ver to rise
again? In this short time every tint of every petal is transformed; it
is gorgeous in beauty, but it is "Hebe turned to Magdalen."

But our rustic water-lily, our innocent Nymphaea, never claiming such
a hot-house glory, never drooping into such a blush, blooms on
placidly in the quiet waters, till she modestly folds her leaves for
the last time, and bows her head beneath the surface forever. Next
year she lives for us only in her children, fair and pure as herself.

Nay, not alone in them, but also in memory. The fair vision will not
fade from us, though the paddle has dipped its last crystal drop from
the waves, and the boat is drawn upon the shore. We may yet visit many
lovely and lonely places,--meadows thick with violet, or the homes of
the shy Rhodora, or those sloping forest-haunts where the slight
Linnaea hangs its twin-born heads,--but no scene will linger on our
vision like this annual Feast of the Lilies. On scorching mountains,
amid raw prairie-winds, or upon the regal ocean, the white pageant
shall come back to us again, with all the luxury of summer heats, and
all the fragrant coolness that can relieve them. We shall fancy
ourselves again among these fleets of anchored lilies,--again, like
Urvasi, sporting amid the Lake of Lotuses.

For that which is remembered is often more vivid than that which is
seen. The eye paints better in the presence, the heart in the absence,
of the object most dear. "He who longs after beautiful Nature can best
describe her," said Bettine; "he who is in the midst of her loveliness
can only lie down and enjoy." It enhances the truth of the poet's
verses, that he writes them in his study. Absence is the very air of
passion, and all the best description is _in memoriam_. As with our
human beloved, when the graceful presence is with us, we cannot
analyze or describe, but merely possess, and only after its departure
can it be portrayed by our yearning desires; so is it with Nature:
only in losing her do we gain the power to describe her, and we are
introduced to Art, as we are to Eternity, by the dropping away of our
companions.

FIFTY AND FIFTEEN.

With gradual gleam the day was dawning,
Some lingering stars were seen,
When swung the garden-gate behind us,--
He fifty, I fifteen.

The high-topped chaise and old gray pony
Stood waiting in the lane:
Idly my father swayed the whip-lash,
Lightly he held the rein.

The stars went sof