Part 9
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Women of kind have conditions three: The first is,--they be full of deceit, To spinne also is their property, And women have a wonderful conceit, For they can weep oft, and all is a sleight, And ever when they list, a tear is in the eye, Beware, therefore,--the blind eateth many a fly.
_Chaucer._
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Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shapes, And with a virtuous visor hide deep vice!
_Shakspeare._
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Smooth runs the water, where the brook is deep; And in his simple show he harbours treason. The fox barks not, when he would steal the lamb. No, no, my sovereign; Gloster is a man Unsounded yet, and full of deep deceit.
_Shakspeare._
LADY’S SLIPPER.... _Capricious Beauty_.
The Lady’s Slipper is well known in Europe and America. The plant is small, but produces a considerable number of flowers, of variegated hues. This flower is made the emblem of capricious beauty, because she seems,
----With her changeful hues, As she were doubtful which array to choose.
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I saw thee in the gay saloon Of Fashion’s glittering mart, Where Mammon buys what Love deplores, Where Nature yields to Art; And thou wert so unlike the herd My kindling heart despised, I could not choose but yield that heart, Though Love were sacrificed. The smile which hung upon thy lips, In transport with their tone, The music of thy thoughts, which breathed A magic theirs alone! The looks which spake a soul so pure, So innocent and gay, Have passed, like other golden hopes Of happiness, away.
_Dawes._
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Her eyes Are blue and beautiful, and flash out gleams Of diamond light, like that which brightly beams On stilly summer nights from starlit skies. Her cheeks are tinted with the blushing dyes Which Heaven--so wisely bountiful--bestows In virgin freshness on the modest rose.
_MacKellar._
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Most fair is e’er most fickle. A fair girl Is like a thousand beauteous things of earth, But most like them in love of change.
_Peerbold._
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We gaze and turn away, and know not where, Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart Reels with its fulness.
_Byron._
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Beauty gives The features perfectness, and to the form Its delicate proportions: she may stain The eye with a celestial blue--the cheek With carmine of the sunset; she may breathe Grace into every motion, like the play Of the least visible tissue of a cloud: She may give all that is within her own Bright cestus--and one glance of intellect, Like stronger magic, will outshine it all.
_Willis._
ALTHEA.... _Consumed by Love_.
The name and signification of the Althea is derived from the Grecian fable of Althea and her son, who lost his life in consequence of his love for the beautiful Atalanta. His consuming away as the fatal brand was burning, suggested the emblem of consumed by love. The Althea is a shrub from five to seven feet in height, and is a native of the East Indies. The flowers are about the size of the common rose, and either of a white or pink hue.
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There is an all-consuming passion here; But ’tis a vestal flame, which worships thee!
_Anon._
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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._
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With thee conversing, I forget all time; All seasons and their change, all please alike.
_Milton._
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Love is a region full of fires, And burning with extreme desires; An object seeks, of which possest, The wheels are still, the motions rest, The flames in ashes lie opprest; The meteor, striving high to rise, The fuel spent, falls down and dies.
_Beaumont._
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What scenes appear where’er I turn my view! The dear ideas, where’er I fly, pursue, Rise in the grave, before the altar rise, Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee, Thy image steals between my God and me; Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear, With every bead I drop too soft a tear. When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll, And swelling organs lift the rising soul, One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight: In seas of flame my plunging soul is drowned, While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.
_Pope._
LARKSPUR.... _Flights of Fancy_.
Larkspur, Lark’s-claw, Lark-heels, and Lark’s-toe have been given in allusion to the long spur-like nectary, which has been whimsically supposed to represent these things, and many more. The Latin name, _Delphinium_, is from the Greek, Dolphin, because the nectary was thought like that fish. The French call it _Dauphinelle_, _pied d’alouette_, _l’épéron de chevalier_, (knight’s spur;) and the Italian, _speronella_, (little spur,) _sperone di cavaliere_, (knight’s spur,) and _fior regio_, (king-flower.) These names give quite a chivalric importance to the gentle flower, and furnish abundant subject for thought and fancy. Our own rural names give us a picture of the sky-lark; that “musical cherub,” soaring far and high into the blue summer heaven, above the lonely mountain-top, or over the busy town, and we can recall the delight of listening to his sweet melody.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
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For never yet was bosom found So dull of sense to music’s sound, As not to linger on the way, And list to his ascending lay, And upward gaze with straining sight, And see him melting into light; Till the eye fail its part to bear In concert with the hearing ear; And naught remain but what may seem Imagination’s fairy dream, Or the sweet strain, if such there were, Of Prospero’s spirit in the air. Oh, for that strength of voice and wing To sing and soar, to soar and sing; With all his joyousness of heart From earth’s encumbrances apart; And with heaven’s denizens on high To revel mid the calm clear sky!
