Part 5
And as she looked upon him, she imagined that his lips moved again, as when they said, “Give me my hand, why dost thou feel it?” she fancied she again felt his face upon her cheek--his kisses upon her lips, as when she fell down and feigned herself dead; the while he bent her fingers, and felt her pulse, and endeavoured by a hundred endearments and tender expressions, to restore her. And how, when she pretended to recover, she paid him back again with unnumbered kisses, whilst he, wearied with opposing her, no longer offered any resistance; and how, at last, he broke from her fair arms, and, darting down the “dark lawn,” left her seated alone upon the ground.
As picture after picture rose before her of what had been, and every close pressure of the cold, inanimate, but still dearly-loved form, told her what the hand of death had done, and that those very “hopes and fears which are akin to love” were now for ever darkened and extinguished; she burst forth into such a loud, wailing lamentation, that the sound found its way unto Olympus, and fell upon the ever-open ear of Jove, who, in a moment, dashed the golden nectar-cup upon the ground, which he was about uplifting to his lips, and sprang upon his feet. There was a sound of hurrying to and fro over the mountain-summits, which sloped down to the edge of the forest--of gods and goddesses passing through the air--of golden chariots, that went whistling along like the wind, as they cleft their rapid way--and the flapping of dark, immortal wings, between which many a beautiful divinity was seated. The golden clouds of sunset gathered red and ominously about the rounded summit of Olympus, and a blood-red light glared upon such parts of the forest as were not darkened by the deepening shadows of the approaching twilight,--for the Thunderer had stamped his immortal foot, and jarred the mighty mountain to its very base. And now, in that forest glade, which but a few moments before was so wild and desolate,--where only the forms of the grisly boar, the dead Adonis, and the weeping Goddess of Beauty broke the level lines of the angry sunset, were assembled the stern Gods, and the weeping Graces, and the fluttering Loves that ever hover around the chariot of Venus. With bleeding feet and drooping head,--wan, and cold, and speechless,--was the Goddess of Beauty lifted into her golden chariot, and, with the dead body of Adonis, wafted by her silver and silent-winged doves to Mount Olympus. And then a deep darkness settled down upon the forest. When the next morning’s sun arose and gilded those silent glades, the Roses, on which the blood of the Goddess of Beauty had fallen, and which were ever before white, were changed into a delicate crimson; and wherever a tear had fallen, there had sprung up a flower which the earth had never before borne, and that was the Lily of the Valley; and wherever a ruddy drop had fallen from the death-wound of Adonis sprang up the red flower which still beareth his name. Even the white apple-blossoms, which he clutched in his agony, ever after wore the ruddy stain which they caught from his folded fingers; and the drowsy Poppy grew up everywhere around the spot, as if to denote that the only consolation which can be found for sorrow is the long, unbroken sleep of death. Thus the Rose, which was before white, became red, and was ever after dedicated to Beauty and Love.
Its beautiful tint is traced to another source by a modern poet:
As erst in Eden’s blissful bowers, Young Eve surveyed her countless flowers, An opening Rose of purest white She marked with eye that beamed delight, Its leaves she kissed, and straight it drew From beauty’s lip the vermeil hue.
_Carey._
The poets have not exaggerated the beauty of the red-hued Rose. She would be crowned Queen of the Flowers by the most unpoetical. The emblem of all ages, the interpreter of all our feelings, the Rose mingles with our festivities, our joys, and our griefs. Its fragrance is as delightful as its hues; and no truer emblem of love and beauty could have been chosen.
I have cherished A love for one whose beauty would have charmed In Athens. And I know what ’tis to love A spiritual beauty, and behind the foil Of an unblemished loveliness, still find Charms of a higher order, and a power Deeper and more resistless. Had I found Such thoughts and feelings, such a clear deep stream Of mind in one whom vulgar men had thrown As a dull pebble from them, I had loved Not with a love less fond, nor with a flame Of less devotion.
_Percival._
* * * * *
There’s no miniature In her face, but is a copious theme, Which would, discoursed at large of, make a volume. What clear arched brows! what sparkling eyes! the lilies Contending with the roses in her cheeks, Who shall most set them off. What ruby lips!-- Or unto what can I compare her neck, But to a rock of crystal? Every limb Proportioned to love’s wish, and in their neatness Add lustre to the richness of her habit, Not borrowed from it.
_Massinger._
PEONY.... _Anger_.
The Peony is chosen as the emblem of Anger from its red and fiery hues. It is a large double flower, and presents a superb appearance; but is almost destitute of scent.
