PN6110 .F6 A'43 THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA AT CHAPEL HILL 00009758149 ENDOWED BY THE DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETIES PN6110 .P6 Ah3 This book is due at the LOUIS R. WILSON LIBRARY on the last date stamped under "Date Due." If not on hold it may be renewed by bringing it to the library. DATE DUE RET. TrFwHgJyJUL 1 ^ DATE DUE RET. ■UOU&JM E SS SEP 3 1to JUN2 5™ SEP urn iPr? Ql — T imJ-Liw Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012 with funding from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill http://archive.org/details/flowerstheirmoraOOadam -gv*$w$ &w>maww£I^ ^^S^ n r~5 and '^'l l£ ^Hlo(scrH^2 !r\ ** (1 FLOWERS; A „ PI' MORAL, LANGUAGE, AND POETRY. EDITED BY H. G. ADAMS. " I have gathered a nosegay of culled flowers, and brought nothing of my own, but the thread that ties them." Reminiscences of Genius. LONDON II. G. CLARKE, AND CO.,t>6, OLD BAILEY. CONTENTS Page. Preface ,.....,, vii. CHAPTER I. The Moral of Flowers 11 CHAPTER II. The Language of Flowers 43 CHAPTER III. Children and Flowers 75 CHAPTER IV. Fairies and Flowers. . „ . „ 107 CHAPTER V. Floral Similitudes , . 139 5471S3 %^% VI. CONTENTS. Page. CHAPTER VI. Floral Ceremonies 171 CHAPTER VII. Funeral Flowers 208 CHAPTER VIII. Wild Flowers . , s e 235 PREFACE. The motto chosen for the title page of this little volume, will best explain the nature and plan of it, and therefore the readers are spared the infliction of a long elucidatory preface, which it is quite likely that they would not take the trouble to read. Apologies for putting forth a work on a similar subject to so many beautiful volumes as have, during the last few years, issued from the press, the Editor does not conceive to be necessary, because he feels assured that the taste for flowers, and for the poetical associations connected therewith, widely as it has been extended and diffused among all classes, by these various publications, is still a growing and increasing one, and that there is yet room for many more works, both original and col- lected, upon this most imaginative and delightful of all subjects. Some of the volumes already published, indeed, the major part of them, are much too expensive to be purchased by other than the higher ranks of society, and the Editor, in availing himself of the present mode — at once cheap and elegant — of giving his collection of floral gems to the public, does so with peculiar satisfaction, because he hopes and believes that it will become, to a certain extent, a " people's book;" and tend, in a measure, to elevate and refine, while it entertains and delights, the minds of some whose lot is cast amid toils, and cares, and heavy du- ties ; — some of the labouring population, whose im- provement, both moral and physical, he so ardently desires. He sees not why the humble parlour, and the cottage hearth, should not have its " Book of Flowers," as well as the boudoir and the drawing room ; nor why the toiling mechanic, and industrious artisan, should be debarred from perusing what our sweetest and greatest poets have written, and sung, and said, of nature's most beautiful productions, — productions, moreover, which are common to all ; and which are the more en- joyed, and the better appreciated, as proofs of Divine Power and manifestations of Divine Goodness, the more the mind becomes cultivated and the imagination refined : — " For not alone to please the sense of smell, Or charm the sight, are flowers to mankind given ; A thousand sanctities do them invest, And hright associations hallow them ! Which to the cultivated intellect May give delight, and all the heart improve." The Editor has chosen out the quotations which enrich this volume from a vast accumulation of floral poetry the transcription of which has pleasantly em- ployed his leisure time for many years past ; the work was, and is, to him truly, " a labour of love ;" and he trusts that any errors of taste and judgment, which a learned and critical reader may detect in the selection now given to the public, and the observations with which they are connected, will be pardoned for the sake of the enthusiastic devotion which has prompted him to give so much attention to the subject. Many poems, which he would fain have included, want of space has obliged him to omit, and the several chap- ters are much less comprehensive than he could have wished, but he consoles himself with the hope of meeting his readers again, and yet again, and having much pleasant gossip with them upon Flowers and other kindred subjects. For his own " idle rhymes," of which he has, perhaps, in the following pages given more than a sufficiency, he can only offer this excuse, — the temptation to perpetrate them was in many cases too strong to be resisted, and so, he wrote because he was "i' the vein." All rhymesters are egotists, and he is free to confess that this is one of the sins that does most easily and irresistibly " beset " him. In conclusion, the Editor commends his volume to the public, and suggests to those who would purchase it to present to a friend or object of affection, that they write on the envelope these lines fromGRiLLPARZER's " Sapho," in which Phaon is made to say — "Friendship and Love should be Content with Flowers. Gold is iox" m Vanity." / FLOWERS; THEIR MORAL, LANGUAGE, AND POETRY. CHAPTER I. MORAL OF FLOWERS. " Not a tree, A plant, a leaf, a blossom but contains A folio volume. We may read, and read, And read again, and still find something new, Something to please, and something to instruct, E'en in the noisome weed," — Hurdis. Flowers have been, to the poets of all ages, and in all countries, a never-failing source of inspiration, and to mankind at large, "a joy, a pure delight," from the creation even to the present time ; and will be so, while we have eyes to see, and hearts to understand and appreciate the blessings that are scattered around us, for, as Keats says : — " A thing of beauty is a joy for ever : Its loveliness increases ; it will never Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams and health, and quiet breathing. 12 MORAL OF FLOWERS. And is not a Flower " a tiling of beauty ? " — is it not a thing of surpassing loveliness ? Who can gaze on its exquisitely perfect form, its unrivalled brilliancy of hue, without a thrill of admiration, and a sensation of pleasure? — pleasure which passeth not away, but dwelleth on the memory like a pleasant perfume, that remains long after the object from whence it emanated has perished ; and why is this ? because of its purity, its freedom from aught that is gross and therefore pe- rishable. None, we venture to aver, can gaze on those beautiful " alphabets of creation," those adorners of earth's bosom, unmoved, but such as have hearts utterly corrupted, and rendered impervious to every sweet and gentle impression ; and even such will at times feel stir- ring within them at the sight, thoughts that have long slumbered, and awakened by those " silent monitors," the " still small voice of conscience " is heard, inciting them to shake off the trammels of guilt, and return to the ways of pleasantness and peace, wherein their feet once trod, when " The flowers in silence seemed to breathe Such thoughts as language could not tell." — Byron. We have called the flowers u silent monitors, " and not unadvisedly, for many are the lessons they teach, of patient submission, meek endurance, and innocent cheerfulness under the pressure of adverse circum- stances : " They smilingly fulfil Their Maker's will, All meekly bending 'neath the tempest's weight ; By pride unvisited, Though richly raimented, As is a monarch in his robes of state "— H.G.A. MORAL OF FLOWERS. 13 Many are the moral precepts they inculcate, bidding us admire the wisdom of their Omnipotent Creator, in their infinite variety of forms and colours, and perfect adaptation to the situations they occupy : — " Not a flower But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, Of His unrivall'd pencil. He inspires Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, The forms with which He sprinkles all the earth." — Cowper. Telling us to he grateful for these abundant manifesta- tions of His attention, not only to our actual wants and necessities, but also to our comforts and enjoy- ments; opening to us this source of pure and innocent gratification, in order to strengthen us against the al- lurements of folly, and wean our hearts from the guilty pleasures of sensuality, into which they are but too apt to be drawn : — " God might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all. He might have made enough, enough, For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine, and toil, And yet have made no flowers. Our outward life requires them not, Then wherefore had they birth ?— To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth, 14 MORAL OF FLOWERS. To whisper hope— to comfort man Whene'er his faith is dim, For whoso careth for the flowers „_„,„. Will care much more for him ! "-Mahy Howitt. Do they not also admonish us of the instability of earthly grandeur and beauty, by their fragility and shortness^ duration? saying in the language of the Psalmist:-- As for man, his days are as grass, as a flower ofthe field, so he flourisheth ; for the wind passeth over it and it is gone ; and the place thereof shall know ?7no more" They teach us the utter foolishness of tnat prTde,' which delighteth in personal adornments ^l^vtrannino-s; for be our dress ever so rich, ^siTpKw^of the field, that neither toil nor spin, are arrayed much more sumptuously :- " Along the sunny Dank or watery mead, Ten thousand stalks their various blossoms spread : Peaceful and lowly, in their native soil, They neither know to spin, nor care to toil, Yet with confessed magnificence, deride Our 'vile attire and impotence of pride."-PEioR. It is thus they admonish the prosperous, the proud he uphfted in spirit; but to the poor the lowly and he fallen, they are as sympathising friends whisper- Ing words of comfort and hope, sharing their sorrow, and thus rendering the burden easier to bear, for,- « When we ar« sad, to sadness we apply J lach plant, and flower, and leaf, that meets the eye.»-A N o* And by making them participators in our grief, we lose fhat painful sense of loneliness and desolation which ever accompanies the blighting of our earthly pros- MORAL OF FLOWERS. j5 Potion of His b£*T^ *™** *°«^ sparrow to fal] to fh\ " otd ! ' "? SUffereth not ■ ^ perish, unnoted:-! * ' ^ * hair of our heads ^en the storey dav^ 2 ^ 1°^™ P™^ That would bS2 ^ Sh0uld come And the swee tiers ZZ^^ and Wo <™ » On our leaves theTu ns hinrf, ed /I EaCh da ? ren ^ why should we no rssr xm dnes the dews •• And the sunshine and ^^^ 'ES^. M. A. Browne. &MaS^ D « "** vouch, ample of the Flowers whol, I ™ become °f gratitude, our thourf^' ? ? ra »I ,ted °y feelings «*-*-. words fX 2**?* *ape then?! "g:~ e "gmncation to the follow- And e,en on the grave can be A spell to weed affection's pain- Nor h ^? de "' whoc ^se e) own His bounty in your reign 1 »- Y P literally through exhaustion of feeling, plunges into a conspiracy against Napoleon, and is imprisoned for life in the small fortress of Fenestrella. Solitude nearly drives him mad ; he curses fate, life, the world, — and he denies God. Suddenly a small plant springs up between two stones of the pavement ; and to this plant he gives the endearing name of Picciola. He actually forms a friendship for it ; and at length loves it with all the force of which that tender passion is susceptible. He by degrees learns the value of life ; is awakened to the beauty of the world, and learns to acknowledge and worship God with sincere and fervent piety. — See Mrs. Gore's " Picciola." Dull vapours fill the joyless air, And cold the sunbeam falls Within the court-yard, paved and bare, 'Neath Fenestrella's walls. While winters upon winters roll, There hath a captive trod ; His was that madness of the soul Which knows not of a God. One morn between the clefts of stone Two leaflets burst to view ; And day by day, and one by one, The fragile branches grew. c 34 MORAL OF FLOWERS. It grew — nor canker knew — nor blight, 'Neath sun, and storm, and shower; A blessing to the captive's sight It grew — a dungeon flower ! Oh, beautiful and gentle thing ! Meek offspring of the sky ! Comest thou, like a breath of spring, To whisper and to die ? The captive marked its growth, and felt His soul subdued to tears : That tender thing had power to melt The gathered frosts of years. He who had blindly trod the maze Of learning and of power, Stood watching with awakened gaze The opening of a flower ! He traced the powers of sun and dew — The light — the breath that fanned ; And owned at length, to nature true, His great Creator's hand. Great God ! with pure and wise design, Still, still 'mid all we see, Thou blendest thus some mystic sign — Some voice which breathes of Thee ! Ward's Miscellany. MORAL OF FLOWERS. 