Page:The Indian Orphan.pdf/12

it, and its beauty is departed—thus as the summer advances, the violet loses its fragrance; June comes, but its odours are fled—the heart too has its June; the flower may remain, but its fragrance is gone for ever. Flowers are the interpreters of love in India, painting in the most vivid but in the softest colours speaking in the sweetest sighs: while each blossom that fades is a mournful remembrancer either of blighted hopes or departed pleasures. I would give my lover violets; the rose has too much display. J'admire les roses, mais je m'attendris sur les violettes. The rose is beauty—the violet tenderness. And the country round was so placidly delightful. I had been used to the sweeping shadow of gigantic trees, to oceans of verdure, to the wide and magnificent Ganges; but the landscape here came with a quiet and feeling of contentment on the heart. I remember so well the first time I ever walked on the Downs! The day had been very showery and the sky was just beginning to clear; the dark gloomy volumes in which the tempest was rolling away were but little removed from clouds of transparent whiteness, and between, like intervals of still enjoyment amid the hopes and fears of life, gleamed forth the deep calm blue of the horizon. Faintly coloured like a dream of bliss, a half formed rainbow hung on the departing storm, as fearful of yet giving promise of peace. Everything around was in that state of tremulous repose, which succeeds a short and violent rain. The long shadows and double brilliancy of the light from the reflecting rain-drops, contrasted in the scenery, like sorrow and