Part 11
This bud of welcome to thee we give,-- Bid its unborn sweets in thy bosom live; It shall charm thee from all a stranger’s pain, Reserve, suspicion, and dark disdain: A race in its freshness and bloom are we; Bring no cares from a worn-out world with thee.
_Mrs. Sigourney._
JUNIPER.... _Protection_.
The Juniper has been the favourite of Superstition. The ancients consecrated the shrub to the Furies. The smoke of its green roots was the incense which they offered in preference to the infernal gods; and they burned its berries during funerals to ban malign influences. In some parts of Europe, the peasant still believes that the perfume of Juniper berries purifies the air, and drives evil spirits from his humble cot. The Juniper is made to signify protection, on account of the defensive qualities ascribed to it by superstition, and the shelter its drooping branches afford to small animals which are hard pressed by the hunters.
* * * * *
I have found out a gift for my fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me that plunder forbear, She will say, ’twas a barbarous deed.
“For he ne’er could be true,” she averred, “Who could rob a poor bird of its young;” And I loved her the more, when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
_Shenstone._
HAZEL.... _Peace--Reconciliation_.
Fable gives the following account of the origin of the signification of the Hazel. There was a time when men were at constant war with each other, and could not be restrained from cruelty and revenge by any tie of kin. The gods at length took pity on them. Apollo and Mercury made presents to each other, and descended to the earth. The god of harmony received from the son of Maia the shell of a tortoise, out of which he had constructed a lyre, and gave him in exchange a Hazel stick, which had the power of imparting a love of virtue and of reconciling hearts divided by envy and hate. By the power thus given him, Mercury taught men the love of peace, and of home and country, and made commerce the bond of nations. Adorned with two light wings, and entwined with serpents, the Hazel rod given to the god of eloquence by the god of harmony is still, by the name of caduceus, the emblem of peace, commerce, and reconciliation.
* * * * *
Oh then that wisdom may we know, Which leads a life of peace below!
_Sprague._
* * * * *
Peace, sweet peace is ever found In her eternal home on holy ground.
_Mrs. Embury._
* * * * *
And see, As yet unclothed, the Hazel tree Prepares his early tufts to lend The coppice first-fruits; and depend In russet drops, whose clustered rows, Still closed in part, in part disclose, Yet fenced beneath their scaly shed, The pendent anther’s yellow head.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
I trust the frown thy features wear, Ere long into a smile will turn; I would not that a face as fair As thine, beloved, should look so stern. The chain of ice that winter binds, Holds not for aye the sparkling rill; It melts away when summer shines, And leaves the waters sparkling still: Thus let thy cheek resume the smile That shed such sunny light before; And though I left thee for a while, I’ll vow to leave thee, love, no more.
_Wm. Leggett._
* * * * *
Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing, Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die-- Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing, Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky. Life is but shadows, save a promise given, Which lights up sorrow with a fadeless ray. Oh, touch the sceptre!--with a hope in heaven, Come, turn thy spirit from the world away.
_Anon._
OAK.... _Nobility_.
The form of the Oak tree, when grown fairly and naturally, is a perfect emblem of its qualities, so firm set, so massive, and strong. You may always know it instantly, whether as a wintry skeleton form, bare, and gnarled, and angular, or in its summer garb of rich and finely massed foliage, always the monarch of the woods.
* * * * *
True is, that whilome that good poet said, The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known, For man by nothing is so well bewrayed As by his manners, in which plain is shown Of what degree and what race he is grown.
_Spenser._
* * * * *
How vain are all hereditary honours, Those poor possessions from another’s deeds, Unless our own just virtues form our title, And give a sanction to our fond assumption!
_Shirley._
* * * * *
Whoe’er amidst the sons Of reason, valour, liberty, and virtue, Displays distinguished merit, is a noble Of nature’s own creating. Such have risen, Sprung from the dust; or where had been our honours?
_Thomson._
* * * * *
LIFE OF AN OAK TREE.
Long centuries have come and passed Since, in a stormy wind, An acorn fell one autumn day, Like thousands of his kind.
The wild swine fed in the forests then, And hungry beasts were they; They crunched the mast where’er it fell, And they feasted well that day.