35 THE USE OF FLOWERS, BY MARY HOWITT. God might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The oak-tree, and the cedar-tree,- Without a flower at all. He might have made enough, enough, For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine, and toil, And yet have made no flowers. The ore within the mountain-mine Requireth none to grow, Nor doth it need the lotus-flower To make the river flow. The clouds might give abundant rain, The nightly dews might fall, And the herb that keepeth life in man, Might yet have drank them all. Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow light, All fashioned with supremest grace, Upspringing day and night ; — Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness, Where no man passeth by ? 36 MORAL OF FLOWERS. Our outward life requires them not, Then wherefore had they birth ?— To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth ; To whisper hope — to comfort man Whene'er his faith is dim ; For whoso careth for the flowers Will care much more for him ! FLOWERS. BY PICKERING. The impatient morn, With gladness on her wings, calls forth, " Arise," To trace the hills, the vales, where thousand dyes The ground adorn, While the dew sparkles yet within the violet's eyes. And when the day In golden slumber sinks, with accents sweet Mild Evening comes, to lure the willing feet With her to stray, Where'er the bashful flowers the observant eye may greet. Near the moist brink Of music-loving streams they ever keep, And often in the lucid fountains peep ; Oft, laughing, drink Of the mad torrent's spray, perch'd near the thunder- ing steep. MORAL OF FLOWERS. 37 And every where Along the plashy marge, and shallow bed Of the still waters, they in numerous spread Rock'd gently ther, The white Nymphoea pillows its bright head. Within the dell, Within the rocky clefts they love to hide ; And hang adventurous on the steep hill-side ; Or rugged fall, Where the strong eagle waves its wings in youthful pride. In the green sea Of forest leaves, where Nature wanton plays, They modest bloom ; there, through the verdant maze The tulip-tree Its golden chalice oft triumphantly displays. And of pure white, Embedded 'mid its glossy leaves on high, There the superb magnolia lures the eye ; While waving light, The locust's myriad tassels scent the ambient sky. But, O, ye bowers, Ye valleys where the Spring perpetual reigns, And flowers unnumbered, o'er the purple plains Exuberant showers, How fancy revels in your lovelier domains ! All love the light; And yet what numbers spring within the shade,, And blossom where no foot may e'er invade I Till comes a blight, — Comes unawares, — and then incontinent they fade ! 38 MORAL OF FLOWERS, And thus they hloom, And thus their lives ambrosial breathe away; Thus fareth, too, the lovely and the gay, And the same doom Youth, beauty, flower, alike consigns to swift decay. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS, BY HORACE SMITH. Day- stars ! that ope your eyes with man, to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle As a libation : Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye, Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high. Ye bright Mosaics ! that, with storied beauty, The floor of Nature's temple tesselate, What numerous emblems of instructive duty Your forms create ! 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bough that swingeth, And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, Which God hath planned. MORAL OF FLOWERS. 39 To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply ; Its choir the winds and waves, — its organ thunder, Its dome the sky. There, as in shade and solitude I wander, Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God ; — Your voiceless lips, O flowers ! are living preachers, Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook. Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendour, " Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," Oh ! may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender Your love sublime ! "Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory, Array'd," the lilies cry, " in robes like ours ; How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory Are human flowers !" In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist ! With which thou paintest Nature's wide -spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all. Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for pleasure, Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. 40 MORAL OF FLOWERS. Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! Upraised from seed or bulb, interred in earth, Ye are to me a type of resurrection, And second birth. Were I, O God ! in churchless lands remaining, Far from all voice of teachers and divines, My soul would finds in flowers of thy ordaining, Priests, sermons, shrines ! FLOWERS, AN ODE. BY H. G. ADAMS. Beautiful flowers ! Fair children of the sunbeams and the showers, Ye are the ornaments of earth ; Stars of this nether sphere ! The hearts of weary, toil-worn men to cheer, Ye spring to birth. How sweet ye are, Shedding your perfume on the breezes far ; How fair to look upon ; All prank' d with dew, Ye flash upon the view, Like many rainbows blended into one. MORAL OF FLOWERS. 41 In valleys green, Like lovely, sportive children, are ye seen In woodlands lone, And amid mountain solitudes, ye grow, Tall rocks below, And the brown moorland claims ye for her own. To me ye seem Like creatures of a dream, — Aerial phantoms of delight ! I can but deem ye much Too pure for mortal touch, Ye are so very fair — so passing bright ; — And hold my breath, Lest a foul taint of death Should lurk therein, your beauties all to blight. Methinks of speech A silent faculty ye have, to teach Submission to thy will divine ; Few are your days, but ye Die cheerfully Nor murmur, nor repine ; Ye smilingly fulfil Your Maker's will ; All meekly bending 'neath the tempest's weight ; ' By pride unvisited, Though richly raimented As is a monarch in his robes of state : Oh ! would vain glorious man Pursue this plan, How much might he avoid of envy, strife, and hate 42 MORAL OF FLOWERS. TO A FLOWER. BY BARRY CORNWALL, Dawn, gentle flower, From the morning earth ! We will gaze and wonder At thy wondrous birth ! Bloom, gentle flower ! Lover of the light, Sought by wind and shower, Fondled by the night ! Fade, gentle flower ! All thy white leaves close ; Having shewn thy beauty, Time 'tis for repose. Die, gentle flower, In the silent sun ! Soh, — all pangs are over, All thy tasks are done ! Day hath no more glory, Though he soars on high ; Thine is all man's story, Live, — and love, — and die I 43 CHAPTER II. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. "The gentle flowers Retired, and stooping o'er the wilderness, Talked of humility, and peace, and love." Robert Pollok. Over what barren spot is it, reader, that the " gentle flowers" shed, with most effect, their sanctifying influ- ence ? Is it not over that moral " wilderness," the heart of man, that they " stoop," and " talk of humility, and peace, and love," till the stony places become fruitful, and produce abundantly, good thoughts, pure wishes, and holy desires and aspirations ; till the sterile waste changes to a garden ? It is, and none that have ever truly listened to their eloquent preaching, have turned away unimproved and uninstructed, for: — " From the first bud, whose verdant head The winter's lingering tempest braves, To those, which 'mid the foliage dead, Shrink latest to their annual graves ; All are for use, for health, for pleasure given, All speak, in various ways, the bounteous hand of Heaven.' Charlotte Smith. These are the sentiments of a pure mind and a lofty imagination, and the authoress of the following words may well claim sisterhood with her from whom they 44 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. emanated : — " And who dare say that flowers do not speak a language, a clear and intelligible language ? Ask Wordsworth, for to him they have spoken, until they excited 'thoughts that lie too deep for tears;' ask Chaucer, for he held companionship with them in the meadows ; ask any of the poets, ancient or modern. Observe them, reader, love them, linger over them, and ask your own heart if they do not speak affection, benevolence, and piety ?" In confirmation of this, we also quote some stanzas from another poet, whose volumes, as this authoress truly observes, " are like a beautiful country, diversified with woods, mea- dows, heaths, and flower-gardens* :" — " Bowing adorers of the gale, Ye cowslips delicately pale, Upraise your loaded stems ; Unfold your cups in splendour, speak ! Who decked you with that ruddy streak, And gilt your golden gems 1 Violets, sweet tenants of the shade, In purple's richest pride arrayed, Your errand here fulfil ; Go, bid the artist's simple stain Your lustre imitate in vain, And match your Maker's skill. Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth, Embroiderers of the carpet earth, That stud the velvet sod, Open to Spring's refreshing air, In sweetest, smiling bloom, declare Your Maker, and my God." — John Ciare. Verily, it was well said, that " Solomon in all his glory * Flora Domestica. THR LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 45 was not arrayed like one of these ;" and well was it continued, by a lately departed poet, " and Solomon, in all his wisdom never taught more wholesome lessons than these silent monitors convey to a thoughtful mind and an understanding heart."* "There are two books," says Sir Thomas Browne, " from whence I collect my divinity ; besides that written one of God, another of His servant, nature, that universal and public manuscript that lies expanded unto the eyes of all. Those who never saw Him in the one have discovered Him in the other. This was the scripture and theology of the heathens ; the natural motion of the sun made them more admire Him than its supernatural station did the children of Israel ; the ordinary effects of nature wrought more admiration in them, than in the other all his miracles. Surely the heathens knew better how to join and read these mystical letters, than we Christians, who cast a more careless eye on these common hieroglyphics, and disdain to suck divinity from the flowers of nature." Oh, yes ! be sure — " The simple flowers and streams Are social and benevolent, and he Who holdeth converse in their language pure, Roaming amid them at the cool of day, Shall find, like him who Eden's garden drest, The Maker there, to teach the listening heart." Mrs. Sigourney. " Flowers," says Mr. Phillips,-}- " formed a principal feature in symbolical language, which is the most an- cient, as well as the most natural, of all languages." It was an easy transition, after they had come to be * Southey. t Flora Historica. 46 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. regarded as proofs and manifestations of divine love, goodness, and protection, to make them the signs and symbols of human feelings and passions ; hence hopes, fears, and desires, joys and sorrows, and all the senti- ments and emotions which sway and agitate the soul of man, have had their appropriate expression in these mute, yet eloquent letters of the blooming " alphabet of creation :" — " By all those token flowers that tell What words can ne'er express so well."— Byron. Sings the poet of our day, adjuring his mistress to believe in his truth and fidelity, and so, though in somewhat different words, might have sung, and very likely did sing, the Israelite of old on the flowery banks of Jordan, the Babylonian in his hanging gardens, or the swarthy son of Egypt, who, kneeling by the mys- terious Nile, might have plucked the blossom of the bright nymphoea, and putting it to his lips, and turning to the earthly idol of his adoration, have said : — " The lotus flower, whose leaves I now Kiss silently, Far more than words can tell thee how I worship thee !" — Moore. This may be considered by some of our readers a fanciful theory, but surely it has as good foundations for its support, as many an hypotheses which has ob- tained universal approbation and credit : in our chap- ter entitled " Floral Ceremonies," we shall fully prove the high antiquity of the use of flowers, as ornaments and adjuncts to splendour and enjoyment, on festive and other occasions, and as they were so used and ap- THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 47 propriated, we may well believe in their extended ap- plication, as symbols of passion and sentiment. Rut little need, we imagine will there be, for proof of this ; all wbo really love flowers; who delight in them as tbe sweetest characters which appear on the pages of the book of nature, ever spread out for their instruction, will at once coincide in our opinion, and say, without pausing to examine what Pliny has said upon this subject, to decipher the Egyptian hieroglyphics, or to compare the floral alphabet of the effeminate Chinese, with that of the voluptuous Turk, or the more refined and classic Greek, — • " Have not the flowers a language ? speak, young rose, Speak bashful sister of the footless dell ! Thy blooming loves — thy sweet regards disclose ; Oh speak ! for many a legend keep'st thou well ; Tales of old wars— crusading knights who fell, And bade thee minister their latest sighs ! Speak, grey-haired daisy ! — ancient primrose tell ! Ye vernal harps ! ye sylvan melodies ! Speak poets of the fields ! — rapt gazers on the skies ! * * * * * Ye poetry of woods ! romance of fields ! Nature's imagination bodied bright ! Earth's floral page, that high instruction yields !