_Mant._
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Fancy is a fairy, that can hear, Ever, the melody of nature’s voice, And see all lovely visions that she will.
_Mrs. Osgood._
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All impediments in fancy’s course Are motives of more fancy.
Shakspeare.
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Ever let the fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home; Then let winged Fancy wander Through the thoughts still spread beyond her: Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose, Every thing is spoilt by use.
_Kent._
DYER’S WEED.... _Relief_.
Dyer’s Weed is like a very large upright plant of Mignonette, to which sweet exotic it is nearly related, both being members of the _reseda_ family. The _Reseda odorata_, or Mignonette, is a native of Egypt, and was introduced into England in 1752. The word _reseda_ is from _resedo_, to calm, to appease. The plants were thought useful applications to external bruises, to ease pain. There are two species growing wild in England. _Reseda lutea_, or Base-rocket, likes a chalky soil, but _R. luteola_, the Dyer’s Weed, is often found on waste ground everywhere. It is much used by dyers, particularly in France. It affords a most beautiful yellow dye, for cotton, woollen, mohair, silk, and linen. Blue cloths dipped in a decoction of it become green. The entire plant, when about to flower, is pulled up, and employed both fresh and dried. Like the Coltsfoot, this plant is among the first which spring from the rubbish thrown out of coal-pits. Linnæus observed, that the nodding spike of flowers always follows the sun, even on a cloudy day, pointing eastward in a morning, southward at noon, westward in the afternoon, and northward at night. If this be true, it may supplant the sunflower in the favour of sentimental florists, for the inconstancy of that has long been proved. Good old Gerarde, who evidently did his best to believe all things, says, that he has seen four sunflowers on one stem, pointing to the four cardinal points. I am wandering from my subject, but must remind you of some sweet lines by that poet of nature--Clare, where he groups the sunflower so nicely; and you may look at that cottage, where the children are playing, and see the picture nearly realized:
Where rustic taste at leisure trimly weaves The rose and straggling woodbine to the eaves, And on the crowded spot that pales enclose The white and scarlet daisy rears in rows, Training the trailing peas in clusters neat, Perfuming evening with a luscious sweet, And sun-flowers planting for their gilded show, That scale the window’s lattice ere they blow, And, sweet to habitants within the sheds, Peep through the crystal panes their golden heads.
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A gentle peace, like evening winds In summer from the ocean’s breast, Moved o’er my sighing, sinking soul, And soothed my murmuring griefs to rest; And through the weary night of pain, When it were manliness to weep, My soul was comforted by this-- “He giveth his beloved sleep.”
_MacKellar._
NASTURTION.... _Patriotism_.
The Nasturtion is a native of Europe and the East. The flowers are of a very brilliant golden yellow, and present a beautiful appearance. The plant is said to emit flashes of light in the morning before sunrise, and also at twilight. Its pure, glowing hue recalls that ardent feeling, so clear of self, which leads men to lay down their lives and fortunes for their country’s safety and glory.
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Land of the forest and the rock, Of dark blue lake and mighty river-- Of mountain reared aloft to mock The storm’s career and lightning’s shock, My own green land forever!
_Whittier._
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Clime of the daring, thy sheltering banner Unfurls its stars o’er the land and the sea; While tyrants are warring, and freemen love honour, That banner shall be the light of the free.
_C. Watson._
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Our country first, their glory and their pride, Land of their hopes, land where their fathers died, When in the right, they’ll keep thy honour bright, When in the wrong, they’ll die to set it right.
_James T. Fields._
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Pride in the gift of country and of name Speaks in the eye and step-- He treads his native land!
_Halleck._
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The patriot! go, to Fame’s proud mount repair, The tardy pile, slow rising there, With tongueless eloquence shall tell Of them who for their country fell.
_Sprague._
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’Tis home-felt pleasure prompts the patriot’s sigh, This makes him wish to live, and dare to die.
_Campbell._
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Land where he learned to lisp a mother’s name, The first beloved in life, the last forgot, Land of his frolic youth, Land of his bridal eve, Land of his children--vain your column’s strength, Invaders! vain your battles’ steel and fire! Choose ye the morrow’s doom-- A prison or a grave!
_Halleck._
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My country is my Holy Land. I love her! The purest, brightest skies are spread above her. And heavenliest verdure covers vale and hill. The clearest waters fish did ever swim in Are hers. And oh, what words can praise her virtuous women?