But as they trampled all about With heavy hoofs, they trod That acorn--perchance hundreds more-- Deep in the yielding sod.
Years came and went.--The acorn grew And became a young Oak tree; With a slender, straight, and flexile stem, Dressed in rich greenery.
Time passeth on.--The young tree rose A bold and noble thing; Each summer showed a leafier crest, And a longer shoot each spring.
There came into the ancient wood Some stern official men; They marked the fairest, loftiest trees, And they were doomèd then.
They glanced upon the tall young Oak, And quickly passed it by, And laughing harshly, said ’twould do By the next century.
Soon through the forest’s solemn glades There rang that deathful sound, The woodman’s axe;--and crashing fell Trunks, branches, all around.
Craftsmen of many kinds there came For that oak timber good, And carried it in loads away From its old native wood.
Some floated far o’er ocean’s waves Mid stormy winds and squalls, Both merchant-ships, and men-of-war, “Old England’s Wooden Walls.”
Some, raised on high, with rare device The royal roof support, And look down in the banquet-hall On king, and queen, and court.
Some, quaintly carved, and polished fair, May shrine a pictured face, Of Dolci’s gentle loveliness, Or Raphael’s angel grace.
And many a toilet mirror owes, Its flowered and gilded frame To the good trees of which I sing:-- Well have they won their fame!
And massive tables, that have once Groaned ’neath baronial fare, If they could talk of that Oak wood, Might tell of dwelling there.--
The young Oak tree yet statelier grew, And broader spread its shade, And the dappled deer lay sheltered ’neath The canopy it made.
Years came and went.--The Oak tree stood In full-grown prime and pride, And lords of various mind and mood Possessed those woodlands wide.
The first, a reckless forester, Loved horse, and hawk, and hound, And he chased all o’er his wide domains, Wellnigh the whole year round.
His lady fair, as dames were wont, In those long bygone days, Loved hawking too; and gallant trains She led through forest ways.
’Twas a merry and a winsome thing, When lord, and squire, and knight Rode forth, mid bugles ringing shrill, With dainty ladies bright, To sweep along by vale and hill, Or through the forest glade, Where the echoes of their laughter light A merry music made.
And oft they reined their palfreys in Beneath the young Oak tree, And oft foretold how grand a thing In after-time ’twould be.
These jocund sports passed all away; For direful civil war Spread its fell curse throughout the land, Wasting it near and far.
And the next lord these broad lands had, A warrior stern was he, He dwelt with camps and cannon more Than sylvan glade and tree.
He died in battle; and his lands By craft and deeds unfair, His brother claimed and won, although His infant son was heir.
This hard, bad man was miserly, And loved no thing save gold; He soon marked out the stately tree, To be cut down and sold.
What was its beauty unto him?-- The grand and noble thing! His dull eyes only measured well What moneys it would bring.
But while he doomed the lordly oak, His wicked life ebbed low, And suddenly, death summoned him From his ill-got hoards to go.
The grand estate--the ancient hall, The woods, and wealth untold, Came then unto that warrior’s child, A boy of ten years old.
He was a thoughtful, quiet boy, For though yet young in years, His mother’s sorrows and his own Had made him old in tears.
And with a calm and gentle joy Came home that youthful heir, For his chief source of gladness was, To bring his mother there:--
To watch her sadly smile to see Again each well-known spot, Where days of happiness had passed, That ne’er could be forgot:--
To have her former state restored, Maidens, and serving-men; And garments, richer than of old, He bade them bring her then.
The gardens, that the miser had Left all untrimmed and bare, Were planted, pruned, and decked anew, And stored with all things rare.
But chiefly did the lady love One glade within the wood, The shady glade, where broad and high, The noble Oak tree stood.
Sad memories, yet sweet ones too, For her that lone spot bore: ’Twas there she parted from her lord To meet on earth no more!
’Twas there, beneath that tree, he spoke His last, _last_ fond farewell! From thence she watched him ride away The eve before he fell:-- No marvel that sad lady loved The silent spot so well!
