And for the blessed balm it breathed,
And for its cheering ray,
When from the garden of my heart
I was so far away,
And for the fragrance of its flowers,
And for its fruitage sweet,
I'll love the soil of Denmark Hill,
While memory holds her seat.
Wednesday, March 10, 1841.
So habituated had I been to consider March a season of blast and storm, and in fact a prolongation of winter, that I saw with surprise, as early as the tenth of the month, at Denmark Hill, and other spots in the vicinity of London, the primrose and violet, the polyanthus and hepatica, blooming in the parterres, and rhubarb, cabbages, brocoli, &c. flourishing vigorously in the kitchen-gardens. Soon the fruit trees were loaded with blossoms, and the shade of a parasol in walking, became desirable.
Indeed, by the middle of February, the crocus and snowdrop ventured forth into the open air; herds were grazing in velvet meadows, and the thrush and robin filling the air with melody. There were afterwards chilling storms, but vegetation continued to advance. On returning from France, in January, we were struck with the superior verdure of England,
