more hardy, none that 
 make a more glorious show, none fitter for our defence." 
 But, surely, it would be a sight scarcely less strange than
 
 269 
 
 unwelcome to see our native hawthorn and holly sup- 
 planted even by this pretty foreigner, which we have 
 hitherto only been accustomed to observe trained against 
 houses or walls as an ornamental covering. 
 
 The pyracantha puts forth its bunches of delicate 
 white flowers in May, and may claim admiration even 
 then, when the garden is in its glory ; but it is when the 
 fascinations of spring, and summer, and autumn are over 
 that it is most attractive. Greeting us, when there is little 
 else to cheer, with its verdant foliage and beautiful scar- 
 let clusters, it reminds us of some friend, who, though 
 always kind and ready to serve us, reserves his tenderest 
 and warmest affection for the hour of adversity. In 
 common with all other trees whose fruit ripens in the 
 winter, it affords the birds a most timely supply of sus- 
 tenance, and thus, 
 
 " For every song that made their summer merry, 
 The shrubs repay in winter with a berry." 
 
 The beauty of its aspect in that dreary season, and the 
 associations to which it gives rise, are alluded to in the 
 following lines, which were presented to a beloved friend 
 on her birthday in December.
 
 270 
 
 Thou wast not born when merry May 
 " Hangs out the virgin flag of spring," 
 When birds from every bush and spray 
 Are caroling. 
 
 Thou wast not born when summer throws 
 
 Her glory over sky and earth, 
 
 Nor did the beam which wakes the rose 
 
 Smile on thy birth. 
 
 No ; like this shrub which cheers the bower, 
 What time the threatening storm is rife, 
 A blessing for the wintry hour 
 
 Thou sprang to life. 
 
 And such art still no summer friend, 
 Breathing smooth things in Pleasure's ear ; 
 But, oh ! let grief the spirit rend, 
 
 And thou art near. 
 
 Then takes thy voice its softest tone, 
 Then is thy hand upraised to bless, 
 And then the tender warmth is known 
 Of thy caress.
 
 271 
 
 Let others, then, invoke the spring, 
 
 And joy to see her buds unclose, 
 
 Or from each bush bright summer fling 
 
 Her own sweet rose. 
 
 I will not grieve to see them go, 
 While winter such a wreath can twine ; 
 Ah ! see how brightly through the snow 
 
 These berries shine ! 
 
 What could I less, than love the hour 
 Which stills the bird, and strips the lea, 
 Since, oh ! to cheer the social bower, 
 
 It gave us thee !
 
 272 
 
 THE BOX AND THE LAUREL. 
 
 PRUNUS. 
 
 When rosemary and bays, the poet's crown, 
 Are bawl'd in frequent cries throughout the town, 
 Then judge the festival of Christmas near, 
 Christmas, the joyous period of the year : 
 Now with bright holly all the temples strew, 
 With laurel green, and sacred mistletoe." 
 
 THE fast fading away of many ancient and pleasant 
 usages, such as ushering in May-day and Christmas, 
 each with its appropriate garland, together with many 
 other unequivocal proofs, remind us that we live in an 
 unimaginative age; an age in which the progress of 
 science, the ingenuity of invention, and the extension 
 and acquirements of commerce, are every where con- 
 spicuous; these, in the very nature of things, must 
 soon totally extinguish, not only those few remains of 
 what may be termed practical poetry that are as yet 
 spared to us, but even the spirit of poetry itself. 
 
 The touching practice of strewing the dead, and
 
 273 
 
 crowning the bride with flowers, is now all but obsolete ; 
 and though May is bright and lovely as ever, her accus- 
 tomed wreath is wanting, as the poet most feelingly re- 
 minds us : 
 
 " Time was, blest Power ! when youths and maids 
 
 At peep of dawn would rise, 
 And wander forth, in forest glades 
 Thy birth to solemnize. 
 
 " Though mute the song to grace the rite 
 
 Untouch'd the hawthorn bough, 
 
 Thy spirit triumphs o'er the slight : 
 
 Man changes, but not Thou ! " 
 
 Christmas, it is true, is still greeted with verdant tro- 
 phies; and in many places both houses and churches 
 are decked with holly, box, &c. This custom is said to 
 be of questionable origin, and is thus accounted for : 
 When idolatry prevailed in our island, the great annual 
 feast of Saturn was held in December under an oak ; at 
 which ceremony the priests required the worshippers to 
 bring various evergreens to decorate the naked branches 
 of their sylvan temple: and, as the first Christian 
 churches were constructed of boughs, the converts, bor- 
 rowing the idea from their heathen neighbours, adorned 
 their rude and leafless edifices at Christmas in like 
 manner. 
 
