Part 2
Oh! many a glorious flower there grows In far and richer lands; But high in my affection e’er The beautiful Crocus stands. I love their faces, when by one And two they’re looking out; I love them when the spreading field Is purple all about. I loved them in the by-gone years Of childhood’s thoughtless laughter, When I marvelled why the flowers came first, And the leaves the season after. I loved them then, I love them now-- The gentle and the bright; I love them for the thoughts they bring Of spring’s returning light; When, first-born of the waking earth, Their kindred gay appear, And, with the Snowdrop, usher in The hope-invested year.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
You’re glad Because your little tiny nose, Turns up so pert and funny; Because I know you choose your beaux More for their mirth than money; Because your eyes are deep and blue,-- Your fingers long and rosy; Because a little maid like you Would make one’s home so cozy; Because, I think, (I’m just so weak,) That some of these fine morrows You’ll listen while you hear me speak _My_ story, and _my_ sorrows!
_Anon._
* * * * *
Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast; Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue; Wild wit, invention ever new, And lively cheer of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly the approach of morn. Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, No care beyond to-day. Yet see how all around them wait, The ministers of human fate, And black misfortune’s baleful train, Ah! show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them they are men!
_Gray’s Eton College._
Life went a Maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young!
_Coleridge._
ICE-PLANT.... _Frigidity._
Canst thou no kindly ray impart, Thou strangely beauteous one? Fairer than fairest work of art, Yet cold as sculptured stone! Thou art in Friendship’s bright domain A flower that yields no fruit; And Love declares thy beauty vain;-- Of fragrance destitute!
_O. S. M. Ordway._
With pellucid studs the Ice-Flower gems His rimy foliage, and his candied stems.
_Darwin._
As water fluid is, till it do grow Solid and fixed by cold, So in warm seasons love doth loosely flow; Frost only can it hold; Your coldness and disdain Does the sweet course restrain.
_Cowley._
CACTUS.... _Ardent Love._
The flower of the Cactus is chosen to signify ardent love, because of the glowing hues of the flower itself, and the heat of the climate in which the plant grows to the greatest size. The gorgeousness of the flower of the Cactus needs no eulogy. No fitter emblem could have been selected to represent the passion of love in its full flame.
I think of thee, when soft and wide The evening spreads her robes of light, And, like a young and timid bride, Sits blushing in the arms of night: And when the moon’s sweet crescent springs In light o’er heaven’s deep waveless sea, And stars are forth like blessed things, I think of thee--I think of thee.
_G. W. Prentice._
Thou’rt like a star; for when my way was cheerless and forlorn, And all was blackness like the sky before a coming storm, Thy beaming smile and words of love, thy heart of kindness free, Illumed my path, then cheered my soul, and bade its sorrows flee. Thou’rt like a star--when sad and lone I wander forth to view The lamps of night, beneath their rays my spirit’s nerved anew, And thus I love to gaze on thee, and then I think thou’st power To mix the cup of joy for me, even in life’s darkest hour. Thou’rt like a star--whene’er my eye is upward turned to gaze Upon those orbs, I mark with awe their clear celestial blaze; And then thou seem’st so pure, so high, so beautifully bright, I almost feel as if it were an angel met my sight.
_American Ladies’ Magazine._
* * * * *
Could genius sink in dull decay, And wisdom cease to lend her ray; Should all that I have worshipped change, Even this could not my heart estrange; Thou still wouldst be the first, the first That taught the love sad tears have nursed.
_Mrs. Embury._
* * * * *
The sick soul That burns with love’s delusions, ever dreams, Dreading its losses. It for ever makes A gloomy shadow gather in the skies, And clouds the day; and looking far beyond The glory in its gaze, it sadly sees Countless privations, and far-coming storms, Shrinking from what it conjures.
_Simms’s Poems._
* * * * *
The rolling wheel, that runneth often round, The hardest steel in tract of time doth tear; And drizzling drops, that often do redound, Firmest flint doth in continuance wear: Yet cannot I, with many a dropping tear, And long entreaty, soften her hard heart, That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to hear, Or look with pity on my painful smart: But when I plead, she bids me play my part; And when I weep, she says tears are but water; And when I sigh, she says I know the art; And when I wail, she turns herself to laughter; So do I weep and wail, and plead in vain, While she as steel and flint doth still remain.
_Spenser._
ALOE.... _Grief_.
