Part 6
There are distinctions that will live in heaven, When time is a forgotten circumstance! The elevated brow of kings will lose The impress of regalia, and the slave Will wear his immortality as free Beside the crystal waters; but the depth Of glory in the attributes of God Will measure the capacities of mind; And, as the angels differ, will the ken Of gifted spirits glorify Him more.
_Willis._
* * * * *
Were death annihilation--were this life A lamp extinguished, ne’er to be relit,-- Then words of deep despondency were fit; Then man perchance might lift his arm in strife Against his LORD. Were blessedness of mind Dependent on the vastness of the heap Of gold and gems the schemers ’mong mankind Could gather--then ’twere virtuous to weep. But ’tis not so. Infinity of time Is yet to be. Beyond our vision lie Eternal realms, ineffably sublime And beautiful.
_MacKellar._
STRAWBERRY.... _Perfection_.
An eminent French author conceived the plan of writing a general history of nature, after the model of the ancients. A Strawberry plant, which, perchance, grew under his window, deterred him from this bold design. He examined the Strawberry, and, in so doing, discovered so many wonders, that he felt convinced the study of a single plant was sufficient to occupy a whole lifetime. He therefore gave up the pompous title which he had meditated for his work, and contented himself with calling it “Studies of Nature.” The flowers of the Strawberry form pretty bouquets; but, as the delicious fruit is preferred to the flower, they are seldom plucked for that purpose. Among the glaciers of the Alps, the plants and flowers of the Strawberry are found in all seasons of the year. The plant seems to possess all the merits of plants, in their greatest perfection. The berries are the favourite accompaniment of the lordly feast and the most exquisite luxury of the rural repast. They vie in freshness and perfume with the buds of the sweetest flowers; delighting the eye, the taste, and smell, at the same time.
* * * * *
Let other bards of angels sing, Bright suns without a spot; But thou art no such perfect thing: Rejoice that thou art not!
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
She’s noble--noble, one to keep Embalmed for dreams of fevered sleep. An eye for nature--taste refined, Perception swift--and balanced mind,-- And, more than all, a gift of thought To such a spirit fineness wrought, That on my ear her language fell As if each word dissolved a spell.
_Willis._
* * * * *
Oh! do not die, for we shall hate All women so when you are gone, That thee I shall not celebrate, When I remember thou wast one. But yet thou canst not die, I know; To leave this world behind is death; But when thou from this world wilt go, The whole world vapours in thy breath.
_Donne._
* * * * *
Were I to give my frolic fancy play, I’d sing of her as some angelic sprite, Who, wandering from her native home of light, Fatigued, had fallen asleep upon the way;-- I’d fear to wake her, lest she’d plume her wings And soar away from me and all sublunar things.
_MacKellar._
SUNFLOWER.... _False Riches_.
The Sunflower has been thus named from the resemblance which its broad golden disk and rays bear to the sun. The first Spaniards who arrived in Peru were amazed at the profuse display of gold among the people, but they were still more astonished when, in May, they beheld whole fields covered with these flowers, which they concluded, at first sight, must be of the same precious metal. From this circumstance, and the observation that gold, however abundant, cannot render a person truly rich, the Sunflower has been made the emblem of false wealth. Many of the English poets have adopted the notion that this flower ever turns its face to the sun. Thomson, Moore, Darwin, and Barton make a very fine use of the idea. But it is not a fact. Those flowers which face the east at the opening of day, never turn to the west at the close of it.
* * * * *
Searcher of gold, whose days and nights All waste away in anxious care, Estranged from all of life’s delights, Unlearned in all that is most fair-- Who sailest not with easy glide, But delvest in the depths of tide, And strugglest in the foam; O! come and view this land of graves, Death’s northern sea of frozen waves, And mark thee out thy home.
_J. O. Rockwell._
* * * * *
Think’st thou the man whose mansions hold The worldling’s pride, the miser’s gold, Obtains a richer prize Than he who in his cot, at rest, Finds heavenly peace a willing guest, And bears the earnest in his breast Of treasure in the skies?
_Mrs. Sigourney._
* * * * *
Is all that heart requires, accomplished when A heap of wealth is gathered at our door? How thirsts the yearning soul for something more, Some good that lies beyond its keenest ken!
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine? Can we dig peace, or wisdom, from the mine? Wisdom to gold prefer: for ’tis much less To make our fortune, than our happiness.
_Young._
* * * * *
It’s no in titles nor in rank; It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank, To purchase peace and rest; It’s no in making muckle mair: It’s no in books: it’s no in lear, To make us truly blest: If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest.
