Chapter 4
Truth _White Chrysanthemum._
Unanimity _Phlox._
Unbelief _Judas Tree._
Unceasing remembrance _American Cudweed._
Unchanging friendship _Arbor Vitae._
Unconscious beauty _Burgundy Rose._
Unexpected meeting _Lemon Geranium._
Unfortunate attachment _Mourning Bride._
Unfortunate love _Scabious._
Union _Whole Straw._
Unity _White and Red Rose together._
Unpatronized merit _Red Primrose._
Uselessness _Meadowsweet._
Utility _Grass._
Variety _China Aster._
Variety _Mundi Rose._
Vice _Darnel (Ray Grass)._
Victory _Palm._
Virtue _Mint._
Virtue, Domestic _Sage._
Volubility _Abecedary,_
Voraciousness _Lupine._
Vulgar Minds _African Marigold._
War _York and Lancaster Rose._
War _Achillea Millefolia._
Warlike trophy _Indian Cress._
Warmth of feeling _Peppermint._
Watchfulness _Dame Violet._
Weakness _Moschatel_
Weakness _Musk Plant._
Welcome to a stranger _American Starwort._
Widowhood _Sweet Scabious._
Win me and wear me _Lady's Slipper._
Winning grace _Cowslip._
Winter _Guelder Rose._
Wit _Meadow Lychnis._
Wit ill-timed _Wild Sorrel._
Witchcraft _Enchanter's Nightshade._
Worth beyond beauty _Sweet Alyssum._
Worth sustained by judicious and tender affection _Pink Convolvulus._
Worthy all praise _Fennel._
You are cold _Hortensia._
You are my divinity _American Cowslip._
You are perfect _Pine Apple._
You are radiant with charms _Ranunculus._
You are rich in attractions _Garden Ranunculus._
You are the queen of coquettes _Queen's Rocket._
You have no claims _Pasque Flower._
You please all _Branch of Currants._
You will be my death. _Hemlock._
Your charms are engraven on my heart _Spindle Tree._
Your looks freeze me _Ice Plant._
Your presence softens my pains _Milkvetch._
Your purity equals your loveliness _Orange Blossoms._
Your qualities, like your charms, are unequalled _Peach._
Your qualities surpass your charms _Mignionette._
Youthful innocence _White Lilac._
Youthful love _Red Catchfly._
Zealousness _Elder._
Zest _Lemon._
_DAFFODILS._
I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden Daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle in the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company; I gazed and gazed, but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought!
For oft when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the Daffodils.
WORDSWORTH.
_THE ROSE._
Go, lovely Rose! Tell her that wastes her time on me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young. And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.
Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair,
Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise And teach the maid That goodness Time's rude hand defies; That virtue lives when beauty dies.
WALLER.
_THE SENSITIVE PLANT._
A SENSITIVE Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of Night.
* * *
But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant.
The snowdrop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent, From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.
Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness.
And the naiad-like lily of the vale. Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green;
And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music so delicate, soft and intense, It was felt like an odour within the sense!
And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare;
And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup, Till the fiery star, which is its eye, Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky;
And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, The sweetest flower for scent that blows; And all rare blossoms from every clime Grew in that garden in perfect prime.
The Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, Received more than all [flowers], it loved more than ever, Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver--
For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower; Radiance and odour are not its dower; It loves, even like Love its deep heart is full, It desires what it has not, the beautiful!
* * *
Each and all like ministering angels were For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear. Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky.
And when evening descended from heaven above, And the earth was all rest, and the air was all love, And delight, though less bright, was far more deep, And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep,
* * *
The Sensitive Plant was the earliest Up-gathered into the bosom of rest; A sweet child weary of its delight, The feeblest, and yet the favourite, Cradled within the embrace of night.
SHELLEY.
_O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN, &c._
TUNE--_"The Posie."_
O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been; But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.
The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou; The hyacinth's for constancy w' its unchanging blue, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there; The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey, Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day, But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond-drops o' dew shall be her e'en sae clear: The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
I'll tie the posie round w' the silken band o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve. And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.
BURNS.
_MY NANNIE'S AWA._
TUNE--_"There'll never be peace" &c._
Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays. And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; But to me it's delightless--my Nannie's awa.
The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nannie--and Nannie's awa.
Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking dawn, And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa', Give over for pity--my Nannie 's awa.
Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, And sooth me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay; The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, Alane can delight me--now Nannie's awa,
BURNS.
_THEIR GROVES, &c._
TUNE--_"Humours of Glen."_
THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
BURNS.
_TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,_
_On turning one down with a plough, in April_ 1786.
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my po'w'r, Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie _Lark_, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' spreckled breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east.
Could blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield, But thou beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie _stibble-field,_ Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the _share_ uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet _flow'ret_ of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Unskilful he to note the card Of _prudent lore_, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er!
Such fate to _suffering worth_ is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n, To mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but _Heav'n_, He, ruin'd, sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, _That fate is thine_--no distant date; Stern Ruin's _plough-share_ drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom!