I am burned up with inflaming wrath; A rage, whose heat hath this condition, That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest valued blood, of France.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
The wildest ills that darken life Are rapture to the bosom’s strife; The tempest, in its blackest form, Is beauty to the bosom’s storm; The ocean, lashed to fury loud, Its high wave mingling with the cloud, Is peaceful, sweet serenity, To anger’s dark and stormy sea.
_J. W. Eastburne._
* * * * *
Oh, that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth! Then with a passion would I shake the world.
_Shakspeare._
NETTLES.... _Cruelty_.
Nettles may be considered the appropriate emblem of cruelty. How often, while in search of flowers, have we felt the sting of these unrelenting plants! We call that punishment cruel which visits us without our doing an injury which deserves it; and, as we never wished to be in the vicinity of the Nettles, nor, therefore, to injure them, our boyish fancy looked upon them as cruel.
* * * * *
Spare not the babe, Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy; Think it a bastard, whom the oracle Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut, And mince it sans remorse.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Do not insult calamity; It is a barbarous grossness to lay on The weight of scorn, where heavy misery Too much already weighs men’s fortunes down.
_Daniel._
* * * * *
Oh, he’s accurst from all that’s good, Who never knew Love’s healing power; Such sinner on his sins must brood, And wait alone his hour. If stranger to earth’s beauty--human love, There is no rest below, nor hope above.
_Dana._
COLUMBINE.... _Desertion_.
Bring Lilies for a maiden’s grave, Roses to deck the bride, Tulips for all who love through life In brave attire to ride: Bring each for each, in bower and hall, But cull the Columbine for all.
“The Columbine? full many a flower Hath hues more clear and bright, Although she doth in purple go, In crimson, pink, and white. Why, when so many fairer shine, Why choose the homely Columbine?”
Examine well each floweret’s form,-- Read ye not something more Than curl of petal--depth of tint? Saw ye ne’er aught before That claims a fancied semblance there. Amid those modelled leaves so fair?
Know ye the cap which Folly wears In ancient masques and plays? Does not the Columbine recall That toy of olden days? And is not folly reigning now O’er many a wisdom-written brow?
’Tis Folly’s flower, that homely one; That universal guest Makes every garden but a type Of every human breast; For though ye tend both mind and bower, There’s still a nook for Folly’s flower.
Then gather roses for the bride, Twine them in her bright hair, But, ere the wreath be done--oh! let The Columbine be there. For rest ye sure that follies dwell In many a heart that loveth well.
Gather ye laurels for the brow Of every prince of song! For all, to whom philosophy And wisdom do belong. But ne’er forget to intertwine A flower or two of Columbine.
Forget it not;--for even they, The oracles of earth, Mid all their wealth of golden thoughts, Their wisdom and their worth, Sometimes play pranks beneath the sky, Would scarce become e’en such as I!
Weave ye an armful of that plant, Choosing the darkest flowers, With that red, blood-dipped wreath ye bring The devastating powers Of warrior, conqueror, or chief; Oh! twine that full of Folly’s leaf!
And do ye ask me why this flower Is fit for every brow? Tell me but one where Folly ne’er Hath dwelt, nor dwelleth now, And I will then the laurel twine, Unmingled with the Columbine.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
PASSION FLOWER.... _Faith_.
In the Passion Flower, we find a representation of the crown of thorns, the scourge, the cross, the sponge, the nails, and the five wounds of Christ. Hence its name and signification.
* * * * *
One more plant---- Which, consecrate to Salem’s peaceful King, Though fair as any gracing beauty’s bower, Is linked to sorrow like a holy thing, And takes its name from suffering’s fiercest hour. Be this my noblest theme--Imperial Passion Flower! Whatever impulse first conferred that name, Or Fancy’s dream, or Superstition’s art, I freely own its spirit-touching claim, With thoughts and feelings it may well impart.
_Barton._
* * * * *
Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of death, To break the shock blind nature cannot shun, And lands thought smoothly on the further shore.
_Young._
* * * * *
True faith nor biddeth nor abideth form. The bended knee, the eye uplift is all Which man need render; all which God can bear. What to the faith are forms? A passing speck, A crow upon the sky.
_Bailey._
* * * * *
Faith is the subtle chain That binds us to the Infinite: the voice Of a deep life within, that will remain Until we crowd it thence.
_Mrs. E. Oakes Smith._
* * * * *
Naught shall prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
Ah, no! my dying lips shall close, Unaltered love, as faith professing; Nor (praising Him who life bestows) Forget who makes that life a blessing. My last address to Heaven is due;-- My last but one I give to you.
_Lovibond._
PINK.... _Pure Love_.