And there they oft together came, The lady and the boy, For he to her was all on earth, Her one sole living joy.
And long years after, when she slept Her warrior’s tomb beside, When the boy had grown an aged man, With grandsons by his side:--
That ancient wood he reverenced; And peasants, when they spoke Of the old tree within the glade, Called it--the Lady’s Oak.
I know the spot--though strangely time Hath altered all around, Where once the forest’s stillness lay, Now whirling wheels resound.
A large and busy peopled town E’en on that spot we see, Where dappled deer and timid birds Dwelt fearlessly and free.
But I remember when a child, One old and mouldering shell Of a most ancient, huge Oak tree Stood near the public well.
I’ve sat within it many a time, In childish sport and play, And much I mourned to see at last The trunk quite cleared away.
Soon they built there a fine new street, And noisy coaches sweep With roar and riot,--even where That lady came to weep!
Each passing year we note a change In ancient things and new; And if we see so much in one, What may not hundreds do?
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
There’s no power In ancestry, to make the foolish wise, The ignorant learned, the cowardly and base Deserving our respect as brave and good. All men feel this: nor dares the despot say His fiat can endow with truth the soul, Or, like a pension, on the heart bestow The virtues current in the realms above. Hence man’s best riches must be gained--not given; His noblest name deserved, and not derived.
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
Some men are born to endure the toil and strife And heavy burdens of the earth. They are The pillars in the temple of this life, Its strength and ornament; or, hidden far Beneath, they form its firm foundation-stone. In nobleness they stand distinct and lone, Yet other men upon them lean, and fain (Such selfishness in human bosoms swells) Would lay on them the weight of their own pain. Where greatness is, a patient spirit dwells; They least repine who bear and suffer most: In still and stern endurance they sustain The ills whereof all weaker minds complain; And in their blessed lot they stand, without a sigh or boast.
_MacKellar._
YEW.... _Sorrow_.
The Yew is among all nations an emblem of sorrow. Its bare trunk, and dark foliage, with which its fruit, looking like drops of blood, stands in harsh contrast, excite in us a sort of aversion. Persons who sleep under a Yew tree are liable to be seized with dizziness, heaviness, and violent headache. Its juice is poisonous, and the tree exhausts the soil which supports it, and destroys all other plants which spring up beneath it. The Yew was planted in old English burying-grounds, and its wood was commonly employed for making bows and arrows before the introduction of fire-arms. The Greeks, impressed with the melancholy aspect of this tree, invented the fable of the unhappy Smilax; who, seeing that her love was rejected by young Crocus, was transformed into a Yew.
* * * * *
Who that hath ever been, Could bear to be no more? Yet who would tread again the scene He trod through life before?
_Montgomery._
* * * * *
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast; Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prest With more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown, Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
And sorrowing friends stood round the bed Whereon a form was lying: ’Twas Ellen;--there the suffering saint, Without a murmur or complaint, In peace and hope was dying. A silence deep as death was there When her true soul departed; And grace and mercy crowned her end Who lived the broken-hearted.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping O’er the chords of the youthful heart, And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping, Sees the visions of fancy depart; When the bloom of young feeling is dying, And the heart throbs with passion’s fierce strife When our sad days are wasted in sighing, Who then can find sweetness in life?
_Mrs. Embury._
* * * * *
He is dead. Those words toll on the ear, The knell of hopes, and fears, and fleshy aims. The spirit light has cast a farewell beam-- Has shaken off its way-worn gear, and winged To heaven. Sorrow will demand her tears, For he was lovely, and leaves a hollow In our near-drawn sphere which none may upclose. But thoughts of heaven, through tears, will light us, Making that refresh which seemed to blast!
_C. Watson._
DEAD LEAVES.... _Death_.
A more appropriate emblem of death than the remains of the forest’s refreshing verdure could not be selected. Withered by the chill breath of ruthless Winter, the leaves strew the earth; and, in time, mingle with the dust, like ourselves. The eye cannot help watching how the winds pursue, scatter, whirl, and drive these remnants of departed life.
* * * * *
No longer mourn for me when I am dead. Then you shall hear the surly, sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell. Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking of me then should work you wo!