_Burns._
HELIOTROPE.... _Devoted Affection_.
The Heliotrope is a native of Peru. It is often confounded with the Sunflower, though it is of a different genus. The blossoms of the Heliotrope form clusters of very small, delicate, fragrant flowers, generally of a faint purple colour or white, sometimes red, or bluish-white. It is a general favourite of the fair sex, and is considered as the emblem of devoted affection, on account of its face being ever turned to the sun, which it seems to worship. The Heliotrope was introduced into Europe in 1740, by the celebrated Jussieu.
* * * * *
As laurel leaves, that cease not to be green, From parching sonne, nor yet from winter’s threat,-- As hardened oak, that fears no sworde so keen,-- As flint for tool, in twaine that will not fret,-- As fast as rock, or pillar surely set,-- So fast am I to you, and aye have been, Assuredly whom I cannot forget; For joy, for paine, for torment, nor for tene; For loss, for gaine, for frowning, nor for threat; For ever one, yea, both in calm and blast, Your faithful love, and will be to the last!
_Old Poet. 1555._
* * * * *
Yet do not think I doubt thee; I know thy truth remains; I would not live without thee, For all the world contains. Thou art the star that guides me Along life’s troubled sea;-- Whatever fate betides me, This heart still turns to thee.
_G. P. Morris._
* * * * *
He on his side Leaning half-raised, with looks of cordial love Hung over her enamoured, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
_Milton._
* * * * *
Like Ixion, I look on Juno, feel my heart turn to cinders With an invisible fire; and yet, should she Deign to appear clothed in a various cloud, The majesty of the substance is so sacred I durst not clasp the shadow. I behold her With adoration, feast my eye, while all My other senses starve; and, oft frequenting The place which she makes happy with her presence, I never yet had power, with tongue or pen, To move her to compassion, or make known What ’tis I languish for; yet I must gaze still, Though it increase my flame.
_Massinger._
MIGNONETTE.... _Your Qualities surpass your Charms_.
The Mignonette was introduced into Europe from Egypt, in 1750. It flowers from the beginning of spring until the end of autumn. Linnæus, who gave it the name of _Reseda odorata_, compares its perfume with that of ambrosia.
* * * * *
No gorgeous flowers the meek Reseda grace, Yet sip, with eager trunk, yon busy race Her simple cup, nor heed the dazzling gem That beams in Fritillaria’s diadem.
_Evans._
* * * * *
I see her now within my view,-- A spirit, yet a woman too!-- Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which do meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature’s daily food.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
Time has small power O’er features the mind moulds. Roses where They once have bloomed a fragrance leave behind; And harmony will linger on the wind; And suns continue to light up the air,
When set; and music from the broken shrine Breathes, it is said, around whose altar-stone His flower the votary has ceased to twine:--Types of the beauty that, when youth is gone, Breathes from the soul whose brightness mocks decline.
_George Hill._
* * * * *
Rudely thou wrongest my deare heart’s desire, In finding fault with her too portly pride; The thing which I do most in her admire, Is of the world unworthy most envied. For in those lofty looks is close implied Scorn of base things,--disdain of foul dishonour, Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide That loosely they ne dare to look upon her!
_Spenser._
JASMINE.... _Amiability_.
The Jasmine is a happy emblem of an amiable disposition. In all situations, it suffers the gardener to train its slender branches into any form he chooses: most commonly forming a living tapestry for arbours and garden walls, and everywhere throwing out a profusion of delicate and charming flowers, which perfume the air. The poets have showered their praise upon this plant, and all unite in considering it the emblem of the winsome quality of amiability. After paying a glowing tribute to the beauty and sweetness of the Violet, Thomas Miller, the “basket-maker” poet, thus speaks of the Jasmine:--
Stepping further into summer, comes the star-white Jasmine,--that sweet perfumer of the night, which only throws out its full fragrance when its sister stars are keeping watch in the sky; as if, when the song of the nightingale no longer cheered the darkness, it sent forth its silent aroma upon the listening air. Many a happy home does it garland, and peeps in at many a forbidden lattice, where Love and Beauty repose. Little did the proud courtiers and stately dames of Queen Elizabeth’s day dream that this sweet-scented creeper (a sprig of which seemed to make the haughty haughtier still) would one day become so common as to cluster around and embower thousands of humble English cottages,--a degradation which, could they but have witnessed, would almost have made every plait of their starched ruffs bristle up, like “quills upon the fretful porcupine.” Beautiful are its long, drooping, dark-green shoots, trailing around the trellis-work of a door-way, like a green curtain embroidered with silver flowers; while here and there the queenly Moss-Rose, creeping in and out like the threads of a fanciful tapestry, its crimson face amid the embowered green,--a beautiful lady peeping through a leaf-clad casement.