The primitive Pink is simple red or white, and scented; but cultivation has varied the colour from the darkest purple to the purest white. Under all its diversities, however, it retains its delicious, spicy fragrance, and hence has been made the emblem of woman’s love, which no circumstance can change. Florists designate two principal divisions of these flowers, Pinks and Carnation. The former are marked by a spot resembling an eye, and by a more humble growth. The flower of the Carnation is much larger than that of the Pink, and of a deeper hue. The Carnation was called by some of the old English writers the clove-gilly flower, from its perfume resembling that of cloves.
* * * * *
She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought; And with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat (like Patience on a monument) Smiling at grief.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
It is a fearful thing, To love as I love thee; to feel the world-- The bright, the beautiful, joy giving world-- A blank without thee. Never more to me Can hope, joy, fear, wear different seeming. Now I have no hope that does not dream for thee; I have no joy that is not shared by thee; I have no fear that does not dread for thee.
_L. E. L._
* * * * *
Alas! the love of woman! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And, if ’tis lost, life has no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone.
_Byron._
SENSITIVE PLANT.... _Chastity_.
This singular plant is so named from its motions imitating the sensibility of animal life. It contracts itself in the evening and expands with the morning light, and shrinks from external violence, folding up its leaves at the mere approach of one’s hand. The Violet is the emblem of that retiring modesty which proceeds from reflection, but the Sensitive Plant is a perfect image of innocence and virgin modesty, the result of instinct.
* * * * *
So dear to heaven is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt.
_Milton._
* * * * *
Oh! she is colder than the mountain’s snow. To such a subtile purity she’s wrought, She’s prayed and fasted to a walking thought: She’s an enchanted feast, most fair to sight, And starves the appetite she does invite; Flies from the touch of sense, and if you dare To name but love she vanishes to air.
_Crown._
* * * * *
In thy fair brow there’s such a legend writ Of chastity, as blinds the adulterous eye: Not the mountain ice, Congealed to crystals, is so frosty chaste As thy victorious soul, which conquers man, And man’s proud tyrant-passion.
_Dryden._
* * * * *
Like the Mimosa shrinking from The blight of some familiar finger-- Like flowers which but in secret bloom, Where aye the sheltered shadows linger, And which beneath the hot noon-ray Would fold their leaves and fade away-- The flowers of Love in secret cherished, In loneliness and silence nourished, Shrink backward from the searching eye, Until the stem whereon they flourished, Their shrine, the human heart, has perished, Although themselves may never die.
_J. G. Whittier._
THYME.... _Activity_.
Among the ancient Greeks, Thyme denoted the graceful elegance of the Attic style; because it covered Mount Hymettus, and gave an aromatic flavour to the honey made there. Those writers who had mastered the Attic style were said “to smell of Thyme.” Flies of all shapes, beetles of all hues, bright butterflies, and vigilant bees for ever surround the flower tufts of Thyme, and they thus seem to teem with life. Activity is a warlike virtue, and is ever associated with true courage. On this notion, the ladies of the days of chivalry embroidered on the scarfs which they presented to their knights the figure of a bee hovering about a sprig of Thyme.
* * * * *
I am not old,--though years have cast Their shadows on my way; I am not old,--though youth has passed, On rapid wings away. For in my heart a fountain flows, And round it pleasant thoughts repose; And sympathies, and feelings high, Spring like stars on evening’s sky.
_Park Benjamin._
* * * * *
The thrifty Thyme a home can find, Where smiles the sun, and breathes the wind.
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
Take the instant way; For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons, That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or edge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an entered tide, they all rush by, And leave you hindmost.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
The keen spirit Seizes the prompt occasion,--makes the thought Start into instant action, and at once Plans and performs, resolves and executes.
_Hannah More._
* * * * *
Come, I have learned, that fearful commenting Is laden servitor to dull delay; Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary. Then fiery expedition be my wing, Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king! Go, muster men: my counsel is my shield: We must be brief, when traitors brave the field.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Rouse thee! wake thy soul from sadness; Fail not in the eager strife! See around the bright earth’s gladness,-- All activity and life!
_Peerbold._
HOLLYHOCK.... _Ambition_.
We have few flowers that contribute more to the ornamenting of large gardens than the Hollyhock, which, from its towering height and seeming love of display, is the emblem of ambition. The flowers are of all hues, from a blackish-purple to a faint white, and, though very beautiful, are without fragrance. They give gayety to the shrubbery until a late season of the year, throwing out a succession of flowers till the arrival of frost.