The Aloe is attached to the soil by very feeble roots; it delights to grow in the wilderness, and its taste is extremely bitter. Thus grief separates us from earthly things, and fills the heart with bitterness. These magnificent and monstrous plants are found in barbarous Africa: they grow upon rocks, in dry sand under a burning atmosphere. Some have leaves six feet long, and armed with long spires. From the centre of these leaves shoots up a slender stem covered with flowers.
Sister Sorrow! sit beside me, Or, if I must wander, guide me: Let me take thy hand in mine, Cold alike are mine and thine. Think not, Sorrow, that I hate thee,-- Think not I am frightened at thee,-- Thou art come for some good end; I will treat thee as a friend.
_R. M. Milnes._
* * * * *
And this is all I have left now, Silence and solitude and tears; The memory of a broken vow, My blighted hopes, my wasted years!
_Anon._
* * * * *
It may be that I shall forget my grief; It may be time has good in store for me; It may be that my heart will find relief From sources now unknown. Futurity May bear within its folds some hidden spring From which will issue blessed streams; and yet Whate’er of joy the coming year may bring, The past--the past--I never can forget.
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
Of comfort no man speak: Let’s talk of graves, of worms, of epitaphs: Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let’s choose executors, and talk of wills; And yet not so--for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies in the ground?
_Shakspeare._
WORMWOOD. ... _Absence._
Wormwood is the bitterest of plants; and absence, according to La Fontaine, is the worst of evils. Those in whose anxious breasts the “flame divine” is burning, will agree with the French author in his assertion. To be absent from one we love is to carry a vacant chamber in the heart, which naught else can fill.
When thou shalt yield to memory’s power, And let her fondly lead thee o’er The scenes that thou hast past before, To absent friends and days gone by,-- Then should these meet thy pensive eye, A true memento may they be Of one whose bosom owes to thee So many hours enjoyed in gladness, That else perhaps had passed in sadness, And many a golden dream of joy, Untarnished and without alloy. Oh, still my fervent prayer will be, “Heaven’s choicest blessings rest on thee.”
_Miss Gould._
* * * * *
How can the glintin sun shine bright? How can the wimplin burnie glide? Or flowers adorn the ingle side? Or birdies deign The woods, and streams, and vales to chide? Eliza’s gane!
_J. W. H._
* * * * *
If she be gone, the world, in my esteem, Is all bare walls; nothing remains in it But dust and feathers.
_John Crown._
* * * * *
Thus absence dies, and dying proves No absence can subsist with loves That do partake of fair perfection; Since, in the darkest night, they may, By love’s quick motion, find a way To see each other in reflection.
_Suckling._
VIOLET.... _Modest Worth_.
The Violet has always been a favourite theme of admiration among visitors of Parnassus. Its quiet beauty and love of retired spots have ever made it the emblem of true worth that shrinks from parade. It is one of the first children of spring, and awakens pleasing emotions in the breast of the lover of the beautiful, as he strolls through the meadows in the season of joy. Ion, the Greek name of this flower, is traced by some etymologists to Ia, the daughter of Midas, who was betrothed to Atys, and changed by Diana into a Violet, to hide her from Apollo.
* * * * *
A woman’s love, deep in the heart, Is like the Violet flower, That lifts its modest head apart In some sequestered bower.
_Anon._
* * * * *
The maid whose manners are retired, Who, patient, waits to be admired, Though overlooked, perhaps, a while Her modest worth, her modest smile,-- Oh, she will find, or soon, or late, A noble, fond, and faithful mate, Who, when the spring of life is gone, And all its blooming flowers are flown, Will bless old Time, who left behind The graces of a virtuous mind.
