Part 29

There are distinctions that will live in heaven, When time is a forgotten circumstance! The elevated brow of kings will lose The impress of regalia, and the slave Will wear his immortality as free Beside the crystal waters; but the depth Of glory in the attributes of God Will measure the capacities of mind; And, as the angels differ, will the ken Of gifted spirits glorify Him more.

Willis.

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Were death annihilation--were this life A lamp extinguished, ne’er to be relit,-- Then words of deep despondency were fit; Then man perchance might lift his arm in strife Against his LORD. Were blessedness of mind Dependent on the vastness of the heap Of gold and gems the schemers ’mong mankind Could gather--then ’twere virtuous to weep. But ’tis not so. Infinity of time Is yet to be. Beyond our vision lie Eternal realms, ineffably sublime And beautiful.

MacKellar.

STRAWBERRY.... Perfection.

An eminent French author conceived the plan of writing a general history of nature, after the model of the ancients. A Strawberry plant, which, perchance, grew under his window, deterred him from this bold design. He examined the Strawberry, and, in so doing, discovered so many wonders, that he felt convinced the study of a single plant was sufficient to occupy a whole lifetime. He therefore gave up the pompous title which he had meditated for his work, and contented himself with calling it “Studies of Nature.” The flowers of the Strawberry form pretty bouquets; but, as the delicious fruit is preferred to the flower, they are seldom plucked for that purpose. Among the glaciers of the Alps, the plants and flowers of the Strawberry are found in all seasons of the year. The plant seems to possess all the merits of plants, in their greatest perfection. The berries are the favourite accompaniment of the lordly feast and the most exquisite luxury of the rural repast. They vie in freshness and perfume with the buds of the sweetest flowers; delighting the eye, the taste, and smell, at the same time.

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Let other bards of angels sing, Bright suns without a spot; But thou art no such perfect thing: Rejoice that thou art not!

Wordsworth.

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She’s noble--noble, one to keep Embalmed for dreams of fevered sleep. An eye for nature--taste refined, Perception swift--and balanced mind,-- And, more than all, a gift of thought To such a spirit fineness wrought, That on my ear her language fell As if each word dissolved a spell.

Willis.

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Oh! do not die, for we shall hate All women so when you are gone, That thee I shall not celebrate, When I remember thou wast one. But yet thou canst not die, I know; To leave this world behind is death; But when thou from this world wilt go, The whole world vapours in thy breath.

Donne.

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Were I to give my frolic fancy play, I’d sing of her as some angelic sprite, Who, wandering from her native home of light, Fatigued, had fallen asleep upon the way;-- I’d fear to wake her, lest she’d plume her wings And soar away from me and all sublunar things.

MacKellar.

SUNFLOWER.... False Riches.

The Sunflower has been thus named from the resemblance which its broad golden disk and rays bear to the sun. The first Spaniards who arrived in Peru were amazed at the profuse display of gold among the people, but they were still more astonished when, in May, they beheld whole fields covered with these flowers, which they concluded, at first sight, must be of the same precious metal. From this circumstance, and the observation that gold, however abundant, cannot render a person truly rich, the Sunflower has been made the emblem of false wealth. Many of the English poets have adopted the notion that this flower ever turns its face to the sun. Thomson, Moore, Darwin, and Barton make a very fine use of the idea. But it is not a fact. Those flowers which face the east at the opening of day, never turn to the west at the close of it.

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Searcher of gold, whose days and nights All waste away in anxious care, Estranged from all of life’s delights, Unlearned in all that is most fair-- Who sailest not with easy glide, But delvest in the depths of tide, And strugglest in the foam; O! come and view this land of graves, Death’s northern sea of frozen waves, And mark thee out thy home.

J. O. Rockwell.

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Think’st thou the man whose mansions hold The worldling’s pride, the miser’s gold, Obtains a richer prize Than he who in his cot, at rest, Finds heavenly peace a willing guest, And bears the earnest in his breast Of treasure in the skies?

Mrs. Sigourney.

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