Part 3
’Tis sweet, and yet ’tis sad, that gentle power, Which throws in winter’s lap the spring-tide flower: I love to dream of days my childhood knew, When, with the sister of my heart, time flew On wings of innocence and hope! dear hours, When joy sprang up about our path, like flowers!
_Mrs. A. M. Wells._
* * * * *
The lesser Periwinkle’s bloom, Like carpet of Damascus’ loom, Pranks with bright blue the tissue wove Of verdant foliage: and above With milk-white flowers, whence soon shall swell Red fruitage, to the taste and smell Pleasant alike, the Strawberry weaves Its coronets of three-fold leaves In mazes through the sloping wood.
_Mant._
* * * * *
Where captivates the sky-blue Periwinkle Under the cottage eaves.
_Hurdis._
* * * * *
Remember thee? Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmixed with baser matter.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Oh! only those Whose souls have felt this one idolatry Can tell how precious is the slightest thing Affection gives and hallows! A dead flower Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks That made each leaf a treasure.
_Miss Landon._
SWEET-BRIER, OR EGLANTINE.... _Poetry_.
The Eglantine is the poet’s flower. In the floral games, it was the prize for the best composition on the charms of study and eloquence. Though its flowers are most beautiful in hue, their fragrance is their more valuable quality. In like manner, the charms of poetry and eloquence should be considered superior to those of appearance.
* * * * *
And well the poet, at her shrine, May bend and worship while he woos; To him she is a thing divine, The inspiration of his line, His loved one, and his muse. If to his song the echo rings Of fame--’tis woman’s voice he hears; If ever from his lyre’s proud strings Flow sounds, like rush of angel wings, ’Tis that she listens, while he sings, With blended smiles and tears.
_Halleck._
* * * * *
Give me the poet’s lyre! And as the seraph in his orbit sings, Oh, may I strike the heaven-attuned strings, With a seraphic fire! With music fill the mighty dome of mind, And the rapt souls of men in music brightly bind!
_J. W. H._
* * * * *
Trace the young poet’s fate; Fresh from his solitude, the child of dreams, His heart upon his lips he seeks the world, To find him fame and fortune, as if life Were like a fairy tale. His song has led The way before him; flatteries fill his ear, His presence courted, and his words are caught; And he seems happy in so many friends. What marvel if he somewhat overrate His talents and his state? These scenes soon change. The vain, who sought to mix their name with his; The curious, who but live for some new sight; The idle--all these have been gratified, And now neglect stings even more than scorn.
_Miss Landon._
LILAC.... _First Emotions of Love_.
The freshness of the verdure of the Lilac; the flexibility of its branches; the profusion of its flowers; their transitory beauty and their soft hues,--all remind us of those emotions which embellish beauty, and throw such a light around our youthful hours. It is said that Van Spaendonc himself threw down his pencil on viewing a group of Lilacs. Nature seems to have delighted in creating its delicate clusters, which astonish by their beauty and variety. The fragrance of the flowers is even more gratifying than their beauty.
* * * * *
She had grown, In her unstained seclusion, bright and pure As a first opening Lilac, when it spreads Its clear leaves to the sweetest dawn of May.
_Percival._
* * * * *
When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond, My purest, first-born love, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong, as that I felt for thee.
_Mrs. Norton._
* * * * *
I love thee,--and I live! The moon, Who sees me from her calm above, The wind, who weaves her dim, soft tune About me, know how much I love! Naught else, save night, and the lonely hour, E’er heard my passion wild and strong; Even _thou_ yet deem’st not of thy power, Unless thou read’st aright my song!
_Barry Cornwall._
* * * * *
She loves--but knows not whom she loves, Nor what his race, nor whence he came;-- Like one who meets, in Indian groves, Some beauteous bird without a name, Brought by the last ambrosial breeze, From isles in the undiscovered seas, To show his plumage for a day To wondering eyes, and wing away!
_Moore._
TULIP.... _Declaration of Love_.
The Tulip is an extraordinary favourite in many parts of Europe and Asia; and, in Holland and Turkey, the most extravagant prices are paid for fine specimens. On account of the elegance of its form, the beauty of its colours, and its want of fragrance and other useful qualities, this flower has been considered as an appropriate symbol of a female who possesses no recommendation but a beautiful appearance. In the East, the Tulip is employed as the emblem by which a lover makes known his passion to his mistress; as the Tulip expresses the idea that he has a face all fire and a heart all coal.