_Paulding._
* * * * *
Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, 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. Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout! I’m as great as they, I trow, Since the day I found thee out, Little flower!--I’ll make a stir, Like a great astronomer. Modest, yet withal an elf, Bold, and lavish of thyself, Since we needs must first have met I have seen thee, high and low, Thirty years or more, and yet ’Twas a face I did not know: Thou hast now, go where I may, Fifty greetings in a day. Ere a leaf is on the bush, In the time before the thrush Has a thought about its nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless prodigal; Telling tales about the sun, When there’s little warmth or none.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
Shakspeare regarded the Violet as the emblem of constancy, as the following occurs in one of his sonnets:--
Violet is for faithfulness, Which in me shall abide; Hoping, likewise, that from your heart You will not let it slide.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
The Violet in her greenwood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazles mingle, May boast herself the fairest flower, In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
_Scott._
* * * * *
Under the hedge all safe and warm, Sheltered from boisterous wind and storm, We Violets lie: With each small eye Closely shut while the cold goes by. You look at the bank, mid the biting frost, And you sigh, and say that we’re dead and lost; But, Lady stay For a sunny day, And you’ll find us again, alive and gay. On mossy banks, under forest trees, You’ll find us crowding, in days like these; Purple and blue, And white ones too, Peep at the sun, and wait for you. By maids and matrons, by old and young, By rich and poor, our praise is sung; And the blind man sighs When his sightless eyes He turns to the spot where our perfumes rise. There is not a garden, the country through, Where they plant not Violets, white and blue; By princely hall, And cottage small-- For we’re sought, and cherished, and culled by all. Yet grand parterres and stiff trimmed beds But ill become our modest heads; We’d rather run, In shadow and sun, O’er the banks where our merry lives first begun. There, where the Birken bough’s silvery shine Gleams over the hawthorn and frail woodbine, Moss, deep and green, Lies thick, between The plots where we Violet-flowers are seen. And the small gay Celandine’s stars of gold Rise sparkling beside our purple’s fold:-- Such a regal show Is rare, I trow, Save on the banks where Violets grow.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
I know where bloom some Violets in a bed Half hidden in the grass; and crowds go by And see them not, unless some curious eye Unto their hiding-place by chance is led. I often pass that way, and look on them, And love them more and more. I know not why My heart doth love such humble things; but I Esteem them more than robe or diadem Of haughty kings. A babe, or bird, or flower Hath o’er the soul a most despotic power. The tearful eye of infancy oppressed-- A flower down-trodden by the foot of spite-- Awaken sighs of sorrow in the breast, Or nerve the arm to vindicate their right.
_MacKellar._
LAVENDER.... _Distrust_.
It was anciently believed that the asp, a dangerous species of viper, made Lavender its habitual place of abode, for which reason that plant was approached with extreme caution. The Romans used it largely in their baths, from whence its name is derived.
* * * * *
Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win, By fearing to attempt.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Who never doubted never half believed, Where doubt there truth is--’tis her shadow.
_Bailey._
* * * * *
When first, with all a lover’s pride, I wooed and won thee for my bride, I little thought that thou couldst be Estranged as now thou art from me!
_Anon._
* * * * *
Thy confidence is held from me, In fear my love but shows, Like one, art thou, who fears the bee May sting thee, through the rose.
_Anon._
PANSY.... _Think of me_.
The Pansy, or Heart’s-ease, is a beautiful variety of the Violet, differing from it in the diversity of its colours. In fragrance it is inferior to the Violet. Pansy is an old English corruption of the French Pensée.
* * * * *
“And there are Pansies, that’s for thoughts.”
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
CHILDHOOD.
Sister, arise, the sun shines bright, The bee is humming in the air, The stream is singing in the light, The May-buds never looked more fair; Blue is the sky, no rain to-day: Get up, it has been light for hours, And we have not begun to play, Nor have we gathered any flowers. Time, who looked on, each accent caught, And said, “He is too young for thought.”
YOUTH.
To-night, beside the garden-gate? Oh, what a while the night is coming! I never saw the sun so late, No heard the bee at this time humming! I thought the flowers an hour ago Had closed their bells and sunk to rest: How slowly flies that hooded crow! How light it is along the west! Said Time, “He yet hath to be taught That I oft move too quick for thought.”
MANHOOD.
What thoughts wouldst thou in me awaken? Not love? for that brings only tears-- Nor friendship? no, I was forsaken! Pleasure I have not known for years: The future I would not foresee, I know too much from what is past, No happiness is there for me, And troubles ever come too fast. Said Time, “No comfort have I brought, The past to him’s one painful thought.”
OLD AGE.
Somehow the flowers seem different now, The Daisies dimmer than of old; There’s fewer blossoms on the bough, The Hawthorn buds look gray and cold; The Pansies wore another dye When I was young--when I was young! There’s not that blue about the sky Which every way in those days hung. There’s nothing now looks as it “ought.” Said Time, “The change is in thy thought.”
_Miller._
* * * * *
I think of thee at morn, when glisten The tearful dew-drops on the grass; I think of thee at eve, and listen, When the low, whispering breezes pass.
