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