* * * * *
Not one of Flora’s brilliant race A form more perfect can display: Art could not feign more simple grace, Nor Nature take a line away. Yet, rich as morn, of many a hue, When flushing clouds through darkness strike, The Tulip’s petals shine in dew, All beautiful, but none alike.
_Montgomery._
* * * * *
My heart is sad and lonely, With weariness I pine; Would thou wert here, mine only,-- Would I were wholly thine!
_H. J. H._
* * * * *
If spirits, pure as those who kneel Around the throne of light above, The power of beauty’s spell could feel, And lose a heaven for woman’s love,-- What marvel that a heart like mine Enraptured by thy charms should be! Forget to bend at glory’s shrine, And lose itself--ay, heaven--for thee!
_Memorial._
* * * * *
Fain would I speak the thoughts I bear to thee, But they do choke and flutter in my throat, And make me like a child.
_Joanna Baillie._
CYPRESS.... _Mourning_.
The ancients consecrated the Cypress to the Fates, the Furies and Pluto. They placed it near tombs. The people of the East retain the same custom in the decoration of their cemeteries. The Turks plant the Cypress at the head and at the foot of the graves. According to Ovid, the Cypress derived its name from Cyparissos, an especial friend of Apollo’s, who, in grief at having inadvertently killed a favourite stag of his, prayed the gods that his mourning might be made perpetual, and was changed into a Cypress tree, the branches of which were thenceforward used at funerals.
* * * * *
Lady dear! this history Is thy fated lot, Ever such thy watching For what cometh not, Till with anxious waiting dull, Round thee fades the beautiful; Still thou seekest on, though weary, Seeking still in vain.
_Miss Landon._
* * * * *
Thou art lost to me for ever,--I have lost thee, Isadore, Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more. Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine, Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine. Thou art dead and gone, loving wife,--thy heart is still and cold,-- And I at one stride have become most comfortless and old; Of our whole world of love and song, thou wast the only light, A star, whose setting left behind, ah! me, how dark a night! Thou art lost to me, for ever, Isadore.
_Albert Pike._
* * * * *
The Cypress is the emblem of mourning.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Alas, for earthly joy, and hope, and love, Thus stricken down, e’en in their holiest hour! What deep, heart-wringing anguish must they prove, Who live to weep the blasted tree or flower! Oh, wo, deep wo to earthly love’s fond trust, When all it once has worshipped lies in dust!
_Mrs. Embury._
WALL-FLOWER.... _Fidelity in Adversity_.
This flower derives its name from the circumstance of its growing upon old walls, the casements and battlements of ancient castles, and among the ruins of abbeys. The troubadors were accustomed to wearing a bouquet of Wall-flowers, as the emblem of an affection which is proof against time and the frowns of fortune.
* * * * *
_Adah._--Alas! thou sinnest now, my Cain; thy words Sound impious in mine ears.
_Cain._--Then leave me!
_Adah._--Never, Though thy God left thee!
_Byron._
* * * * *
An emblem true thou art Of love’s enduring lustre given To cheer a lonely heart.
_Barton._
* * * * *
Flower of the solitary place! Gray Ruin’s golden crown, That lendest melancholy grace To haunts of old renown; Thou mantlest o’er the battlements By strife or storm decayed; And fillest up each envious rent Time’s canker-tooth hath made.
_Moir._
* * * * *
Though human, thou didst not deceive me; Though woman, thou didst not forsake; Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me; Though slandered, thou never couldst shake; Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me; Though parted, it was not to fly; Though watchful, ’twas not to defame me; Nor, mute, that the world might belie.
_Byron._
* * * * *
Yes, love! my breast, at sorrow’s call, Shall tremble like thine own; If from those eyes the tear-drops fall, They shall not fall alone. Our souls, like heaven’s aerial bow, Blend every light within their glow, Of joy or sorrow known; And grief, divided with thy heart, Were sweeter far than joy apart.
_Anon._
HAWTHORN.... _Hope_.
Various significations have been given to the Hawthorn. Among the Turks, a branch of it expresses the wish of a lover to receive a kiss from the object of his affection. Among the ancient Greeks, the Hawthorn was a symbol of conjugal union; its blossomed boughs were carried about at their wedding festivities, and the newly-married couple were even lighted to their bridal chamber with torches made of its wood. In England, the Hawthorn is used in the sports of May-days, and is, therefore, frequently called May. There is a proverb among the rural inhabitants of that country, that a “store of haws portend cold winters.” Though the Hawthorn is quoted as the emblem of Hope, it must be considered more particularly as the lover’s hope.
* * * * *
HOW MAY WAS FIRST MADE.