* * * * *
Yet, press on! For it shall make you mighty among men; And, from the eyrie of your eagle thought, Ye shall look down on monarchs. Oh! press on! For the high ones and powerful shall come To do you reverence; and the beautiful Will know the purer language of your soul, And read it like a talisman of love. Press on! for it is godlike to unloose The spirit, and forget yourself in thought.
_Willis._
* * * * *
To the expanded and aspiring soul, To be but still the thing it long has been, Is misery, e’en though enthroned it were Under the cope of high imperial state.
_Joanna Baillie._
* * * * *
Ay,--father!--I have had those earthly visions And noble aspirations in my youth, To make my own the mind of other men, The enlightener of nations: and to rise I knew not whither--it might be to fall; But fall, even as the mountain cataract, Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, Lies low but mighty still.--But this is past, My thoughts mistook themselves.
_Byron._
* * * * *
I loved to hear the war-horn cry, And panted at the drum’s deep roll; And held my breath, when--flaming high-- I saw our starry banners fly, As, challenging the haughty sky, They went like battle o’er my soul; For I was so ambitious then, I burned to be the slave--of men.
_John Neal._
* * * * *
Know thou ambition is a restless flame, Which ever strives to reach the high-placed stars!
_Peerbold._
* * * * *
Ambition takes a thousand shapes among Our race of Time’s most valued toys, and yet In court, in camp, in school, and mid the buzz Of eager trade her spirit is the same.
_C. Watson._
LAUREL.... _Glory_.
Among the ancient Greeks and Romans, the Laurel was consecrated to every species of glory. The beautiful shrub grows abundantly at Delphi, on the banks of the river Peneus. There its aromatic and evergreen branches shoot up to the height of the loftiest trees; and it is alleged that, by means of some secret virtue, they avert lightning from the spots which they adorn.
According to ancient fable, Daphne was the daughter of the river Peneus. Apollo fell in love with her, but she, preferring virtue to the love of the most eloquent of the gods, fled, in order to avoid the seducing magic of his words. Apollo pursued, and was on the point of overtaking her, when the nymph invoked her father, and was changed into a Laurel. The god, finding that he clasped an insensible tree in his arms, kissed its bright leaves. “Since thou canst not be my spouse,” said he, “thou shalt, at least, be my tree.” Thence-forward the Laurel was sacred to Apollo.
* * * * *
Ambition! ambition! I’ve laughed to scorn Thy robe and thy gleaming sword; I would follow sooner a woman’s eye, Or the spell of a gentle word. But come with the glory of human mind, And the light of the scholar’s brow, And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness, And alone at thy altar bow.
_Willis._
* * * * *
Give me the trumpet tone of fame, The victor’s wreath, the hero’s name; Though bites the steel and clanks the chain, I would a warrior’s glory gain, A nation’s pet and idol be, With slaves to crouch and bend the knee.
_W. H. C._
* * * * *
What is glory? What is fame? The echo of a long-lost name; A breath, an idle hour’s brief talk; The shadow of an arrant naught; A flower that blossoms for a day, Dying next morrow; A stream that hurries on its way, Singing of sorrow.
_Motherwell._
* * * * *
In poet’s lore, and sentimental story, It seems as ’twere this life’s supremest aim For heroes to achieve what men call glory, And die intoxicate with earth’s acclaim. Ah me! how little care the dead for breath Of vain applause that saved them not from death.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
To die, and leave some worthy work to earth, Is but a fine transition. ’Tis to leave A talisman to call the spirit back, Reft of its ground-born tenement.
_C. Watson._
AMARANTH.... _Immortality_.
The Amaranth is unfading; and it has, therefore, been made the emblem of immortality. In Homer’s time, it was customary to wear crowns of Amaranth at the funerals of distinguished personages. Milton, in his Lycidas, classes it among the flowers that “sad embroidery wear.” In the floral games at Toulouse, the principal prize was a golden Amaranth for the best lyric composition. The Amaranthus hypochondriacus, one of the American species, is better known by the name of Prince’s Feather.
* * * * *
There’s a yearning that’s felt in your heart’s deepest cell, And silently, vainly, within doth it swell; And, scorning the hopes of the children of earth, Seeks the bright home of its heavenly birth; And that yearning, unquenched in the heart will lie, Till refreshed by a draught from eternity.
_Miss Larcom._
* * * * *
Oh, listen man! A voice within us speaks that startling word, “Man, thou shalt never die!” Celestial voices Hymn it unto our souls: according harps, By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars Of morning sang together, sound forth still The song of our great immortality.
_Dana._
* * * * *
Immortal Amaranth! a flower which once In paradise, fast by the tree of life Began to bloom; but soon, for man’s offence, To heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows And flowers aloft, shading the tree of life.
_Milton._
* * * * *