* * * * *
A lover on the Indian Sea, Sighing for her left far behind, Inhaled the scented Jasmine tree, As it perfumed the evening wind: Shoreward he steered at dawn of day, And saw the coast all round embowered, And brought a starry sprig away, For her by whose green cot it flowered.
And oft when from that scorching shore, In after years those odours came, He pictured his green cottage door, The shady porch, and window-frame, Far, far away, across the foam: The very Jasmine-flower that crept Round the thatched roof about his home, Where she he loved then safely slept.
_Miller._
WOODBINE, OR HONEYSUCKLE.... _Affection_.
This elegant, climbing shrub at once delights the eye and gratifies the smell, by the exquisite fragrance of its blossoms; while it confers on those humble dwellings in the rural districts of England and America, a character of cheerfulness unknown in other countries. It begins to flower in May, and puts forth its blossoms until the end of summer. It is chosen as the emblem of affection, from its clinging to trees and lattices with all the ardour and constancy of a weak, confiding woman, clinging to one of the stronger, sterner sex, in prosperity and in adversity.
* * * * *
Copious of flowers, the woodbine pale and wan, But well compensating her sickly looks With never-cloying odours, early and late.
_Cowper._
* * * * *
Sister, sister, what dost thou twine? I am weaving a wreath of the wild Woodbine; I have streaked it without like the sunset hue, And silvered it white with the morning dew: And there is not a perfume which on the breeze blows From the lips of the Pink or the mouth of the Rose, That’s sweeter than mine--that’s sweeter than mine: I have mingled them all in my wild Woodbine.
_Miller._
* * * * *
A Honeysuckle, on the sunny side, Hung round the lattices its fragrant trumpets.
_Miss Landon._
* * * * *
Ah! could you look into my heart, And watch your image there! You would own the sunny loveliness Affection makes it wear.
_Mrs. Osgood._
* * * * *
The pensive soul with ardent thirsting turns To heaven and earth to seek its fill of love.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
Oh! there is one affection which no stain Of earth can ever darken;--when two find, The softer and the manlier, that a chain Of kindred taste has fastened mind to mind. ’Tis an attraction from all sense refined; The good can only know it; ’tis not blind, As love is unto baseness; its desire Is but with hands entwined to lift our being higher.
_Percival._
COWSLIP.... _Pensiveness_.
The solitary Cowslip was known to the old English poets as the “sweet nun of the fields,” and has been immortalized in “Shakspeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.” In America, the Cowslip may be found from Maine to Missouri. Its hues are not gaudy, but winning; and the whole appearance of the flower, as it blooms in some solitary vale, or on some gentle slope, expresses the idea of pensive beauty.
* * * * *
The rose its blushes need not lend, Nor yet the lily with them blend, To captivate my eyes: Give me a cheek the heart obeys, And, sweetly mutable, displays Its feelings as they rise; Features, where pensive, more than gay, Save when a rising smile doth play, The sober thoughts you see; Eyes that all soft and tender seem, And kind affections round them beam, But most of all on me.
_Frisbie._
* * * * *
There is a mood, (I sing not to the vacant and the young,) There is a kindly mood of melancholy That wings the soul, and points her to the skies.
_Dyer._
* * * * *
Oh! fragrant dwellers of the lea, When first the wildwood rings With each sound of vernal minstrelsy, When fresh the green grass springs! What can the blessed spring restore More gladdening than your charms? Bringing the memory once more Of lovely fields and farms! Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers; Of life’s unfolding prime; Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours; Of souls without a crime. Oh! blessed, blessed do ye seem, For, even now, I turned, With soul athirst for wood and stream, From streets that glared and burned. From the hot town, where mortal care His crowded fold doth pen; Where stagnates the polluted air In many a sultry den. And ye are here! and ye are here! Drinking the dew-like wine, Midst living gales and waters clear, And heaven’s unstinted shine. I care not that your little life Will quickly have run through, And the sward, with summer children rife, Keep not a trace of you. For again, again, on dewy plain, I trust to see you rise, When spring renews the wildwood strain, And bluer gleam the skies. Again, again, when many springs Upon my grave shall shine, Here shall you speak of vanished things, To living hearts of mine.
_Mrs. Howitt._
* * * * *
Blest are the pure and simple hearts, Unconsciously refined, By the free gifts that Heaven imparts Through nature to the mind; Not all the pleasures wealth can buy Equal their happy destiny.
