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[I OFTEN ask myself what will become of Rydal Mount after our
day. Will the old walls and steps remain in front of the house and about the grounds, or will they be swept away with all the beautiful mosses and ferns and wild geraniums and other flowers which their rude construction sutfered and encouraged to grow among them !--This little wild flower—“Poor Robin" -is here constantly courting my attention, and exciting what may be called a domestic interest with the varying aspects of its stalks and leaves and flowers. Strangely do the tastes of men differ according to their employment and habits of life. “What a nice well would that be,” said a labouring man to me one day, “if all that rubbish was cleared off.”
The “ rubbish” was some of the most beautiful mosses and lichens and ferns and other wild growths that could possibly be seen. Defend us from the tyranny of trimness and neatness showing itself in this way! Chatterton says of freedom—“Upon her head wild weeds were spread” and depend upon it if “ the marvellous boy" bad undertaken to give Flora a garland, he would have preferred what we are apt to call weeds to gardenflowers. True taste has an eye for both. Weeds have been called flowers out of place. I fear the place most people would assign to them is too limited. Let them come near to our abodes, as surely they may without impropriety or disorder.]
Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
case with those who are making trial of their powers, with a hope to discover what they are best fitted for. In one quality, viz., quickness in the motions of her mind, she had, within the range of the Author's acquaintauce, no equal.
* The small wild Geranium known by that name.
And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content
more, we wish that men by men despised,
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.
(This poem was first printed in the Annual called the “Keepsake.” The painter's name I am not sure of, but I think it was Holmes.]
That happy gleam of vernal eyes,
That o'er thy brow are shed;
I saw; and Fancy sped
What mortal form, what earthly face
'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers,
Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn,
TO A REDBREAST—(IN SICKNESS.)
[ALMOST the only verses by our lamented Sister Sara Hutchinson.]
Stay, little cheerful Robin ! stay,
And at my casement sing,
And this our parting spring.
Doth to thy strain belong.
Methinks that in my dying hour
Thy song would still be dear,
My passing Spirit cheer.
Then, little Bird, this boon confer,
Come, and my requiem sing,
Of everlasting Spring.
I know an aged Man constrained to dwell
When he could creep about, at will, though poor
There, at the root of one particular tree,
Dear intercourse was theirs, day after day ; What signs of mutual gladness when they met! Think of their common peace, their simple play, The parting moment and its fond regret.
Months passed in love that failed not to fulfil,