— For not, oh, not alone to charm our sight, Gave God your blooming forms, your leaves of light ; Ye speak a language which we yet may learn— A divination of mysterious might ! And glorious thoughts may angel eyes discern Flower-writ in mead and vale, where'er man's footsteps turn." Charles Swain. "When nature laughs out in all the triumph of spring, it may be said, without a metaphor, that, in her thousand varieties of flowers, we see 48 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. the sweetest of her smiles ; that, through them, we comprehend the exultation of her joys : and that, by them, she wafts her songs of thanksgiving to the hea- ven above her, which repays her tribute of gratitude with looks of love. Yes, flowers have their language. Theirs is an oratory, that speaks in perfumed silence, and there is tenderness, and passion, and even the light heartedness of mirth in the variegated beauty of their vocabulary. To the poetical mind, they are not mute to each other ; to the pious, they are not mute to their Creator No spoken word can approach to the delicacy of sentiment to be inferred from a flower sea- sonably offered, the softest impression may thus be conveyed without offence, and even profound grief alleviated, at a moment when the most tuneful voice would grate harshly on the ear, and when the stricken soul can be soothed only by unbroken silence."* Thus writes, — A true professor of the gentle art, Deep read in that sweet lore, which well he teaches, A mystic language, perfect in each part, Made up of bright-hued thoughts, and perfumed speeches ; A goodly book he hath, wherefrom to draw His texts and lessons ; on its living pages "We gaze in wonder, not unmixed with awe, Reading the records of long-vanished ages : Bright are the characters, and fair the forms, And sweet the sounds before us, and around us ; A gentle ardour every bosom warms, As though a dreamy spell entranced and bound us, Hopes and affections, feelings and delights, In bright embodiment stand out before us, All that allures the spirit and delights The soul, while seraph music floateth o'er as. * Language of Flowers. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 49 Oh, wondrous tongue. Oh, language of the flowers ! Writ in that volume rich with nature's treasures, With Poesy deep hid in leafy bowers Thy teacher -walks 'mid thickly scattered pleasures ; And down the shady lanes, and in .the fields, And through the garden he his pupil taketh, Marking each blossom which instruction yields, And all that in the bosom thought awaketh." — H. G. A But let us recur to the words of this " Professor of the gentle art," and evidence their truth by a few examples shewing the effect of " floral language" upon a mind stricken with grief. Listen to Philaster : — " I have a boy, Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent, Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck, I found him sitting by a fountain's side, Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst, And paid the nymph again as much in tears ; A garland lay him by, made by himself Of many several flowers, bred in the bay, Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness Delighted me. But ever when he turned His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep, As if he meant to make 'em grow again. Seeing such pretty helpless innocence Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story. He told me that his parents gentle died, Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, Which gave him roots, and of the crystal springs, Which did not stop their courses ; and the sun, Which still, he thanked him, yielded him his light. Then took he up his garland, and did show What every flower, as country people hold, Did signify; and how all, ordered thus, Expressed his grief: And, to my thoughts, did read Ihe prettiest lecture of his country art D 00 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. That could be wished. I gladly entertained him, "Who was as g]ad to follow, and have got The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy, That ever master kept. Him will I send To wait on you, and bear our hidden love." Beaumont and Fletcher. Thus did the gentle hoy mitigate his grief by turning an emblematic wreath into a mute expression of it. " Give sorrow words : the grief, that does not speak, "Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break." Says Malcolm to the bereaved husband and father, in " Macbeth," — and this poor orphan had hit upon a mode of giving his "sorrow words," more touching, perhaps, than a more loud and violent utterance could have been. Another bard has given us an example of the power which he attributes to flowers for allaying the tempest of grief, rage, and hate, passions which sometimes meet and struggle for mastery in the human bosom, rendering him whom they controul speechless, and sullen as the cloud, before the rattling thunder and the vivid lightning breaks forth, to scathe and destroy. In "The Bride of Abydos," Selim, after listening to the taunts and reproaches of old Giaffir, stands thus moody and silent, a prey to these contending passions, when: — " To him Zulieka's eye was turned, But little from his aspect learned ; ****** Thrice paced she slowly through the room, And watched his eye — it still was fixed : She snatched the urn, wherein was mixed The Persian Atar-gul's perfume, And sprinkled all its odours o'er The pictured roof and marbled floor : THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS, 51 The drops, that through his glittering vest The playful girl's appeal addressed, Unheeded o'er his hosom flew, As if that breast were marble too. ' What sullen yet? it must not be — Oh ! gentle Selim this from thee V She saw in curious order set The fairest flowers of Eastern land — ' He loved them once — may touch them yet, If offered by Zulieka's hand. The childish thought was hardly breathed Before the rose was plucked and wreathed; . The next fond moment saw her seat Her fairy form at Selim's fee": » This rose, to calm my brother's cares, A message from tbe Bulbul bears; It says to-night he will prolong, For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; And though his note is somewhat sad, He'll try for once a strain more glad, With some faint hope his altered lay May sing these gloomy thoughts away.' ***** He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt ; He raised the maid from where she knelt ; His trance was gone — his keen eye shone With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; With thoughts that burn— in rays that melt." — Byron. Let us present our readers with another picture, some- what similar to the first, only that the grief is here deeper and more irremediable ; a maiden ruined and betrayed, goes mad ; she is a mother without lawful claims on him who should protect her, and her babe is left to perish on " a hoary cliff that watched the sea," and so, — " She lived on alms, and carried in her hand Some withered stalks she gathered in the spring ; 52 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. When any asked the cause, she smiled, and said They were her sisters, and would come and watch Her grave when she was dead. She never spoke Of her deceased father, mother, home, Or child, or heaven, or hell, or God, but still In lonely places walked, and ever gazed Upon the withered stalks, and talked to them ; Till wasted to the shadow of her youth, With woe too wide to see beyond, she died." — Pollok. These withered stalks were to her as beautiful and full of perfume as when thev were first plucked, and she regarded tlfem as the friends and companions of her youth, talking to them, and receiving answers — words of love and affection. We are here reminded of poor Ophelia who in her madness made "fantastic gar- lands" " Of crow flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples." Of which it has been observed that they are all em- blematic flowers, the first signifying, Fair Maid ; the second, stung to the quick ; the third, her virgin bloom; the fourth, under the cold hand of death ; and the whole being wild flowers, might denote the bewildered state of her faculties. " It would be difficult," says the author of this ob- servation, " to find a more emblematic wreath for this interesting victim of disappointed love and filial sorrow." This is only one of many instances in which our greatest poet has displayed his fondness for flowers, and his delicate appreciation of their uses and simili- tudes. We have another in the " Winter's Tale,' where he makes Perdita give flowers to her visitors appropriate to, and symbolical of, their various ages. See Act 4, Scene 3. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 53 The mystical Language of Flowers, as applied to the passions and sentiments, appears to have had its rise in those sunny regions where the rose springs sponta- neously from its native soil, and the jessamine and the tuberose fill with beauty and perfume alike the garden and the wilderness : — Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine, Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colours though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ?" — Byrok. " Certainly," says a writer in the Edinburgh Magazine of 1818, "the influence of this land of the sun has been felt by the pilgrims from our colder climes, and they have presented to us a pleasing fable in the Language of Flowers, and our imaginations have received with delight the descriptions and interpreta- tions with which we have been favoured from time to time. We have dwelt on, till we have become enam- oured of the delicate mode of expressing the rise and progress of love by the gift of the tender rose-bud, or the full blown flower. We have pitied the despair indicated by a present of myrtle interwoven with cypress and poppies, and we believe that these emblems will never cease to convey some similar sentiments, wherever poetry is cultivated or delicacy understood." — The same author continues, " But"— Oh, reader, 54 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. mark that "but," 'tis a frightful word, is it not? ever coming to dissipate some bright dream, to scare some beautiful phantom of the imagination from our presence, and to guide our wandering feet back into the world of cold reality, where — "The mute expression of sweet nature's voices, Are drowned amid the turmoil of life's noises ; Where thoughts of fear and darkness come unhidden, And love and hope are into silence chidden. — fl. G. A. " But we fear that the Turkish ' Language of Flowers,' which Lady Montague first made popular in this country, has little claim to so refined an origin, as either purity or the delicacy of passion. "We had been taught to believe that it served as a means of com- munication between the prisoners of the harem and their friends or lovers without: but how could it be thus used, when the emblematic nosegay must convey as much intelligence to the guardians and fellow - prisoners of one of the parties, as to the party herself ? The truth appears to be that the ' Language of Flowers' and other inanimate objects, has arisen in the idleness of the harem, from the desire of amusement and variety which the ladies shut up there, without employment, and without culture, must feel. It answers the purpose of enigmas, the solution of which, amuses the vacant hours of the Turkish ladies, and is founded on a sort of crambo or bout rime of which M. Hammer has given not less than an hundred specimens." We quote one of the specimens given by this ingenious Frenchman, in the Turkish and English languages : — " Armonde — wer hana bir Ominde." " Pear— let me not Despair." THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 55 This, though not strictly floral, is the most manageahle as regards the translation that could be hit upon, and we have therefore chosen it. Sometimes a word has various meanings, as various sentences rhyme with it ; for instance : — " Rose — You smile, but still my anguish grows. Rose — For thee my heart with love still glows." Sometimes a double rhyme belongs to a single word, " Tea — You are both sun and moon to me, ^Your's