As Spring upon a silver cloud Lay looking on the world below, Watching the breezes as they bowed The buds and blossoms to and fro, She saw the fields with Hawthorns walled: Said Spring, “New buds I will create.” She to a Flower-Spirit called, Who on the month of May did wait, And bade her fetch a Hawthorn-spray, That she might make the buds of May. Said Spring, “The grass looks green and bright, The Hawthorn-hedges too are green, I’ll sprinkle them with flowers of light, Such stars as earth has never seen; And all through England’s girded vales, Her steep hill-sides and haunted streams, Where woodlands dip into the dales, Where’er the Hawthorn stands and dreams, Where thick-leaved trees make dark the day, I’ll light each nook with flowers of May. Like pearly dew-drops, white and round, The shut-up buds shall first appear. And in them be such fragrance found, As breeze before did never bear; Such as in Eden only dwelt, When angels hovered round its bowers, And long-haired Eve at morning knelt In innocence amid the flowers: While the whole air was, every way, Filled with a perfume sweet as May. And oft shall groups of children come, Threading their way through shady places, From many a peaceful English home, The sunshine falling on their faces; Starting with merry voice the thrush, As through green lanes they wander singing, To gather the sweet Hawthorn bush; Which, homeward in the evening bringing With smiling faces, they shall say, ‘There’s nothing half so sweet as May.’ And many a poet yet unborn Shall link its name with some sweet lay, And lovers oft at early morn Shall gather blossoms of the May; With eyes bright as the silver dews, Which on the rounded May-buds sleep, And lips, whose parted smiles diffuse A sunshine o’er the watch they keep, Shall open all their white array Of pearls, ranged like the buds of May.” Spring shook the cloud on which she lay, And silvered o’er the Hawthorn spray, Then showered down the buds of May.
_Miller._
* * * * *
With hope all pleases, nothing comes amiss.
_Rogers._
* * * * *
And Hawthorn’s early blooms appear, Like youthful hope upon life’s year.
_Drayton._
* * * * *
Gay was the love of paradise he drew And pictured in his fancy; he did dwell Upon it till it had a life; he threw A tint of heaven athwart it--who can tell The yearnings of his heart, the charm, the spell, That bound him to that vision?
_Percival._
LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING.... _Deserted Love_.
This beautiful emblem of love, wounded and bereaved by fate, is a species of Amaranthus. The flower is of a reddish-purple hue, which circumstance suggests its name.
* * * * *
A single rose is shedding Its lovely lustre meek and pale: It looks as planted by despair-- So white, so faint--the slightest gale Might whirl the leaves on high.
_Byron._
* * * * *
And on with many a step of pain, Our weary race is sadly run; And still, as on we plod our way, We find, as life’s gay dreams depart, To close our being’s troubled day, Naught left us but a broken heart.
_Percival._
* * * * *
Nor would I change my buried love For any heart of living mould, No--for I am a hero’s child-- I’ll hunt my quarry in the wild; And still my home this mansion make, Of all unheeded and unheeding, And cherish, for my warrior’s sake, The flower of Love-lies-bleeding.
_Campbell._
* * * * *
Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye, As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
_Byron._
MYRTLE.... _Love_.
The Myrtle has ever been consecrated to Venus. At Rome, the temple of the goddess was surrounded by a grove of Myrtles; and in Greece, she was adorned under the name of Myrtilla. It was observed by the ancients, that, wherever the Myrtle grew, it excluded all other plants. So love, wherever it is permitted to grow, excludes all other feelings. The ladies of modern Rome retain a strong affection for this plant, preferring its odour to that of the most fragrant essences.
* * * * *
Our love came as the early dew Comes unto drooping flowers; Dropping its first sweet freshness on Our life’s dull, lonely hours.
_Mrs. R. S. Nichols._
* * * * *
Love is a celestial harmony Of likely hearts, composed of stars’ consent, Which join together in sweet sympathy, To work each other’s joy and true content, Which they have harboured since their first descent, Out of their heavenly bowers, where they did see And know each other here beloved to be.
_Spenser._
* * * * *
I have done penance for contemning love; Whose high imperious thoughts have punished me With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
The Myrtle on thy breast or brow Would lively hope and love avow.
_J. H. Wiffen._
* * * * *
Comfort cannot soothe The heart whose life is centred in the thought Of happy loves, once known, and still in hope, Living with a consuming energy.
_Percival._
* * * * *
As in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all.
_Shakspeare._
LILY OF THE VALLEY.... _Modesty_.
The beautiful Lily of the Valley is the fit emblem of the union of beauty, simplicity, and love of retirement. It adds an indescribable charm to the spots where it blooms. Its snowy hues and general delicacy of appearance excite emotions of a kindred nature to those we experience in the company of one whose heart is free from guile, and whose manners are gentle and unpretending.
