THE ROSE OF EDEN-DALE AND HER HOT-HOUSE FLOWERS.
They were so beautiful this morn-- The lily's graceful wand Hung with small bells, as delicate As from a fairy's hand. The Indian rose, so softly red, As if in coming here It lost the radiance of the south, And caught a shade of fear. The white geranium vein'd with pink, Like that within the shell Where, on a bed of their own hues, The pearls of ocean dwell. But where is now the snowy white, And where the tender red? How heavy over each dry stalk Droops every languid head! They are not worth my keeping now-- She flung them on the ground-- Some strewed the earth, and some the wind Went scattering idly round. She then thought of those flowers no more, But oft, in after years, When the young cheek was somewhat pale, And the eyes dim with tears-- Then she recalled the faded wreath Of other happier hours, And felt life's hope and joy had been But only Hot-house Flowers!
The Engravings, ten in number, with an inscription plate and vignette, are above the usual _calibre_ of the "juvenile" embellishments: they are better than mere pictures for children, and the chosen subjects harmonize with the benevolent tone and temper of the letter-press; all of them will tend to cherish kindly feelings in the hearts of the little readers. Among the best of the prints are Going to the Well, from Gainsborough; and the Industrious Young Cottager--a contented girl at work, with a bird in an opened cage beside her: the little scene is one of happy un-imprisonment and cheerful task.
[In one of the recent prize essays of the Highland Society of Scotland, the Ettrick Shepherd writes thus of his distinguished contemporary. The general subject of the Essay is the statistics of Selkirkshire: after referring to Sir Walter as sheriff of Ettrick Forest for thirty years, Mr. Hogg observes:]
To speak of Sir Walter Scott as a literary man, would be the height of absurdity in a statistical writer. In that light he is known and duly appreciated over the whole world, wherever letters have found their way. But I shall say, that those who know him only by the few hundreds of volumes that he has published, know only the one half of the man, and that not the best half neither. As a friend, he is steady, candid, and sincere, expressing his sentiments freely, whether favourable or the reverse. He is no man's enemy, though he may be to his principles; and I believe that he never in his life tried to do an individual hurt. His impartiality as a judge is so well known, that no man, either rich or poor, ever attempts to move him from the right onward path. If he have a feeling of partiality in his whole disposition, it is for the poachers and fishers, at least I know that they all think that he has a fellow-feeling with them,--that he has a little of the old outlaw blood in him, and, if he had been able, would have been a desperate poacher and black-fisher. Indeed, it has been reported that when he was young he sometimes "leistered a kipper, and made a shift to shoot a moorfowl i' the drift." He was uncommonly well made. I never saw a limb, loins, and shoulders so framed for immoderate strength. And, as Tom Purdie observed, "Faith, an he hadna' been crippled he _wud_ ha'e been an unlucky chap."