_E. R. H._
* * * * *
And thou, so rich in gentle names, appealing To hearts that own our nature’s common lot; Thou, styled by sportive Fancy’s better feeling A Thought, the Heart’s-Ease, and Forget-me-not.
_Barton._
DAISY.... _Innocence_.
Shakspeare speaks of the Daisy as the flower
Whose white investments figure innocence;
and succeeding poets have generally used it as the image of that pure quality. Fable informs us that the Daisy owes its origin to Belides, one of the Dryads, who were supposed to preside over meadows and pastures. While dancing on the turf with Ephigeus, whose suit she encouraged, she attracted the admiration of Vertumnus, the deity who presided over orchards; and, to escape from him, she was transformed into the humble flower, the Latin name of which is Bellis. The ancient English name of the flower was Day’s Eye, of which Daisy is a corruption. In Ossian’s poems, the Daisy is called the flower of the new-born--most expressive of innocence.
* * * * *
When smitten by the morning ray, I see thee rise alert and gay, Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness: And when, at dark, by dews opprest, Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
She dwells amid the world’s dark ways, Pure as in childhood’s hours; And all her thoughts are poetry, And all her words are flowers.
_Mrs. M. E. Hewitt._
* * * * *
’Twas when the world was in its prime, When meadows green and woodlands wild Were strewn with flowers, in sweet spring-time, And everywhere the Daisies smiled. When undisturbed the ring-doves cooed, While lovers sang each other’s praises, As in embowered lanes they wooed, Or on some bank white o’er with Daisies: While Love went by with muffled feet, Singing, “The Daisies they are sweet.” Unfettered then he roamed abroad, And as he willed it past the hours-- Now lingering idly by the road, Now loitering by the wayside flowers; For what cared he about the morrow? Too young to sigh, too old to fear-- No time had he to think of sorrow, Who found the Daisies everywhere; Still sang he, through each green retreat, “The Daisies they are very sweet.” With many a maiden did he dally, Like a glad brook that turns away-- Here in, there out, across the valley, With every pebble stops to play; Taking no note of space nor time, Through flowers, the banks adorning, Still rolling on, with silver chime, In star-clad night and golden morning. So went Love on, through cold and heat, Singing, “The Daisy’s ever sweet.” ’Twas then the flowers were haunted With fairy forms and lovely things, Whose beauty elder bards have chanted, And how they lived in crystal springs, And swang upon the honied bells; In meadows danced round dark green mazes, Strewed flowers around the holy wells, But never trampled on the Daisies. They spared the star that lit their feet, The Daisy was so very sweet.
_Miller._
* * * * *
When soothed awhile by milder airs, Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few gray hairs; Spring cannot shun thee; Whole summer fields are thine by right, And autumn, melancholy wight, Doth in thy crimson head delight, When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet’st the traveller in the lane; If welcomed once thou count’st it gain, Thou art not daunted; Nor car’st if thou be set at naught: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
I cannot gaze on aught that wears The beauty of the skies, Or aught that in life’s valley bears The hues of paradise; I cannot look upon a star, Or cloud that seems a seraph’s car, Or any form of purity-- Unmingled with a dream of thee.
_P. Benjamin._
* * * * *
The Daisy scattered on each meade and downe, A golden tuft within a silver crown; Faire fell that dainty flower! and may there be No shepherd graced that doth not honour thee.
_Browne._
* * * * *
There is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.
_Montgomery._
* * * * *
Heaven may awhile correct the virtuous, Yet it will wipe their eyes again, and make Their faces whiter with their tears. Innocence Concealed is the stolen pleasure of the gods, Which never ends in shame, as that of men Doth oftentimes do; but like the sun breaks forth, When it hath gratified another world; And to our unexpecting eyes appears More glorious through its late obscurity.
_John Fountain._
PERIWINKLE.... _Tender Recollections_.
In France, the Periwinkle has been adopted as the emblem of the pleasures of memory and sincere friendship, probably in allusion to Rousseau’s recollection of his friend, Madame de Warens, occasioned, after a lapse of thirty years, by the sight of this flower, which they together had admired. This plant is deeply rooted in the soil which it adorns. It throws out its shoots on all sides to clasp the earth, and covers it with flowers, which reflect the hue of heaven. Thus our first affections, warm, pure, and artless, seem to be of heavenly origin.
* * * * *
Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain,--it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me: They may crush, but they shall not contemn; They may torture, but shall not subdue me,-- ’Tis of thee that I think, not of them.
_Byron._
* * * * *