is the light by -which I see." And oftentimes two flowers combined may form a stanza, as : — " The opening rose-bud shows how pure My love for thee, thou charming maid ; The pink, alas ! thy proud disdain, "With which my ardent passion's paid." By the above examples, it will be seen that there is nothing on earth, in air, or water, to which a meaning may not be attached, but these meanings are very arbitrary, depending more upon the sound of words, which will rhyme with the object named, than on any real or fancied similarity of significance in their nature or properties. But what a heresy is it to call this system of arbitrary meanings the " Language of Flow- ers ;" what a departure from that only true faith, the prin- cipal tenet of which is a firm and fervent belief in the significance of nature ! If God speaks in the elements — and who shall doubt ? — if the winds, and the waves, and the loud rattling thunders, testify of his power and majesty, do not the forest trees also, and the gx*asses of the fields, and the beautiful blossoms which adorn 56 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. like living gems, the bosom of the earth, — have not these voices — voices of instruction, and reproof, and sympathy, and love, and all that is most gentle and benign ? Assuredly they have ! Let us then look upon them not as the mere play-things of an idle hour, — as gauds and decorations for the frivolous and vain, but as something too sacred to be made the symbols of false sentiments and feigned, or evil passions. But reverently address them thus : — Ye flowers of beauty, pencilled by the hand Of God, who annually renews your birth, To gem the virgin robes of nature chaste, Ye smiling -featured daughters of the sun ! Fairer than queenly bride by Jordan's stream, Leading your gentle lives retired, unseen, Or on the sainted cliffs of Zion's hill Wandering, and holding with the heavenly dews, In holy revelry, your nightly loves, Watched by the stars, and offering every morn Your incense grateful both to God and man." — Pollok Truly the real " Language of Flowers" is no system of unmeaning similitudes ; there is a deeper significance attached to every plant and flower, indeed to every object in nature, than the mere sensualist or the shallow sentimentalist would imagine ; and here are the words of one who has studied them deeply, and knows that they are types and characters of the glorious revelation, second only to that direct one which God has given us in the Bible. What says he ? — " Listen to the words of wisdom, Uttered by the tongue of truth, Tottering age and manly vigour, Listen ye — and smiling youth." — H. G. A. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 57 " Books are great and glorious agents of civilization and happiness. They are the silent teachers of man- kind, filling the mind with wisdom, and strengthening the understanding for the strife of action ; making us powerful and gentle, wise and humble, at the same time. But we cannot be always buried in our books ; we must sometimes go out into the sunshine, and it is ne- cessary, in order to enjoy our books, that we should also enjoy the privilege of air and light, drinking in health and vigour, to enable us to make the best and most profitable use of our sedentary hours. In direct op- position then to books, or rather in secret combination with them, we would place flowers — the out-of-door books Nature has so liberally provided for us, in so rich a variety of types and bindings, as to leave us no excuse for not gratifying all our individual tastes. The lover of flowers has this advantage over the lover of books, that he can never be at a loss for variety ; but we suspect the classification is somewhat arbitrary, and that there is hardly any one who loves the one, who does not also love the other. The best way to enjoy either is to enjoy both ; to take them alternately, so that they may relieve and show off each other to the best advan- tage. A walk in an open field, and one hour spent in gathering wild flowers, to be afterwards grouped into a vase upon the library table, is by no means the least suggestive preparation for a morning's reading." — Yes, and then, as we inhale their balmy freshness, and look upon their beautiful hues, we shall think of the spots in which we have gathered them, and our spirits will become invigorated, our thoughts more penetrating, and our minds strengthened for the work before us ;— - 58 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. " Come, let us make a sunny world around thee Of thought and beauty ! Here are books and flowers, "With spells to loose the fetter which hath bound thee— The ravell'd coil of this world's feverish hours. The soul of song is in these deathless pages, Even as the odour in the flower enshrin'd ; Here the crown'd spirits of departed ages Have left the silent melodies of mind. Listen, oh, listen ! let their high words cheer thee ! Their swan-like music ringing through all woes j Let my voice bring their holy influence near thee— The Elysian air of their divine repose ! Or, woulds't thou turn to earth ? Not earth ali furrowed By the old traces of man's toil and care, But the green peaceful world, that never sorrowed, The world of leaves, and dews, and summer air ! Look on these flowers ! As o'er an altar shedding O'er Milton's page, soft light from coloured urns ! They are the links, man s heart to nature wedding, When to her breast the prodigal returns. They are from lone wild places, forest-dingles, Fresh bank; of many a low- voiced hidden stream. Where the sweet star of eve looks down, and mingles Faint lustre with the water-lily's gleam. They are from where the soft winds play in gladness Covering the turf with pearly blossom-showers ; Too richly dowered, oh ! friend are we for sadness, — Look on an empire— mind and nature—ours !" jSIbs. Hemans. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 59 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS/ BY J. G. TERCIVAL. In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, And they tell in a garland their loves and cares Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language bears. The Rose is a sign of Joy and Love, — Young blushing Love in its earliest dawn ; And the mildness that suits the gentle dove, From the Myrtle's snowy flower is drawn. Innocence shines in the Lily's bell, Pure as the heart in its native heaven Fame's bright star and Glory's swell, In the glossy leaf of the Bay are given. The silent, soft, and humble heart, In the Violet's hidden sweetness breathes ; And the tender soul that cannot part, A twine of Evergreen fondly wreathes. The Cypress that daily shades the grave, Is Sorrow that mourns her bitter lot ; And Faith that a thousand ills can brave, Speaks in thy blue leaves — Forget-me-not. Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers, And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers. 69 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. BY C. F. HOFFMAN. Teach thee their language ? sweet, I know no tongue No mystic art those gentle things declare, I ne'er could trace the schoolman's trick among Created things, so delicate and rare : Their language? Prythee ! why they are themselves But bright thoughts syllabled to shape and hue, The tongue that erst was spoken by the elves, When tenderness as yet within the world was new. And oh, do not their soft and starry eyes — Now bent to earth, to heaven now meekly pleading, Their incense fainting as it seeks the skies, Yet still from earth with freshening hope receding— Say, do not these to every heart declare, With all the silent eloquence of truth, The language that they speak is Nature's prayer, To give her back those spotless days of youth? THE ALBANIAN LOVE-LETTER. BY LEIGH HUNT. An exquisite invention this, Worthy of Love's most honied kiss, This art of writing billet-doux In buds, and odours, and bright hues,- In saying all one feels and thinks, In clever daffodils and pinks, THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 61 Uttering (as well as silence may) The sweetest words the sweetest way : How fit, too, for the lady's bosom, The place where billet-doux repose 'em. How charming in some rural spot, Combining love with garden plot, At once to cultivate one's flowers And one's epistolary powers, Growing one's own choice words and fancies In orange tubs, and beds of pansies ; One's sighs and passionate declarations In odorous rhet'ric of carnations ; Seeing how far one's stocks will reach ; Taking due care one's flowers of speech To guard from blight as well as bathos, And watering, every day, one's pathos. A letter comes just gathered, we Doat on its tender brilliancy ; Inhale its delicate expression Of balm and pea ; and its confession, Made with as sweet a maiden blush As ever morn bedew'd in bush ; And then, when we have kissed its wit, 4nd heart, in water putting it, To keep its remarks fresh, go round Our little eloquent plot of ground ; And with delighted hands compose Our answer, all of lily and rose, Of tuberose and of violet,. And little darling (mignionette) ; And gratitude and polyanthus, And flowers that say, " Felt never man thus !" 62 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. THE FLOWER GIRL. BY MRS. CORBOLD. Come buy, come buy my mystic flowers, All ranged with due consideration, And culled in fancy's fairy bowers, To suit each age and every station. For those who late in life would tarry, I've Snowdrops, winter's children cold ; And those who seek for wealth to marry May buy the flaunting Marigold. I've Ragwort, Ragged Robins, too, Cheap flowers for those of low condition ; For Bachelors I've Buttons blue ; And Crown Imperials for ambition. For sportsmen keen, who range the lea, I've Pheasant's Eye, and sprigs of Heather ; For courtiers with the supple knee, I've Parasites and Prince' s-Feather. For thin, tall fops, I keep the Rush, For peasants still am Nightshade weeding ; For rakes, I've Devil-in-tlie-Bush, For sighing Strephons, Love-lies- Bleeding. But fairest blooms affection's hand For constancy and worth disposes, And gladly weaves at your command, A wreath of Amaranths and Roses. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 63 TO VICTORIA. BY MISS LANDON. V — iolet, grace of the vernal year, Offered be thou to this spring-like reign, Is not thy tint to that Lady dear, Whose banner of blue is the lord of the main ? I — vy, we twine of changeless green, Constant for ever in leaf and bough ; So may the heart of our gentle queen, Be always verdant and fresh as now. C — araation, laced with many a streak Of blooming red on its leaflets bright, May be a type of her mantling cheek, Blent with a brow of pearly white. T — ansy, though humble an herb it be, Look not upon it with scornful eye ; On virtue that lurks in low degree, A glance should fall kind from those on high. O — live, thy branch, dove-borne, o'er the foam, Was a sign for the surges of death to cease ; So from the lips of our dove should come The soft, but the sure command of peace. R — oses of England, ceasing from fight, Twine round her brow, in whose veins are met The princely blood those roses unite In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet. 64 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. I — ris, to thee, the maid of the bow That promises hope her name has given ; Join then the wreath at her feet we throw, Who beams as a symbol of hope from Heaven. A — nemone, flower of the wind, is the last We cull, and our garland is now complete : Gentle the current and soft be the blast, Which Victoria the queen of the ocean shall meet LINES ON FLOWERS. BY PATTERSON. Flowers are the brightest things which earth On her broad bosom, loves to cherish ; Gay they appear as children's mirth, Like fading dreams of hope they perish In every clime, in every age, Mankind have felt their pleasing sway ; And lays to them have deck'd the page Of moralist — and minstrel gay. By them the lover tells his tale, They can his hopes, his fears express ; The maid, when words or looks would fail, Can thus a kind return confess. They wreath the harp at banquets tried, With them we crown the crested brave : They deck the maid — adorn the bride — Or form the chaplets for her grave. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS 65 THE POSIE. BY ROBERT BURNS O Luve will venture in where it daurna weel be seen ; Luve will venture in where wisdom aince has been ; But I will down yon river rove, amang the woods sae green, — And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. The Primrose I will pu', the firstling of the year ; And I will pu' the Pink, the emblem o' my dear ; For she's the pink o' woman kind, and blooms without a peer — And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 1 will pu' the budding Rose, wnen Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' ner sweet, bonny mou' ; The Hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue — And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The Lily it is pure, and the Lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I'll place the Lily there ; The Daisy's for simplicity, and unaffected air — And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The Hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey, Where, like an aged man, it stands at break of day ; But the songster's nest within the bush, I winna tak away — And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. It 66 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. The woodbine I will pu', when the evening- star is near And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear ; The Violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to wear — And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. J'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band of love, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'ei remove — And this will be a posie to my ain dear Mav. THE DIALOGUE FROM THE FRENCH OF CHRISTINE DE PISE, VAmant. I sell to thee the Autumn Rose, Let it say how dear thou art ; All my lips dare not disclose, Let it whisper to thy heart ; How Love draws my soul to thee, Without language thou may'st see. La Dame. I sell to thee the Aspen-leaf, : Tis to show I tremble still, When I muse on all the grief Love can cause, if false or ill : How too many have believed, Trusted long, and been deceived. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 67 L'Amant. I sell to thee a Rosary, Proving I am only thine ; By its sacred mystery, I to thee each thought resign : Fairest, turn thee not away, Let thy love my faith repay. La Dame. I sell to thee a Parrot bright, With each colour of the sky, Thou art formed to charm the sight, Learned in softest minstrelsy ; But to love, I am unknown, Nor can understand its tone. L'Amant. I sell to thee a faded Wreath, Teaching thee, alas ! too well, How I spent my latest breath, Seeking all my truth to tell ; But thy coldness bade me die Victim of thy cruelty. La Dame. 1 sell to thee the Honey-flower, Courteous, best, and bravest knight, Fragrant in the summer shower, Shrinking from the sunny light : May it not an emblem prov Of untold, but tender love ? 6$ THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS^ HOLY FLOWERS. BY MARY HOWITT. Mindful of the pious festivals which our church prescribes, I have sought to make these charming objects of floral nature, the time-pieces of my religions calendar, and the mementoes of the hastening period of my mortality. Thus I can light the taper to our Virgin Mother on the blowing of the white snow-drop, which opens its floweret at the time of Candlemas ; the lady's smock, and the daffodil, remind me of the Annunciation ; the blue harebell, of the Festival of St. George ; the ranunculus, of the Invention of the Cross; the scarlet lychnis, of St. John the Baptist's day ; the white lily, of the Visitation of our Lady ; and the Virgin's bower, of her Assumption ; and Michaelmas, Mar- tinmas, Holyrood, and Christmas, have all their appropriate monitors. I learn the time of day from the shutting of the blossoms of the Star of Jerusalem and the Dandelion, and the hour of the night by the stars. A Franciscan. Ah ! simple-hearted piety, In former days such flowers could see The peasant, wending to his toil, Beheld them deck the leafy soil ; They sprung around his cottage door ; He saw them on the heathy moor ; Within the forest's twilight glade, Where the wild deer its eovert made ; In the green vale remote and still, And gleaming on the ancient hill. The days are distant now — gone by With the old times of minstrelsy ; When, all unblest with written lore, Were treasured up traditions hoar; THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 69 And each still lake and mountain lone, Had a stern legend of its own ; And hall, and cot, and valley-stream, Were hallowed by the minstrel's dream. Then, musing in the woodland nook Each flower was as a written book, Recalling, by memorial quaint, The holy deed of martyred saint; The patient faith, which, unsubdued, Grew mightier, tried through fire and blood One blossom, 'mid its leafy shade, The virgin's purity pourtrayed ; And one, with cup all crimson dyed, Spoke of a Saviour crucified ; And rich the store of holy thought That little forest-flower brought, Doctrine and miracle, whate'er We draw from books, was treasured there Faith, in the wild woods tangled bound, A blessed heritage had found ; And Charity and Hope were seen In the lone isle, and wild ravine. Then pilgrims, through the forest brown, Slow journeying on from town to town, Halting 'mong mosses green and dank, Breathed each a prayer before he drank From waters by the pathway side ; Then duly, morn and eventide, Before those ancient crosses grey, Now mould'ring silently away, Aged and young devoutly bent In simple prayer — how eloquent ! For each good gift man then possessed Demanded blessing, and was blest. 70 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. What though in our pride's selfish mood We hold those times as dark and rude, Yet give we, from our wealth of mind, More grateful feeling, or refined 1 And yield we unto Nature aught Of loftier, or of holier thought, Than they who gave sublimest power To the small spring, and simple flower ? DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. BY -WORDSWORTH. Where will they stop, those breathing Powers, The spirits of the new-born flowers ? They wander with the breeze, they wind Where'er the streams a passage find ; Up from their native ground they rise In mute, aerial harmonies, From humble violet, modest thyme Exhaled, the essential odours climb, As if no space below the sky Their subtle flight could satisfy : Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride, If like ambition be their guide. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 71 THE FLOWER SPIRITS We are the spirits that dwell in the flowers; Ours is the exquisite music that flies, When silence and moonlight reign over the bowers, That bloom in the glory of tropical skies. We woo the bird with his melody glowing, To leap in the sunshine and warble his strain ; And ours is the odour, in turn, that bestowing, The songster is paid for his music again. There dwells no sorrow where we are abiding ; Care is a stranger, and troubles us not ; And the winds, as they pass, when too hastily riding, We woo, and they tenderly glide o'er the spot. They pause, and we glow in their rugged embraces, They drink our warm breath, rich with odour and song, Then hurry away to their desolate places, And look for us h ourly, and think of us long. Who of the dull earth that is moving around us Would ever imagine, that, nursed in a rose, At the opening of Spring our destiny found us Close prisoned, until the first bud should unclose ; Then, as the dawning of light breaks upon us, Our ringlets of silk we unfold to the air, And leap off in joy to the music that won us, And made us the tenants of climates so tab'- 72 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. THE FLOWER SPIRIT. BY CHARLES SWAIN'. When earth was in its golden prime, Ere grief or gloom had marred its hue, And Paradise, unknown to crime, Beneath the love of angels grew , Each flower was then a spirit's home, Each tree a living shrine of song ; And, oh ! that ever hearts could roam, — ■ Could quit for sin that seraph throng ! But there the spirit lingers yet, Though dimness o'er our visions fall ; And flowers that seem with dew-drops wet, Weep angel-tears lor human thrall ; And sentiments and feelings move The soul, like oracles divine ; And hearts that ever bowed to love, First found it by the flowers' sweet shrine^ A voiceless eloquence and power, Language that hath in life no sound, Still haunts, like Truth, the spirit-flower And hallows even Sorrow's ground. The wanderer gives it Memory's tear, Whilst Home seems pictured on its leaf; And hopes, and hearts, and voices dear, Come o'er him — beautiful as brief. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 73 Tis not the bloom, though wild or rare, It is the spirit power within, Which melts and moves our souls, to share The Paradise we here might win. For heaven itself around us lies, Not far, not yet our reach beyond, And we are watched by angel's eyes, With hope and faith still fond ! I well believe a spirit dwells Within the flower ! least changed of all That of the passed Immortal tells — The glorious meeds before man's fall ; Yet, still, though I should never see The mystic grace within it shine — Its essence is sublimity, Its feeling all divine. FIELD FLOWERS. FROM BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. Flowers of the field, how meet ye seem Man's frailty to pourtray, Blooming so fair in morning's beam, Passing at eve away ; Teach this, and — oh ! though brief your reign Sweet flowers ye shall not live in vain. Go, form a monitory wreath For youth's unthinking brow ; Go, and to busy mankind breathe What most he fears to know ; 74 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. Go, strew the path where age doth tread, And tell him of the silent dead. But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay, Ye breathe these truths severe, To those who droop in pale decay, Have ye no words of cheer 1 Oh, yes! ye weave a double spelL And death and life betoken well. Go, then, where wrapt in fear and gloom Fond hearts and true are sighing, And deck with emblematic bloom The pillow of the dying ; And softly speak, nor speak in vain, Of the long sleep and broken chain ; And say, that He who from the dust Recalls the slumbering flower, Will surely visit those who trust His mercy and his power ; Will mark where sleeps their peaceful clay, And roll, ere long, the stone away. 75 CHAPTER III. CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. ' Age is naturally cold and repulsive, and, Like a gay masker, frequently puts on the semblance of a former period of life, •whose bloom and beauty no sunshine will ever restore again, Every care-worn lineament, and furrowed wrinkle, betrays a warring thought and deceptive purpose. Youth is ever open to the sunshine, and glad as are the flowers that bloom beneath a summer's heaven." — Ephon. Childhood is especially the season of flowers, and hence the poets have very appropriately compared that early period of our existence to the spring-time of the year, when, — " There's perfume upon every wind, Music in every tree- Dews for the moisture-loving flowers — Sweets for the sucking bee ; The sick come forth for the healing breeze, The young are gathering flowers, And life is a tale of poetry, That is told by golden hours." — N. P. Willis. It is then that flowers are to us a source of exquisite, soul-thrilling delight ; we revel amid them as careless and free-hearted as their own worshipper, the butterfly ; inhaling their fragrance, and gazing on their beautiful tints with a pleasure for which we know not how to account ; it is an admiration implanted in us by the Great Maker for the most lovely of His creations : — ?6 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. " Go, mark the matchless workings of the power, That shuts within the seed the future flower ; Bids these in elegance of form excel In colour these, and those delight the smell ; Sends nature forth, the daughter of the skies, To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes." COWPEB. Let the infant, peevish and fretful from suffering under one of the many disorders to which infancy is peculiarly liable, be shown a flower, and how quickly will the tears be changed to smiles ; how eagerly will he endeavour to obtain it, clapping his little chubby hands, and crowing again with excess of glee ; and when in pos- session of the prize so much coveted, how will he strive, by chuckling laughter, and broken lispings, to express his admiration, turning it round and round, and viewing it on all sides, his eyes sparkling the while, like the bubbles on a sun-lit fountain : — " 'Tis now the poetry of life to thee! With fancies fresh and innocent as flowers, And manners sportive as the free-wing'd air; Thou see'st a friend in every smile ; thy days Like singing birds, in gladness speed along, And not a tear that trembles on thy lids, But shines away, and sparkles into joy." Robert Montgomery. Even the universal desire manifested by children to pull flowers in pieces, we are inclined to think, arises from an impression that by so doing, they will be enabled to discover the source of such delightful sen- sation, and take their fill at once, as the boy in the fable is said to have destroyed the bird which laid golden eggs, in order to enrich himself with the precious CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 77 s^ore he supposed it to contain ; and this impression is further confirmed by watching the earnestness with which they proceed in the work of destruction, care- fully