* * * * *
Lilacs then, and daffodillies, And the nice-leaved, lesser Lilies, Shading, like detected light, Their little green-tipt lamps of white.
_Hunt._
* * * * *
I had found out a sweet green spot, Where a Lily was blooming fair; The din of the city disturbed it not, But the spirit that shades the quiet cot With its wings of love was there. I found that Lily’s bloom, When the day was dark and chill; It smiled like a star in a misty gloom, And it sent abroad a soft perfume, Which is floating around me still.
_Percival._
* * * * *
The Lily, in whose snow-white bells Simplicity delights and dwells.
_Balfour._
HYACINTH.... _Constancy_.
The blue Hyacinth is mentioned by several English writers as the emblem of constancy. There are many varieties found in Europe and America, but the variety known in Scotland as the “Blue Bell” is the most common and the most celebrated.
* * * * *
When daisies blush, and wind-flowers wet with dew, When shady lanes with Hyacinth’s are blue, When the elm blossoms o’er the brooding bird, And, wild and wide, the plover’s wail is heard, Where melts the mist on mountains far away, Till morn is kindled into brightest day.
_Elliott._
* * * * *
Then come the wild weather, come sleet, or come snow, We will stand by each other however it blow. Oppression and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.
_Longfellow._
* * * * *
She loves him yet! The flower the false one gave her When last he came, Is still with her wild tears wet. She’ll ne’er forget, Howe’er his faith may waver, Through grief and shame, Believe it,--she loves him yet!
_Mrs. Osgood._
* * * * *
Over the moorland, over the lea, Dancing airily, there are we: Sometimes, mounted on stems aloft, We wave o’er broom and heather, To meet the kiss of the zephyr soft; Sometimes, close together, Tired of dancing, tired of peeping, Under the whin you’ll find us sleeping. Daintily bend we our honied bells, While the gossipping bee her story tells, And drowsily hums and murmurs on Of the wealth to her waxen storehouse gone; And though she gathers our sweets the while, We welcome her in with a nod and a smile. No rock is too high--no vale too low, For our fragile and tremulous forms to grow. Sometimes we crown The castle’s dizziest tower, and look Laughingly down On the pigmy men in the world below, Wearily wandering to and fro. Sometimes we dwell on the cragged crest Of mountain high, And the ruddy sun, from the blue sea’s breast, Climbing the sky, Looks from his couch of glory up, And lights the dew in the bluebell’s cup. We are crowning the mountain With azure bells, Or decking the fountains In forest dells, Or wreathing the ruin with clusters gray, And nodding and laughing the livelong day; Then chiming our lullaby, tired with play. Are we not beautiful? Oh! are not we The darlings of mountain and moorland and lea? Plunge in the forest--are we not fair? Go to the high-road--we’ll meet ye there. Oh! where is the flower that content may tell, Like the laughing and nodding and dancing bluebell.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
The Hyacinth’s for constancy, Wi’ its unchanging blue.
_Burns._
ORCHIS.... _A Belle_.
The Butterfly Orchis is rather rare except where there is a chalky soil. The Spider Orchis has gained its name from the great resemblance it bears to one of those large, fat-bodied garden spiders, which are often noticed for the singular beauty of the markings on their backs. Another is so very like a fly, that it is named the Fly Orchis; another is like a lizard, or some strange reptile, and the flowers being yellow, green, and purple, and twisted in and about one another in a very odd way, it really looks like some horrible group of queer living creatures. One, from being fancied like a man, is called Man Orchis; another, very gayly spotted, and ornamented with a helmet-like appendage, is the Military Orchis; another is called Bee Orchis. Bishop Mant thus alludes to some of these:
Well boots it the thick-mantled leas To traverse: if boon nature grant, To crop the insect-seeming plant, The vegetable Bee; or nigh Of kin, the long-horned Butterfly, White, or his brother purple pale, Scenting alike the evening gale; The Satyr flower, the pride of Kent, Of Lizard form, and goat-like scent.
* * * * *
No wonder that cheek in its beauty transcendent, Excelleth the beauty of others by far; No wonder that eye is so richly resplendent, For your heart is a rose and your soul is a star.
_Mrs. Osgood._
* * * * *
What right have you, madam, gazing in your shining mirror daily, Getting so by heart your beauty, which all others must adore; While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gayly, You will wed no man that’s only good to God,--and nothing more.
_Miss Barrett._
BOX.... _Stoicism_.