Butte record., 1857-01-10
BrOOk-Side Reyeries,
BY HARRY HAZELwO0D.

And on the dark-green grass, beside the
brink
OF haunted stream, that by the roots of oak
Rolls DER the rocky channel, lie at large
Thompson.
To escape from the dusty city, and
revel mid the broad panorama of Ma
ture, as displayed in the vernal splen-
dor of midsummer, is my delight.
Seated on messy bank, deep within
the shade of some majestic monarch of
the forest, where, protected from the
burning rays of the sun, I can enjoy
the pleasing landscape. l love to sit for
hours, giving my thoughts up to refec-
ton, and in contemplating the glories
of nature so profusely scattered around
me, imagination often invests the scene
with real living characters, enjoying
the bliss which seems so inscparable
from such an elysium. The rural sports
of the swains and shepherds at close
of day, when their work is done, MS
graphically described by romancers,
appear in the foreground, while the
shepherds flock, rcposing quietly in the
distance, is suggestive of that simplici-
ty and virtue So usually found in places
remote from the haunts and vices of
city life. Or, wandering from such
scenes to the beautiful realities before
US, forsaking the p,etry of the lmagin.
alton for the actual poetic inspiration
of the vernal Eden before us, every
thing upon which we gaze seeios to be
good, and lovely, and beautiful. Our
hesrts claim acqu 'intance with all that
meets the eye, and we feel deeply i'm
pressed by every little event which
tukds place around us.
The sporting butterfly, as it flies
from flower to flower, the warbling
birds, whose notes of melody enliven
the gloom and makes the heart glad,
and the flowers that lie scattered pro-
fusely around, shedding their fragrance
over the beautiful scene-all strike the
poetic fancy. lovo the fair and beau.
tiful blossoms that are scattered so
abundantly over the blnks of the little
stream at my feet, with their frail pc.
tails trembling to the pleasant murmur.
ings of the brooklet that traffics lis me-
lody for gales of odor. 1t seems as if
they were gifted with feeling and
a perception of the loveliness of nature;
and cannot carel 'ssly pluck them
from their frail stems, and throw them
aside to their early withering. 'Ti- like
defacing the pages of favorite book
of poetry, round which the spirit of
the bard seems lowering still in per-
severing walchfulness.
"The wise
Read nature like the manuscript Of Heaven,
And call the flowers its poetry"
Beautiful huwers they are the jewel
ry of tins charming Sc tson, and brave
ly do they decorate the laughing brow
of Spring, gladdening all hearts with
their exceeding Ioveline~s. A beauti-
ful writer, in speaking of flowers, has
said:
"The flowers whose petals are one
by one falling to Mother E nth, from
whence their beauty rose, may mind
you of some one who early blossomcd
and faded ere the evening came and
the sweet fragrance of those decaying
withered leaves, ascending upward,
whence, from sunshine, rain, and dew,
they gathered sweetness, fingers like
the memory of the lamented one, still
sweet and fresh, while the spirit scars
back to It's Author. Again, if you are
in glad or hopeful mood, some beau
teous bud will speak in truthful tones
of JOY in tutnre store, and hope viii
paint bright tomorrow, when all
those lovely tints shall be unfoded to
admiring, affectionate eyes, making
glad the hearts that have long watched
for its expanding beauty So shall ye
watch lest the blight fall upon your
opening prospects, and strive to bright
en- and develop your powors in bright
colors, and streng. rich verdure, whose
fruition shall be all the buds promis-
ed.n
An elegant writer thus cherishes
this conceit /: "Yes, talk with the
flowers; their voice is sweet and musi-
cal, their language pure and elegant,
and their teachings gentle, loving, and
kind. Talk with the flowers, and they
will not upbraid you. If you are good,
they will whisper low, soothing tones
of hours gone by-of joys past"
But there are some hearts for whom
the charms of Nature have no plea
sure; some for whom her voice has no
cadences of joy-her beauty no power
to hasten the tagging pulses. How can
this glorious season speak rejoicingly
to those over whose degraded brows
the free gales seem to breathe revilings
instead of peacefulness and high
thoughts, and for whose ears the gusb
of melody seems only 10 syllable one
reproachtul name Gladness and beau
ty are not for the sympathies of the
wretched, and far better than the
brightness OF the vernal sunshine does
the dreariness of winter harmonize
with the desolate spirit of the slave.
Oh, that the warm breathings of
universal love might drive out from the
bosoms of men the cold, unfeeling win
ter of indifference, with which they
have SO long regarded the sufferings of
their oppressed brethren that the