examining every petal until the whole are plucked off, and the disappointment with which they turn from the scattered fragments : — " Oh, forbear to cull In merest wilfulness, thou petted child ! And scatter the hard paths with beautiful Young flowers and sweet, though world-despised and wild." Anon. What an emblem, are those shattered flowers, of the objects of our desires in riper years ; how eagerly do we grasp them, and what disappointment ensues to find them wither in our hands, without yielding the happi- ness we unreasonably expected from them ; — and why ? not because they are incapable of so doing, but that we, like foolish children, wishing to obtain a surfeit of sweets, enjoyed them not temperately. We are even, as the poet says, — " Like babes, that pluck an early bud apart To know the dainty colour of its heart." Thomas Hood. Man ! Man ! thou art ever repining and discontented ; but didst thou not abuse the good gifts showered around theeby a gracious Providence, how happy might'st thou be in this beautiful world, exclaiming, — " These are thy wonders, Lord of Love ! To make us see we are but flowers that glide, Which when we once can find and prove, Thou hast a garden for us where to bide ; Who would be more, Swelling through store, Forfeit their paradise by their pride." George Herbert 78 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. Butto return to the season of youth — to the spring- time of life — when flowers are scattered about our path, thickly as stars in the firmament of night, and we sport like lambs in the verdant meads, heedless of what the future may bring : — " Fearless, beautiful boyhood ! beloved of nature, who, like a kind school-mistress, sits wpon the hills, and claps her hands in joy at his pas- time, giving him the earth and all its landscapes at once, for his school and play-ground — and then the rocks and woods re-echo his mirth ; and then in thoughtful silence wandering away, the quiet nooks enclose him with their greenness, making companions of everything animate and inanimate — endowed with beauty; searching with a worshipping curiosity into every leaf and flower about his path, while the boughs bend to him and touch him with their sunshine ; pick- ing up lessons of present delight and future wisdom, by rivers' sides, by brooks, in the glens, and in the fields ; inhaling, in every breath he draws, intelligence and health." — Thus says Christopher North, that "grey-haired man of glee" — whose writings breathe all the freshness and sparkling vivacity of early youth — are redolent of sunshine, and fragrance, and vernal melody. Long may he live to delight the readers of Maga with the outpourings of his joyous spirit, trans- porting them in fancy to the wild solitudes of his native hills, where, — " 'Mid the fern and the heather kind nature doth keep One bright spot of green for her favourite's sleep ; And close to that covert, as clear as the skies, When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies. Wilson. Where the cares and vexations of the busy world are CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. f9 all forgotten, and the heart holdeth commune with the Great Invisible, purified from aught that is gross and unworthy by the blessed influence of natural piety, which teacheth man to know himself for what he is, — a worm crawling upon the face of the earth, — a grain of dust, liable to be swept away by the slightest breath ; yet, withal, gifted and endowed with powers and facul- ties, which if rightly employed will place him but " a little lower than the angels ;" where " The inner spirit keepeth holiday- Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine left." Wordsworth. And we, reflecting on the wondrous attributes where- with the beneficent Creator hath invested frail mor- tality, exclaim, with the Prince of Denmark, — " What a piece of work is man ! How noble in reason !' How infinite in faculties ! in form and moving, how express and admirable ! in action, how like an angel ! in ap- prehension, how like a god ! the beauty of the world ! the paragon of animals !" or, with the Poet of the Night repeat these lines : — "How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man ! How passing wonder He who made him such ! Who centred in our make such strange extremes, From different natures marvellously mix'd. Connexion exquisite of distant worlds ! Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! Midway from nothing to the Deity ! A beam ethereal, sullied and absorb'd ! Though sullied and dishonour'd, still divine ! Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! Helpless immortal ! insect infinite !"— Young. 80 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. But we are wandering from the path of our subject and must crave the reader's indulgence, while we re- trace our steps, premising however, that it will not he the last time, by many, that we shall have occasion to do the like, being as one who walketh in a pleasant garden, where each fresh object holds out a greater temptation than the last, to make us pause and examine its beauties, until we become fairly confused by admi- ration, and dazzled with excess of light. "A mother kind walks forth in the even, She, with her little son, for pleasure given To tread the fringed banks of an amorous flood, That with its music courts a sylvan wood ; There ever talking to her only bliss, That now before, and now behind her is, She stoops for flowers, the choicest may be had, And bringing them to please her little lad, Spies in his hand some baneful flower or weed, "Whereon he 'gins to smell, perchance to feed, With a more earnest haste she runs to him And pulls them from him." — Wiiiiam Browne. Who can look upon the above picture, limned by the hand of one of Britain's sweetest pastoral poets, with- out having the tenderest recollections awakened within him, of a parent, now perchance sleeping in the cold ehurch-yard, or if not so, divided from him by a wide gulph of worldly cares and interests, no longer exerci- sing a judicious control over his actions ; no longer with a firm yet gentle hand, pulling from him the baneful weeds of folly, and flowers, — beautiful in appearance, and endued with fragrancy, but fraught with a subtile poison, — which pleasure scatters over the pathway of man, luring him to tarry in her voluptuous bowers, and pteep his soul in sensual delights, whereafter come CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 81 repentance and vain self-reproach, for precious time thus idly squandered, and opportunities irrevocably lost. ** Oh, lovely flowers ! the earth's rich diadem, Bright resurrection from her sable tomb, Ye are the eyes of Nature ! her best gem — With you she tints her face with living bloom, And breathes delight in gales of rich perfume : Emblems are ye of heaven, and heavenly joy, And starry brilliance in a world of gloom, Peace, innocence, and guileless infancy, Claim sisterhood with you, and holy is the tie." — Q. Aye! in sooth, " holy is the tie !" Is there one of our readers who will not subscribe to the truth of this sen- timent ? Is there aught so pure, so perfectly blame- less in its nature, as the love we cherish in early years for all things fair and gentle, but more especially for flowers; may they find a place in our bosoms, when we become traffickers in the busy mart, and actors in the great drama of existence ? Whence ai-ises the pleasure that we ever experience at the sight of a flower, but from an association of ideas ? Does not the jaded mind immediately return to drink from the untainted waters of that fount of feeling, the stream of which, since it left the emerald meads of childhood, has become turgid to the eye, and bitter to the taste? Well, may an American poet exclaim : — " If 'tis not true philosophy That the spirit when set free, Still lingers about its olden home In the blossom and the tree ; It is very strange, that our pulses thrill At the tint of a voiceless thing, And our hearts yearn so with tenderness, In the beautiful bloom of spring." N. P. Willi*. F 82 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. And well may Madame de Genlis, recurring to the scenes of her early life, write thus ; — " Oh, how much sweeter is it to recai to my mind the walks and sports of my happy childhood, than the pomp and splendour of the palaces I have since inhabited! All the courts, once so brilliant, are now faded. All the projects which were then built with so much confidence, are become chimeras. The impenetrable future has cheated alike the security of princes, and the ambition of cour- tiers. Versailles is dropping into ruins ; the delicious gardens of Chantilly, of Villers-Coterets, of Sceaux, of Isle- Adam, are destroyed. I should now look in vain for the vestiges of that frail grandeur which I once ad- mired there ; but I should find the banks of the Loire as smiling as ever, the meadows of St. Aubin as full of violets and lilies of the valley, and its woods loftier and fairer. There are no vicissitudes for the eternal beau- ties of nature ; and while, amidst blood-stained revo- lutions, palaces, marble columns, statues of bronze, and even cities themselves disappear, the simple flow- ers of the field, regardless of the storm, grow into beauty, and multiply for ever." Yes! — " The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,^ And new-cropp'd daisies, are thy treasure ; I'd°gladly part with worldly pelf, To taste again thy youthful pleasure !" Joanna Baillie. Says the first of Scotland's poetesses, addressing a child; and the Northamptonshire peasant, in his own peculiarly sweet, though mournful strains, thus sings of early delights : — " Those joys which childhood calls its own, Would they were kin to men ! CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 83 Tbose treasures to the world unknown, When known, are withered then ! But hovering round her growing y-ears, To gild Care's sable shroud, Their spirit through the gloom appears, As suns behind a cloud." — John Clare. This is but one of the many instances in which he recurs to the flowery pleasures of childhood, and he is but one of the many thousands who have recorded in golden numbers their joyful recollections of that de- lightful period of existence, when — " We tread on flowers, flowers meet our every glance, Itis the scene, the season of romance, The very bridal of the earth and sky." Josiah Condor. Mrs. Hemans, in one of her letters to a friend, says: " I really think that fine passion for flowers is the only one which long sickness leaves untouched with its chilling influence. Often during this weary illness of mine, have I looked upon new books with perfect apa- thy, when if a friend has sent me a few flowers, my heart has leaped up to their dreamy hues and odours, with a sudden sense of renovated childhood, which seems to me one of the mysteries of our being." How many instances might be quoted to show the prevalence of this mysterious feeling. How often, when the frame has become worn out by disease, and while the sufferer was calmly awaiting the approach of death ; — when all the joys, sorrows, hopes, and fears of mortality have faded away, even as a dream, from the memory, — the scenes and circumstances of childhood, — forgotten amid the turmoil of stormy passions and painful 84 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. anxieties, — have arisen before him in all their pristine freshness and beauty. The soul, as it approaches more nearly to its Creator, becomes purified ; the fogs and mists of prejudice and folly are swept away, and it is enabled more clearly to distinguish, and better to ap- preciate the value of that state of innocence, which is an antetype of the angelic. It longs to be once more as a little child, having now come to a right under- standing of our Saviour's words, — " Suffer little chil- dren to come unto me, and forbid them not ; for of such is the kingdom of Heaven." " Oh, world of sweet phantoms, how pleasant thou art ! The past is perpetual youth to the heart." — L. E. L. Sang one who perished, like a just expanded rose on which the blight has suddenly fallen ; and Keats, the pure, the gentle-hearted, he, — "Who grew Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished, And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew." — Shelley Was it not this feeling which prompted him, on the bed of dissolution, to exclaim,, that " he felt the daisies growing over him" ? Another poet, who passed a weary and a toilsome life,— " Chained to the desk, the world's o'er-laboured slave," Thus recurs to the sweet morn of existence ; — " How beautiful The vernal hour of life. Then pleasure wings "With lightning speed the moments, and the sun Burns brightly, and nor cloud nor storm appears CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 85 To darken the horizon. Hope looks out Into the dazzling sheen, and fondly talks Of summer, and Love comes, and all the air Rings with wild harmonies." — Carrington. Alas ! that he should have found occasion to draw the veil of disappointment and regret over this bright picture, by adding, — " But songs may cease Though caroll'd in the faithless spring, and Hope May prove a flatterer, and Love may plume His wings for flight, and every flower that blows Be blasted by the tempest's breath." " If people would be wise enough through life to derive enjoyment from such innocent pleasures as de- lighted them in childhood, we should find far fewer sour tempers, cold hearts, and narrow minds in the world. All, except positive idiots, are endowed by God with a portion of that beautiful poetry of existence, which in childhood is so conspicuously evident, teach- ing even the infant in the nurse's arms to snatch at flowers and laugh in the sunshine! " These are the words of Miss Twamley, one, whose name we cannot mention, but straightway there rise before us visions of floral loveliness, filled with all fair shapes and rain- bow hues ; we breathe an atmosphere of perfume, and our sense of hearing becomes so acute, that we can even distinguish, amid the grand symphony of nature, the peculiar chime of the harebells, which this lady likens to fairy mnsic, — a symphonious peal, rung out just as twilight steals over the landscape, to summon the tiny folk to their revels, when they Knit hands, and beat the ground In a light fantastic round." 