_MacKellar._
NIGHTSHADE, OR BITTER-SWEET.... _Truth_.
According to the belief of the ancients, Truth was the mother of Virtue, the daughter of Time, and queen of the world. It is a frequent saying, that Truth lies at the bottom of a well, and that she always mingles some bitterness with her sweet blessings; and we have chosen for her emblem a plant which, like her, delights in the shade, and is evergreen. The Nightshade is the only plant in England which loses and reproduces its leaves twice a year.
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Truth, crushed to earth will rise again, The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among her worshippers.
_Bryant._
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The pure deep sky above may figure Truth; Though mists and clouds may long obscure its face, Gaze with patience, and ere long they’ll pass.
_Peerbold._
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’Tis not enough your counsel shall be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do. Men must be taught as if you taught them not, And things unknown proposed as things forgot. Without good breeding, truth is disapproved; That only makes superior sense beloved.
_Pope._
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Truth needs no flowers of speech.
_Pope._
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When fiction rises pleasing to the eye, Men will believe, because they love the lie; But truth herself, if clouded with a frown, Must have some solemn proofs to pass her down.
_Churchill._
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All truth is precious, if not all divine, And what dilates the powers must needs refine.
_Cowper._
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Verily there is nothing so false, that a sparkle of truth is not in it.
_Tupper._
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This above all, to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.
_Shakspeare._
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What is truth?--a staff rejected.
_Wordsworth._
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It is a weary and a bitter task Back from the lip the burning word to keep, And to shut out heaven’s air with falsehood’s mask, And in the dark urn of the soul to heap Indignant feelings--making e’en of thought A buried treasure.
_Mrs. Hemans._
THE SWEET FLAG--ACORUS CALAMUS.... _Grace_.
One autumn eve I sat alone Beside my study fire; I’d written long, and eyes and head And fingers ’gan to tire.
I rose to shut my desk, and go-- Quite weary--half asleep-- A book fell open as I moved; E’en sleepy eyes must peep;
And, pictured on its page, I saw The portrait of a friend, Whose smiling face bade my dull thoughts To happy memories wend.
It was the tall, sweet-scented Flag, Lay pictured there so true, I could have deemed some fairy hand The faithful image drew.
The falchion-leaves, all long and sharp; The stem, like a tall leaf too, Except where, halfway up its side, A cone-shaped flower-spike grew,
Like a lady’s finger, taper, long, From end to end arrayed In close scale-armour, that was all Of starry flowers made.
If you could fancy fairy folk Would mimic works of ours, You’d think their dainty fingers here Had wrought mosaic flowers.
The tiny petals, neatly formed, With geometric skill, Are each one so exactly shaped, Its proper place to fill.
And stamens, like fine golden dust, Spangle the flowerets green; Aught more compact and beautiful, Mine eyes have never seen!
How well I know when first I met The Sweet Flag’s graceful form; ’Twas on a glowing summer’s day, Mid hearts as bright and warm.
Mid hearts as warm as sunny gleams, And eyes as kind and bright, And spirits that, like sunshine too, Are cheering, loved, and light.
We gathered there the Acorus From Claremont’s quiet lake; And home with me, full many a mile, I did the pale flower take.
’Twas new to me, but yet is not So very scarce and rare, As many a river knoweth well; None better than the Yare!
For by its banks abundantly The fragrant tall leaves grow; Singing with reedy rustling voice, Whene’er soft breezes blow.
The Mayor of Norwich holds in June His annual feast and show; And to the grand cathedral church Processions with him go.
And then the gray and solemn aisles, And all the ancient floor, Are with the aromatic leaves Bestrewèd thickly o’er.
In by-gone days the costly fumes Of incense here were shed; But sweeter far the fragrant gush That greets each passing tread.
In the sordid streets are bowers built, Of these same reeds as well, Plaited and wrought like basket-work, All full of spicy smell.
And many a queer and quaint device Are round about them made, Of the gold and red ranunculus, In varied shape and shade.
Oh! many a young and guileless heart Is blithe as blithe can be, To walk through Norwich streets that morn, The decked out bowers to see.
In far gone times, ere folks had grown So mighty nice and clever-- When carpets were unheard-of things, And druggets dreamed of never--
When wide bare floors of good hard mud Or stone, not over even, Were all that unto knightly strides, Or dames’ light steps, were given--
When common rushes strewed the halls Where royal banquets were-- How precious must these reeds have been Beside the banks of Yare!