 T
 
 274 
 
 But the custom itself is harmless, whatever the origin 
 may be ; and those persons who have any regard for the 
 manners and observances of other days, will view with 
 regret one usage after another swept away, as if one 
 more link were broken in the chain which connected them 
 with the past, and all its interesting associations. 
 
 Various are the evergreens used at the commemor- 
 ation of the festival of Christmas, but as most of them 
 have already passed under review, the box and the 
 laurel only shall be singled out as representatives of the 
 different claimants for this honour. 
 
 The box, of which there is but one species, but many 
 varieties, is a well-known evergeen, growing in every 
 plantation; but, though this is the .situation in which 
 we are most accustomed to see it, and that, too, in a 
 dwarfed or clipped condition, it is really an indigenous 
 tree, and, in calcareous soil and dry situations, will rise 
 to the height of ten or twelve feet, with a stem of propor- 
 tionable thickness. It grows pretty freely on the chalk 
 hills near Dunstable, and on Box Hill in Surrey, to 
 which place, as well as Boxley in Kent, and Boxwell in 
 Gloucestershire, it has given name. 
 
 Of all British trees, the box grows the most slowly, 
 which accounts for the heavy, hard, and compact nature 
 of the wood ; qualities that make it very valuable for all
 
 275 
 
 those works in the construction of which the utmost 
 nicety and precision are required, such as mathematical 
 and musical instruments. 
 
 This tree is mentioned by various clasical writers. In 
 reference to its constant verdure, Homer exclaims, 
 
 " Thy groves of box, Cy torus ! ever green." 
 
 Its applicability to many useful purposes appears to 
 have been well-known to the ancients. Virgil alludes 
 to its fitness for the turner's trade; and Ovid, to its 
 being employed for flutes or pipes. He says, " Neither 
 does the melody of the voice, nor the long pipe of 
 many-holed box delight them;" while Martial avers, 
 that 
 
 " Box- combs bear no small part 
 
 Of the militia of the female art." 
 
 This tree is very common in the various countries of 
 the South of Europe, and also in Asia, especially in the 
 neighbourhood of Mount Caucasus. The unchanging 
 verdure of its foliage, and the durability of its wood, 
 have always made it an auspicious symbol. As such, 
 Pope introduces it very beautifully in his poem of the 
 Messiah : 
 
 T 2
 
 276 
 
 " On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, 
 The green reed trembles and the bulrush nods ; 
 Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn, 
 The spiry fir and shapely box adorn." 
 
 For this use of it he has the best authority. In refer- 
 ence to the Messiah's blessed reign, it is written in the 
 page of inspiration, " I will plant in the wilderness the 
 cedar, the shittah tree, and the myrtle, and the oil tree. 
 I will set in the desert the fir tree, and the pine, and the 
 box tree together." 
 
 We come next to the laurel (Prunus laurocerasus). 
 It is a native of the Levant, of the Crimea, of Caucasus, 
 and the mountains of Persia. Its introduction here 
 cannot be precisely ascertained ; but it was some time be- 
 fore the year 1629, as Parkinson mentions having had 
 a cutting presented to him by Master James Cole, from 
 " a fair tree," cultivated in his own garden with much 
 care, and defended from the winter's severity by throw- 
 ing a blanket over the top of it. Now, however, it is 
 so entirely naturalised, that it bears all the changes of 
 our climate without injury, produces its beautiful spikes 
 of white sweet-scented flowers in April or May, and its 
 large black berries in September or October ; they are 
 seldom, indeed, fully ripe till the latter month. In 
 general, it has more the character of a shrub than a tree;
 
 277 
 
 but it sometimes grows to a considerable size, as, for 
 instance, at Stanmore, near Brighton, the seat of the 
 Earl of Chichester, where there is a hedge of laurel 
 about 220 feet in length, and the trees which compose 
 it have grown to the height of thirty feet. Linnaeus 
 makes the laurel one of a very comprehensive genus, 
 classing under the title Prunus the various kinds of 
 plums, cherries, and apricots ; whilst Miller separates 
 them into four divisions. Cheering our winter months 
 with its lively and rather warm green leaves (a pleasant 
 contrast to the bluish tint common to most evergreens), 
 it is entitled to our gratitude, and it certainly is greeted 
 with far more favour than is awarded to more beautiful 
 plants which leaf and blossom only in the summer. t
 
 278 
 
 'T is Christmas ! holy season, hail ! 
 What though the sun is dim and pale, 
 What though through leafless trees the gale 
 
 Makes sullen moan, 
 And not a flower is left to tell 
 
 Of summer gone ? 
 