86 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. But why, "oh, lady fair ! " say "all, except positive idiots?" Have these no share, think ye, in "the poetry of existence " ? Do they not love to inhale the perfume, and gaze on the forms and hues of flowers ? Do they not listen with delight to the singing of birds, the gurgling of running streams, and the waving of leafy trees 1 For our part, we think that the life of an idiot, is one of perpetual childhood ; that he is gifted with a double portion of simple and innocent enjoy- ments, to compensate for the loss of those which result from a right employment of man's intellectual and moral powers : — " Fine tastes, pure sympathies, and aspirations high." Oh, tell us not that the idiot is deprived of a share in the " poetry of existence ! " Is he not the companion of the bird, and the bee, and the butterfly ? Does he not lie about in the green meads, basking in the sunshine? Does he not plait rushes by the streamlet's brim, and talk to his own image reflected on its glassy surface ? Does he not hide him in flowery nooks and dingles, laughing like a very incarnation of gladness, and mur- muring snatches of sweet old ballads ? Even in his melancholy moods, — save during those periods when he is possessed by fears, the more terrible from their vagueness, and they are not generally of long duration, — his state seems to be that of passive enjoyment, wit- ness the following striking picture from " Remorse," a tragedy, by Coleridge : — " 'Tis a poor Idiot Boy, Who sits in the sun and twirls a bough about, His weak eyes seethed in most unmeaning tears. And so he sits, swinging hi3 cone-like head, CHILDREN AND FLOWERS; 87 And staring at his bough from morn till sunset, See saws his voice in inarticulate noises." And who shall say that he is unhappy? The tears he sheds flow not from disappointment or regret. He has no fears for the future, no ambitious longings, no unruly desires, that never can be gratified, to vex him 1 So his physical wants be attended, to, what cares he how the world wags ; how thrones and empires totter ; how misery and vice progress ; how disease and death afflict nations and individuals. Does he wish to become a king? straightway his "cone-like head" bears a regal diadem, his tattered habiliments are changed to purple robes, blazing with jewelry, and the bough he " twirls" is the sceptre, which symbolizes his com- mand over half the globe. Does he wish? — but it were useless to pursue this subject further ; he is a poet, a philosopher, — aught which may suit the whim of the moment, yet free from the harrassing cares, griefs, and anxieties, which but too often render miserable the lives of those who play such conspicuous parts in the great drama of mortality. Crabbe, who was a most faithful delineator of human life in all its phases, and under all circumstances, speaking of the inmates of the village poor-house, says— "The blind, the lame, and far the happiest they ! The moping idiot, and the madman gay." Even amid our tears of pity for poor Ophelia, we can- not help feeling in some degree rejoiced, that her mind has become a blank, bearing no record of her former woes and sufferings, so that she can now find pleasure and amusement in twining garlands and carolling songs, as in the days of her childhood. As well might 88 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. it be said because the tunes of the iEolian harp are wild and wandering, that it gives out no melody to the touch of the soft breezes, as that the mind of an idiot, which is moved by sudden impulses and gusts of passion, responds not to those holy influences, which the God of nature has scattered through the material universe, and which constitute " the poetry of exis- tence." " Flowers are the bright remembrancers of youth : They waft us back, with their bland odorous breath, The joyous hours that only young life knows, Ere we have learnt that this fair earth hides graves. They bring the cheek that's mouldering in the dust Again before us, tinged with health's own rose ; They bring the voices we shall hear no more, Whose tones were sweetest music to our ears ; They bring the hopes that faded one by one, Till nought was left to light our path but faith, That we too, like the flowers, should spring to life, But not, like them, again e'er fade or die." Countess of Blessington. There are those, who tell us, that youth is not the most happy period of existence ; — that the sorrows of child- hood, though light in comparison with those we expe- rience in after years, are as weighty in proportion to the powers of endurance that we then possess. They say: — " 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view." And our only reason for recurring with such a tender- ness to the scenes and pleasures of by-gone times, is that we are ever dissatisfied with our present lot, and inclined to murmur at the decrees of Providence. But, CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 89 oh, this is a vain philosophy ! Reason may preach and moralize after this fashion, but Feeling denies the truth of the inference drawn. The very circumstance of our forgetfulness with regard to the griefs and troubles of childhood, proves their trifling and easily effaceable nature. Is it so with the cares and anxieties of matu- rity ? Where is the favoured mortal who, if his bosom were laid bare, would not exhibit traces of wounds, many freshly bleeding, and scars too deep ever to be effaced ? " The many ills to which the flesh is heir," when do they come most thickly upon us 1 not in the early days ! not in the spring of life ! but in the sum- mer, and the autumn, and the winter ; 'tis then the desolating tempest sweeps over the landscape, and we behold the buds of hope, and the full-blown flowers of joy, alike withered, scattered, and destroyed. This, it may be said, is a melancholy picture of human life ; " 'tis true, 'tis pity, pity 'tis, 'tis true," in the gene- rality of cases, and where there is one, whose heart is unscathed by the burning finger of affliction, there are thousands who might exclaim, with Lady Randolph : — " Have you not sometimes seen an early flowei Open its bud, and spread its silken leaves, To catch sweet airs, and odours to bestow ; Then by a keen blast nipt, pull in its leaves, And though still living, die to scent and beauty ? Emblem of me ; Affliction, like a storm, Hath killed the forward blossoms of the heart." Home's Douglas. Let it not be supposed, by this, that we are unaware of the truth of the scripture proverb, which saith, "whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth," or that we would ad- 90 HILDREN AND FLOWERS. vocate the indulgence of a morbid feeling of regret for pBst-away pleasures. We humbly acknowledge the wisdom and justice of the Supreme Disposer of events, and firmly believe that adversity, — " Though like the toad, ugly and venomous, Bears yet a precious jewel in his head." — Shakspere. But even while acknowledging this, our thoughts will revert regretfully to the sweet memories of early days, and we cannot help saying to the child : — " Linger yet upon the hour, Of the green leaf and the flower ; Art thou happy ? For thy sake Do the birds their music make — Birds with golden plumes, that bring Sunshine from a distant spring. For thine eyes the roses grow Red as sunset, white as snow, And the bees are gathering gold Ere the winter hours come cold. Flowers are colouring the wild-wood, Art thou weary of thy childhood ? Break not its enchanted reign, — Such, life never knows again." — L. E. L. CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 91 CHILDREN PLAYING. From " The Vision," a Dramatic Poem. BY CONTSTANTIA LOUISA REDDELL. I see a beauteous vale, Embosomed in the mountains, whose proud height Seems like a pinnacle for Time to sit And watch his generations. In that vale, Seeming the very resting place of grace, The homes of men are scattered; sunlight rests Upon them like a joy ; the dark blue sky Smiles on them cloudlessly; the turf is green As were the fields of Eden ; and bedropt "With flowers, of hues as varied as the tears The rainbow shines with ; and the ringing sound Of youthful laughter rises on the air : Nature hath found a voice, and speaks in joy From the broad mountain and the lowly vale. 'Tis evening : Labour ceases from his toil ; And from each portal issues forth a train Of youthful forms with hands linked close, and brows All garlanded with flowers ; their dancing feet Bound lightly o'er the violets buds, that lie Like thick strewn gems around them ; and their sweet Clear voices pierce the air, and rise to heaven With angel merriment. Some leave the dance Wearied, and throw themselves among wili beds Of fragrant thyme and roses, where the bees 92 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. Hum over head in sleepy murmurs. Some Cull the young huds to make a dazzling shower Around each other. Some, with careless tread And merry song, take pitchers to the stream, That flows so glassily ; with bended knee They stoop upon the brink, and when the draught Is filled, toss back into the breeze the long And glossy tresses, that had drank the wave In that low bend ; and raising up their eyes Like dewy stars, pause there awhile, to watch With playful smiles the childish groups that dip Their eager hands to catch the pebble stones That shine so cool beneath. O Paradise ! I see thee once again : blessed are ye, My children, for your home is Eden-like ! THE BARD'S DESCRIPTION OF CHILDREN. From the " Course of Time." BY ROBERT POLLOK. What tongue ? — no tongue shall tell what bliss o'er- flowed The mother's tender heart, while round her hung The offspring of her love, and lisped her name, As living jewels dropped unstained from heaven, That made her fairer far, and sweeter seem, Than every ornament of costliest hue : And who hath not been ravished as she passed With all her playful band of little ones, CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 93 Like Luna, with her daughters of the sky, Walking in matron majesty and grace? All who had hearts, here pleasure found : and oft Have I when tired with heavy tasks, for tasks Were heavy in the world below, relaxed My weary thoughts among their guileless sports, And led them by their little hands afield, And watched them run and crop the tempting flower, Which oft, unasked, they brought me, and bestowed With smiling face, that waited for a look Of praise, and answered curious questions, put In much simplicity, but ill to solve; And heard their observations strange and new, And settled whiles their little quarrels, soon Ending in peace, and soon forgot in love. And still I looked upon their loveliness, And sought through nature for similitudes Of perfect beauty, innocence, and bliss ; And fairest imagery around me thronged : Dew-drops at day-spring on a seraph's locks, Roses that bathe about the well of life, Young Loves, young Hopes, dancing on morning's cheek, Gems leaping in the coronet of Love ! So beautiful, so full of life, they seemed So made entire of beams of angels' eyes. Gay, guileless, sportive, lovely, little things ! Playing around the den of Sorrow, clad In smiles, believing in their fairy hopes, And thinking man and woman true ! all joy, Happy all day, and happy all the night. 