BURNS.
_LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS._
_On the Approach of Spring._
Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea; Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies.
Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing; The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Makes woodland echoes ring; The mavis mild wi' many a note, Sings drowsy day to rest: In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest.
Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae; The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang.
I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been; Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en; And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign Lands, And never ending care.
But as for thee, thou false woman, My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae: The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e.
My son! my son! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine; And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That ne'er wad blink on mine! God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee; And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me!
Oh! soon, to me, may summer-suns Nae mair light up the morn! Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn! And in the narrow house o' death Let winter round me rave; And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave!
BURNS.
_RED AND WHITE ROSES._
READ in these Roses the sad story Of my hard fate, and your own glory; In the white you may discover The paleness of a fainting lover; In the red the flames still feeding On my heart with fresh wounds bleeding. The white will tell you how I languish, And the red express my anguish, The white my innocence displaying, The red my martyrdom betraying; The frowns that on your brow resided, Have those roses thus divided. Oh! let your smiles but clear the weather, And then they both shall grow together.
CAKEW.
_SONNET._
SWEET is the rose, but growes upon a brere; Sweet is the Juniper, but sharpe his bough; Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere; Sweet is the Firbloom, but his branches rough; Sweet is the Cypress, but his rind is tough, Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill; Sweet is the Broome-flowere, but yet sowre enough; And sweet is Moly, but his roote is ill. So every sweet with sowre is tempred still, That maketh it be coveted the more: For easie things that may be got at will, Most sorts of men doe set but little store. Why then should I account of little pain, That endless pleasure shall unto me gaine?
SPENSER
_TO PRIMROSES_
FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.
WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew? Alas! ye have not known that shower That mars a flower; Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years; Or warped as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.
Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep. Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no; this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read: That things of greatest, so of meanest worth. Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.
HERRICK.
_A RED, RED ROSE._
TUNE--"_Wishaw's favourite."_
O, MY luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June; O, my luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in hive am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt w' the sun; I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel a while; And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
BURNS.
VIRGINS promised when I died, That they would each primrose-tide Duly, morn and evening, come, And with flowers dress my tomb. --Having promised, pay your debts, Maids, and here strew violets.
ROBERT HERRICK.
MUSIC, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours when sweet violets sicken, Love within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
SHELLEY.
RADIANT sister of the day Awake! arise! and come away! To the wild woods and the plains, To the pools where winter rains Image all their roof of leaves, Where the pine its garland weaves Of sapless green, and ivy dun, Round stems that never kiss the sun, Where the lawns and pastures be And the sandhills of the sea, Where the melting hoar-frost wets The daisy star that never sets, And wind-flowers and violets Which yet join not scent to hue Crown the pale year weak and new: When the night is left behind In the deep east, dim and blind, And the blue moon is over us, And the multitudinous Billows murmur at our feet, Where the earth and ocean meet And all things seem only one In the universal sun.
P. B. SHELLEY.
_TO DAFFODILS._
FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet, the early-rising sun Has not attained its noon. Stay, stay, Until the hastening day Has run But to the even song; And having prayed together, we Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again.
ROBERT HERRICK.
_CONSTANCY._
LAY a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens willow branches bear; Say, _I died true_. My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!
SAMUEL FLETCHER.
MOURN, ilka grove the cushat kens! Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens! Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, Wi' toddlin din, Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to lin.
Mourn little harebells o'er the lee; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, In scented bow'rs; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flow'rs.
At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, Come join my wail.
Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year; Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear; Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, For him that's dead!
Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear! Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast, Wide o'er the naked world declare The worth we've lost!
BURNS.
_TO THE SMALL CELANDINE._
Pansies, Lilies, King-cups, Daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are Violets, They will have a place in story; There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.
Ere a leaf is on the bush, In the time before the thrush Has a thought about her nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless prodigal; Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none.
Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly unassuming spirit! Careless of thy neighbourhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood, In the lane--there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be, But 'tis good enough for thee.
Ill befall the yellow flowers, Children of the flaring hours! Buttercups that will be seen, Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien, They have done as worldlings do, Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble Celandine!
Prophet of delight and mirth, Ill requited upon earth; Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, Serving at my heart's command, Tasks that are no tasks renewing; I will sing, as doth behove, Hymns in praise of what I love!
WORDSWORTH.
_TO BLOSSOMS._
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.
What, were you born to be, An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night? 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth, Merely to show your worth And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we May read, how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave; And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave.
HERRICK.
_THE LILY AND THE ROSE._
THE nymph must lose her female friend, If more admired than she-- But where will fierce contention end, If flowers can disagree.
Within the garden's peaceful scene Appear'd two lovely foes, Aspiring to the rank of queen, The Lily and the Rose.
The Rose soon redden'd into rage, And, swelling with disdain, Appeal'd to many a poet's page To prove her right to reign.
The Lily's height bespoke command, A fair imperial flower; She seem'd designed for Flora's hand, The sceptre of her power.