 Yet, for the memories thou dost bring 
 The blessed hopes thou bid'st upspring, 
 I'll greet with gladlier welcoming 
 
 Thy gloomy hours, 
 -Than those bright months which round them fling 
 
 Sunshine and flowers. 
 
 Nor wakest thou solemn thoughts alone, 
 Thy spell the social virtues own : 
 Who has not felt how sweet the tone, 
 
 The smile how bland, 
 When thou dost knit again in one 
 
 The household band?
 
 279 
 
 Now stir the fire, and let its glow 
 Shame the inhospitable snow ; 
 With all that nature yet can show 
 
 From winter's wreck, 
 Laurel, and box, and holly bough, 
 
 The casement deck. 
 
 'T is joy to hear the sullen north 
 Summon the rushing tempest forth, 
 For then around the social hearth 
 
 Friend meeteth friend, 
 And kindly words and looks of mirth 
 
 Sweet influence lend. 
 
 But is't in mirth they always meet ? 
 Alas ! sometimes a vacant seat 
 Bespeaks the circle incomplete; 
 
 Some voice is mute, 
 Whose welcome was aforetime sweet 
 
 As evening lute.
 
 280 
 
 Then, then indeed a tear will stray, 
 As they the lessened group survey, 
 That group with other smiles once gay : 
 
 And who would blame 
 The tear affection well may pay 
 
 To memory's claim ? 
 
 But whilst from Friendship's silken string 
 Each year some pearl is scattering, 
 We 're taught by each lost gem to cling 
 
 More firm and true 
 
 To those yet spared by Time's rude wing, 
 The cherish'd few. 
 
 The cherish'd few ! ah ! who may tell 
 What pathos in those words doth dwell : 
 A voice of meeting and farewell 
 
 Blends in the sound, 
 Weaving a monitory spell 
 
 The heart around.
 
 281 
 
 But hush, my harp, such plaintive lay 
 Unseemly greets this blessed day. 
 How often, when I would be gay, 
 
 Thought backward steers 
 Her course, then joy to grief gives way, 
 
 And hopes to fears. 
 
 Yet; whilst I muse on change and death, 
 Till earth seems cleft my feet beneath, 
 Oh ! may this storm-surviving wreath 
 
 A thought supply, 
 That they who live the life of faith * 
 
 " Shall never die!' 
 
 * John, xi. 26.
 
 283 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 IT is with a feeling bordering on regret that the author 
 finds herself at the close of her pleasant task; in the 
 composition of which, and in making the drawings 
 which illustrate it, many an hour has been most agree- 
 ably beguiled. Highly gratified would she be if her 
 readers could make the same avowal in reference to the 
 perusal, and encourage her by the assurance that they 
 have accompanied her in her sylvan wanderings with 
 unwearied steps. 
 
 Yet, " in the spirit of meekness," she would confess, 
 that to amuse has not been her sole, or even her chief, 
 aim. Throughout the work, she has endeavoured to 
 bear in mind herself, and to impress on others, that 
 " a Christian should be a Christian in the field as well 
 as in the temple ; " and that Nature should ever be the 
 handmaid of Devotion: when she is made to take a 
 higher position, she occupies His place, who made the 
 " heavens and the earth, and all the host of them." 
 
 In pursuance of her prevailing intention, she would 
 leave one parting caution with her readers, borrowed 
 from that delightful author, whose name has so often 
 appeared in the foregoing pages. Evelyn, after describ- 
 ing with more than his wonted enthusiasm the sylvan
 
 284 
 
 beauties of some particular scene, breaks out into the 
 following exhortation, which at once reminds us of what 
 we have lost, and to what we may aspire : 
 
 " But, after all, let us not dwell here too long, whilst 
 the inferences to be derived from those tempting and 
 temporary objects prompt us to raise our contempla- 
 tions a little on objects yet more worthy our noblest 
 speculations, and all our pains and curiosity, represent- 
 ing that happy state above; namely, a celestial para- 
 dise. Let us, I say, suspend our admiration awhile of 
 those terrestrial gaieties, which are of so short conti- 
 nuance, and raise our thoughts from being too deeply 
 immersed and rooted in them, aspiring after those su- 
 pernal, more lasting, and glorious abodes ; namely, a 
 paradise, not like this of ours, with so much pains and 
 curiosity, made with hands, but eternal in the heavens ; 
 where all the trees are trees of life, the flowers all ama- 
 ranths, all the plants perennial ; where those who desire 
 knowledge may fully satiate themselves ; taste freely of 
 the fruits of that tree, which cost the first gardener and 
 posterity so dear: no forbidden fruit; no serpent to 
 deceive ; none to be deceived ! " 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Priuted by A. SPOTTISWOODE, 
 New-Street Square.
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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