I can fancy high and dainty dames Sending stout serving-men To gather store of these sweet Flags, From river, pool, and fen.
Perhaps to strew a lady’s bower, Perhaps the castle hall, Where warlike lords and knights should meet At stately festival.
How often in the chapel too, The fresh-thrown reeds might lie; While the tears and smiles of a bridal band Went softly passing by!
And they were there when sorrow deep Wept the untimely doom Of young, and bright, and beautiful, Borne to the ancestral tomb.
In sooth it is an ancient thing, This new-found friend of mine, And many a scene of joy and wo Hath it known in days lang syne.
I love it for them all right well, But yet I love it more For the fairy scene that lay around Its home on that lakeless shore:
Beside the bank the stately trees Waved gently to and fro, And flitting specks of sunlight fell The leafy branches thro’,
And danced among the tall keen reeds, And on the water fell, Where the merry fish were glancing swift; And the water snake, as well,
Came, gliding in a graceful curl All silently and still, Like a lord in his own dominions there, Swimming about at will.
Now toward the margin where we stood We saw him steering on,-- Then under groups of lily leaves The happy thing was gone.
And wild-fowl, water-rats, and all, Lived in that little lake; Oh, what a pleasant picture now My thoughts of it awake!
Its margent of smooth lawny turf Was mossy, soft, and deep, Where the shadows broad of the beech and oak Seemed quietly to sleep.
The rhododendrons, purple yet With many a massive wreath, Had seedling plants, a countless host, Crowding the turf beneath.
I dearly love small relics brought From spots where I have been, That seem to certify the facts Of memory’s pictured scene;
But seeds and roots of flowers are The pleasantest of all;-- I’ve Broom-seeds from a heathy glen, And ferns from an old stone wall.
Of wall-flower slips and roots I’ve got So many, that I’m fain, Dear as they are to me, to turn Many adrift again.
My ivy-plant from Tintern’s braved Four winters’ stormy weather; I’ve scraps, too, from proud Kenilworth, And here they grow together.
The feathery seeds of clematis In Goodrich I have caught; Hartstongue from Ragland’s lofty keep, With maiden-hair, I brought.
And so at Claremont, where the crowd Of rhododendrons grew, My whims were humoured, and I now Am rearing one or two.
And e’en those little things can bring Before me, passing well, The very nook where the scented leaves Of the graceful calamus dwell.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
BROOM.... _Humility_.
Thomas Miller thus speaks of the “bonny Broom,” in his Romance of Nature:--
Beautiful art thou, O Broom! waving in all thy rich array of green and gold, on the breezy bosom of the bee-haunted heath. The sleeping sunshine, and the silver-footed showers, the clouds that for ever play about the face of Heaven, the homeless winds, and the crystal-globed dews, that settle upon thy blossoms like sleep on the veined eyelids of an infant, are ever beating above and around thee, as if to tell that they rejoice in thy companionship, and that, although a thousand years have strided by with silent steps, time hath not abated an atom of their love. Who can tell the thoughts of Saxon Alfred when, wandering alone, crownless and sceptreless, he stretched himself on the lonely moor beneath the shadow of thy golden blossoms, sighing for the fair queen he had left far behind? When he bowed his kingly head, and, musing on thy beauty, buried in a solitary wild, thought how even regal dignity would be enhanced by humility, and that, although thou didst grow there unmarked and unpruned, not a more princely flower waved in his own English garden.
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Humility, that low, sweet root, From which all heavenly virtues shoot.
_Moore._
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Oh the Broom, the bonny bonny Broom, The Broom of the Cowden-knowes; For sure so soft, so sweet a bloom, Elsewhere there never grows.
_Scottish Song._
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Here is a precious jewel I have found Among the filth and rubbish of the world. I’ll stoop for it, but when I wear it here, Set on my forehead like the morning-star, The world may wonder, but it will not laugh.
_Longfellow._
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Their groves of sweet myrtle, let foreign lands reckon, Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan, Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang yellow Broom.
_Burns._
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But the publican stood afar off in his grief, For he felt like a beggar who needed relief; And he raised not his eyes, and he saw not the scorn Which the lip of the Pharisee proudly had worn. But he smote on his bosom, and deeply he sighed; As a sinner, for mercy, sweet mercy, he cried. It was all he could utter, but GOD hears a sigh, And listens, no matter how feeble the cry. Both unheard and unblest, the proud Pharisee then Returned to the pomp of his riches again; While the publican sinner, though loathed and oppressed, Went joyfully homeward with peace in his breast.
_MacKellar._
ST. JOHN’S WORT.... _Superstition_.