_Mrs. Wells._
* * * * *
O Nature! a’ thy shows an’ forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the simmer kindly warms, Wi’ life an’ light. Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night!
_Burns._
* * * * *
Melancholy Sits on me, as a cloud along the sky, Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet Descend in rain, and end; but spreads itself ’Twixt heaven and earth, like envy between man And man--an everlasting mist.
_Byron._
FORGET-ME-NOT.
The name of this flower expresses clearly enough the meaning which is given to it. As a remembrancer it is universally received and eulogized. The name is derived from a German tradition, full of melancholy romance. It is related that a young couple, on the eve of being united, while walking along the banks of the Danube, saw a cluster of these flowers, floating on the stream, which was bearing it away. The affianced bride admired the beauty of the flower, and lamented its fatal destiny. The lover plunged into the water to secure it. No sooner had he caught it than he found himself sinking; but, making a last effort, he threw it on the bank at the feet of his betrothed, and, at the moment of disappearing for ever, exclaimed, “_Vergiss mein nicht!_” Since that event, this flower has been made emblematical of the sentiment, Forget-me-not. Its corollas are of a soft cerulean-blue colour, and it presents an interesting appearance as it grows along the banks of the rivers. The Forget-me-not is found in great perfection on the banks of a small stream near Luxembourg, in France. The stream is called the Fairies’ Bath, and its banks are the favourite resort of festive parties.
* * * * *
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Hope’s gentle gem--the fair Forget-me-not.
_Coleridge._
* * * * *
Not on the mountain’s shelving side, Nor in the cultivated ground, Nor in the garden’s painted pride, The flower I seek is found. Where Time on sorrow’s page of gloom Has fixed its envious lot, Or swept the record from the tomb, It says Forget me not. And this is still the loveliest flower, The fairest of the fair, Of all that deck my lady’s bower, Or bind her floating hair.
_Göthe._
* * * * *
Together they sate by a river’s side, A knight and a lady gay, And they watched the deep and eddying tide Round a flowery islet stray. And, “Oh! for that flower of brilliant hue,” Said then the lady fair, “To grace my neck with the blossoms blue And braid my nut-brown hair!” The knight has plunged in the whirling wave All for his lady’s smile: And he swims the stream with courage brave, And he gains yon flowery isle. And his fingers have cropped the blossoms blue, And the prize they backward bear; To deck his love with the brilliant hue And braid her nut-brown hair. But the way is long, and the current strong, And alas for that gallant knight! For the waves prevail, and his stout arms fail, Though cheered by his lady’s sight. Then the blossoms blue to the bank he threw, Ere he sank in the eddying tide; And “Lady, I’m gone, thine own knight true, Forget me not,” he cried. This farewell pledge the lady caught; And hence, as legends say, The flower is a sign to awaken thought In friends who are far away. For the lady fair of her knight so true, Still remembered the hapless lot: And she cherished the flower of brilliant hue, And she braided her hair with the blossoms blue And then called it “Forget-me-not!”
_Mant._
* * * * *
To flourish in my favourite bower, To blossom round my cot, I cultivate the little flower They call Forget-me-not. This pretty little floweret’s dye Of soft cerulean blue, Appears as if from Ellen’s eye It had received its hue. Though oceans now betwixt us roar, Though distant be our lot, Ellen! though we should meet no more, Sweet maid, Forget me not!
_Anon._
* * * * *
Forget thee, love?--no, not while heaven Spans its starred vault across the sky; Oh, may I never be forgiven, If e’er I cause that heart a sigh! Sooner shall the Forget-me-not Shun the fringed brook by which it grows, And pine for some sequestered spot, Where not a silver ripple flows. By the blue heaven that bends above me, Dearly and fondly do I love thee! They fabled not in days of old That Love neglected soon will perish,-- Throughout all time the truth doth hold That what we love we ever cherish, For when the Sun neglects the Flower, And the sweet pearly dews forsake it, It hangs its head, and from that hour, Prays only unto Death to take it. So may I droop, by all above me, If once this heart doth cease to love thee! The turtle-dove that’s lost its mate, Hides in some gloomy greenwood shade, And there alone mourns o’er its fate, With plumes for ever disarrayed: Alone! alone! it there sits cooing:-- Deem’st thou, my love, what it doth seek? ’Tis Death the mournful bird is wooing, In murmurs through its plaintive beak. So will I mourn, by all above me, If in this world I cease to love thee!
_Miller._
ROSEMARY.... _Remembrance_.