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Now shall my verse, which thou in life didst grace, Not leave thee in the grave, that ugly place, That few regard, or have respect unto: Where all attendance and observance ends; Where all the sunshine of our favour sets; Where what was ill no countenance defends, And what was good the unthankful world forgets.
_Daniel._
* * * * *
Hence, profane grim man! nor dare To approach so neere my faire. Marble vaults, and gloomy caves, Church-yards, charnell-houses, graves, Where the living loath to be, Heaven hath designed to thee. But if needs ’mongst us thou’lt rage, Let thy fury feed on age.
_Habington._
* * * * *
So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand I’ the instant we withdraw the moving hand, But some short time retains a faint, weak course, By virtue of the first impulsive force; And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile Thy crown of bays, oh let it crack awhile, And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes.
_Carew._
* * * * *
Ah! thou hast left to live; and in the time When scarce thou blossom’dst in thy pleasant prime: So falls by northern blast a virgin rose, At half that doth her bashful bosom close; So a sweet flower languishing decays, That late did blush when kissed by Phœbus’ rays; So Phœbus mounting the meridian’s height, Choked by pale Phœbe faints unto our sight; Astonished Nature sullen stands to see The life of all this all so changed to be; In gloomy gowns the stars this loss deplore, The sea with murmuring mountains beats the shore.
_Drummond._
* * * * *
Death is the crown of life: Were death denied, poor men would live in vain; Were death denied, to live would not be life: Were death denied, even fools would wish to die.
_Young._
* * * * *
Death is the sea, and we like rivers flow To lose our selves in the insatiate maine, Whence rivers may, she ne’er returne againe. Nor grieve this christall streame so soone did fall Into the ocean; since shee perfumed all The banks she past, so that each neighbour field Did sweete flowers cherish by her watring, yeeld, Which now adorne her herse.
_Habington._
* * * * *
We bore him to the grave while yet ’twas morn, The winter sunlight shining on his coffin: The weight of grief was heavy to be borne, And the salt tears rose in our eyelids often. We slowly walked in mutely sad procession; The pitying people freely made us way; And the blest child, yet guiltless of transgression, We softly placed between the walls of clay. We sang a hymn--we bowed our heads to pray; And GOD, who had our bitter grief appointed, Sent also strengthening grace by lips anointed. We looked again on George as low he lay Deep in the earth; and when we homeward went, We felt his home was better ’yond the firmament.
_MacKellar._
MISTLETOE.... _I climb to greatness_.
The Mistletoe is a creeping plant which grows on the tops of the tallest trees. The proud oak is its slave, and nourishes it with his own substance. The Druids paid a kind of adoration to it, as the emblem of a weakness that was superior to strength: they regarded the tyrant of the oak as equally formidable to men and gods.
* * * * *
’Tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, Whereto the climber upwards turns his face: But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high above the sun of glory glow, And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow Contending tempests on his naked head, And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.
_Byron._
* * * * *
Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
On the summit see, The seals of office glitter in his eyes; He climbs,--he pants,--he grasps them. At his heels, Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.
_Cowper._
* * * * *
If any man must fall for me to rise, Then seek I not to rise. Another’s pain I choose not for my good. A golden chain-- A robe of honour is too poor a prize To tempt my hasty hand to do a wrong Unto a fellow man. This life hath wo Sufficient, wrought by man’s satanic foe; And who that hath a heart would dare prolong Or add unto the sorrows of a soul That seeks some healing balm to make it whole? My bosom owns the brotherhood of man; From GOD and truth a renegade is he Who scorns a poor man in his poverty, Or on his fellow lays a supercilious ban.
_MacKellar._
ASH TREE.... _Grandeur_.
* * * * *
It is sure, Stamped by the seal of nature, that the well Of mind, where all its waters gather pure, Shall with unquestioned spell all hearts allure. Wisdom enshrined in beauty--Oh! how high The order of that loveliness.
_Percival._
* * * * *
The sky is changed!--and such a change! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And this is in the night:--most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,-- A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again ’tis black,--and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth, As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.
_Byron._
* * * * *
I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of mine own.
_Shakspeare._
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