94 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. THE PICTURE OF T. C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS. [BY ANDREW MARVEL!. See with what sweet simplicity The nymph begins her golden days ! In the green grass she loves to lie, And there, with her fair aspect, tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names : But only with the roses plays, And them does tell What colour best becomes them, and what smell. * * * * # Meantime whilst every verdant thing Itself does at thy beauty charm, Reform the errors of the spring ; Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeing they are fair ; And roses of their thorns disarm : But most procure That violets may a longer age endure. But, O young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers but spare the buds ; Lest Flora, angry at thy crime, To kill the infants in their prime, Should quickly make the example yours, And e'er we see Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes in thee CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 95 SUBDUING INFLUENCE OF CHILDISH BEAUTY AND INNOCENCE. From "Paradise and the Peri," BY THOMAS MOORE. When o'er the vale of Balbec winging Slowly, she sees a child at play, Among the rosy wild flowers singing, As rosy and as wild as they ; Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, The beautiful blue damsel-flies, That fluttered round the jasmine stems, Like winged flowers, or flying gems : — And, near the boy, who tired with play, Now nestling 'mid the roses lay, She saw a wearied man dismount From his hot steed, and on the brink Of a small imaret's rustic fount, Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turned To the fair child, who fearless sat, Though never yet hath day-beam burned Upon a brow more tierce than that, — Sullenly fierce — a mixture dire, Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire I In which the Peri's eye could read Dark tales of many a ruthless deed ; * » * # But hark ! the vesper call to prayer, As slow the orb of daylight sets, 96 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. Is rising sweetly on the air, From Syria's thousand minarets ! The boy has started from the bed Of flowers, where he had laid his head, And down upon the fragrant sod Kneels, with his forehead to the south, Lisping th' eternal name of God From Purity's own cherub mouth, And looking, while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing skies, Like a stray babe of Paradise, Just lighted on that flowery plain, And seeking for its home again ! Oh ! 'twas a sight — that Heav'n — that child^*- A scene which might have well beguiled Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh For glories lost and peace gone by ! And how felt he, the wretched Man Reclining there while memory ran O'er many a year of guilt and strife, Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, Nor found one sunny resting-place, Nor brought him back one branch of grace ! " There was a time," he said, in mild, Heart-humbled tones — " thou blessed child ! " When, young and haply pure as thou, " I looked and prayed like thee — but now — " He hung his head — each nobler aim, And hope, and feeling, which had slept From boyhood's hour, that instant came Fresh o'er him, and he wept — he wept! CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 97 THE CHILD'S RETURN FROM THE WOODLANDS. BY MRS. HEMANS. ' Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee? Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free ? With the hare through the copses and dingles wild ? With the butterfly over the heath, fair child? Yes : the light fall of thy bounding feet Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat ; Yet hast thou ranged the green forest dells, And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique son^ Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng; The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim, The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim ; These are old words, that have made each grove A dreaming haunt for romance and love — Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie, A place for the gushings of poesy. Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er ; Enough for thee are the dews that sleep, Like hidden gems, in the flower- urns deep: Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell 'Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell ; And the scent by the blossoming sweet-briers shed, And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head. 98 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. Oh ! happy child, in thy fawn-like glee, What is rememhrance or thought to thee ? Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of Spring, O'er thy green pathway their colours fling ; Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon — What if to droop and to perish soon ? Nature hath mines of such wealth — and thou Never will prize its delights as now ! For a day is coming to quell the tone That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one ! And to dim thy brow with a touch of care, Under the gloss of its clustering hair ; And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes Into the stillness of autumn skies ; And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part, 'Midst the hidden things of each human heart. Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this ? Life hath enough of yet holier bliss ! Such be thy portion ! — the bliss to look, With a reverent spirit, through Nature's book By fount, by forest, by river's line, To track the paths of a love divine ; To read its deep meanings — to see and hear God in earth's garden, and not to fear ! CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. T H E FOREST CHILD. BY R. F. HOUSMAN. It was a vision pure and mild As ever bless'd a waking eye ; The sweet form of a sinless child, Beneath a summer sky. I sat beside the mossy roots Of an old Elm — a hoary tree ; And near my feet a little rill Went dancing in its glee — Went dancing on the livelong day, Through flickering scenes of light and shade Yet sometimes paused in flowery nooks, And with the flowerets played. I gazed upon the restless thing, With mingled thoughts of joy and pain ; For that blithe streamlet led my heart To childhood's sunny plain. When, hark ! the greenwood thicKets stir — The tangled hazel boughs divide — And, lo! a bright- haired, happy child Is standing at my side ! 'Tis wearied with its summer play — As roses droop with too much dew, And on its smooth cheek deeply burns The rose's crimson hue. 100 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. Around its brow a coronal Of fairest leaves and buds entwine ; And on its lip a thousand gems Lie, fresh from Nature's mine. 'Tis wearied out with summer play : The sparkling wreath aside is flung— And in the young moss sweetly sleeps A child, as bright and young ! But years since then have passed away, And years bring change, and blight, and woe- And they who come the latest here Are oft the first to go. The phantom of the greenwood glen Is sleeping in a quiet tomb, Beneath the ancient yew, that fills The churchyard with its gloom. The crimson blush of dappled dawn Wakes all sweet things in bower and brake, The bird, the flower, the lamb, the fawn — But she may never wake. Yet often in the summer time J sit beside the hoary tree, And love to watch the little rill Go dancing in its glee. And when a small bird breaks away From its dim nook of shrouding leaves, My startled spirit owns the spell That subtle fancy weaves ; — CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 101 And then T see, or seem to see, Between the blossom' d branches wild, Come stealing in with silent step, The solitary child ! CHILDREN GATHERING FLOWERS IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF SALISBURY CATHEDRAL. BY THE REV. W. LISLE BOWLES. When summer comes, the little children play, In the church- yard of our cathedral grey, Busy as morning bees, and gathering flowers, In the brief sunshine ; they, of coming hours Reck not, intent upon their play, though Time Speed like a spectre by them, and their prime Bear on to sorrow — " Angel, cry aloud !" Tell them of Life's long evening — of the shroud : No ! let them play ; for age alone, and care, Too soon will frown to teach them what they are. Then let them play ; but come, with aspect bland, Come, Charity, and lead them by the hand ; Come, Faith, and point amidst life's saddest gloom, A light from Heaven, that shines beyond the tomb. When they look up, and in the clouds admire The lessening shaft of that aerial spire, So be their thoughts uplifted from the sod, Where Time's brief flowers they gather — to their God. 102 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS THE YOUNG QUESTIONER. BY W. H. PRIDEAUX. The lovely Flowers that deck this earth— how elo- quent are they ! What lessons to the human heart they smilingly convey ; And yet how prone are we to pass their pure moni- tions by, Gazing with listlessness of heart, and unobservant eye! To Childhood, are they not as hopes, which fascinate the mind, And lead the footsteps gaily on with purpose ever kind ? To Manhood, are they not as joys that gild a summer-day, And emblems of his bosom's pride, which shortly must decay ? To Age, the gay remembrancers of what was seen and known, When love was budding in the breast, for one — and one alone ? To each they were affection's pledge, and strengthened kindred ties, — Gave more of vigour to the pulse, and brightness to the eyes. ****** Who loves not flowers must have a heart of uncon- genial soil : Go view the lilies of the vale that " neither spin nor toil," CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 103 E'en Solomon in all his pride was not arrayed like these Meek dwellers in their loneliness, perfuming every hreeze ; There's odour in their very name, which to the thought- ful brain, Comes with refreshing influence, like April's pleasant rain : The rose that to the sun's warm kiss uplifts its blush- ing cheek, Is but a rainbow type of life, departing whilst we speak. It flourishes with fragrant glow, but with the set of sun, Its symmetry is wasted down — its beauty is undone : The lotus, what a glorious word ! accordant with the flower, The swan adores it as he swims the lake in stately power, Comparing, with ambitious pride, the whiteness of his plume, To its bowl of vestal purity — so freighted with perfume ! ***** I've seen an old man's sunken eye in ecstacy grow wet, At mention of the Heather-bell, or fragrant Violet: The brief recital T convey, because so full of truth, Of what is felt in frosty age, and taught in melting youth : — He sat beside his wicket gate, beneath a sheltering tree, With head reclining on his hands, and elbow on each knee, And to him came with eager speed, one of a childish band, Grasping the flowers, of which I speak, within his chubby hand ; 104? CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. With gleeful smile, he gave them to his grandsire on the seat, And wondering, asked ; " who painted them, and made them smell so sweet ?" I took the child upon my knee, and told him all I knew, The old man's eyes were bathed afresh with feeling's holy dew ; And I have treasured, from that day's most memorable hours, The question of that simple Child — the beauty of the Flowers! A BIRTH-DAY BALLAD.; BY MISS JEWSBURY. Thou art plucking spring roses, Genie, And a little red rose art thou, Thou hast unfolded to-day, Genie, Another bright leaf, I trow ; But the roses will live and die, Genie, Many and many a time, Ere thou hast unfolded quite, Genie — Grown into maiden prime. Thou art looking now at the birds, Genie But, oh ! do not wish their wing ! That would only tempt the fowler, Genie, Stay thou on earth and sing; Stay in the nursing nest, Genie, Be not soon thence beguiled, Thou wilt ne'er find a second, Genie, Never be twice a child. CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 105 Thou art building towers of pebbles, Genie, Pile them up brave and high, And leave them to follow a bee, Genie, As be wandereth singing by ; But if thy towers fall down, Genie, And if the brown bee is lost, Never weep, for thou must learn, Genie, How soon life's schemes are crost. Thy hand is in a bright boy's, Genie, And he calls thee his sweet wee wife, But let not thy little heart think, Genie, Childhood the prophet of life ; It may be life's minstrel, Genie, And sing sweet songs and clear, But minstrel and prophet now, Genie, Are not united here. What will thy future fate be, Genie, Alas ! shall I live to see ! For thou art scarcely a sapling, Genie, And I am a moss-grown tree ! I am shedding life's leaves fast, Genie, Thou art in blossom sweet ; But think of the grave betimes, Genie, Where young and old oft meet. 106 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. THE CHILD IN THE WILDERNESS. From '" The Wanderings of Cam," a MS. Poem. BY S. T. COLERIDGE. Encinctured in a twine of leaves, That leafy twine his only dress, A lovely boy was plucking fruits, In a moonlight wilderness. The moon was bright, the air was free, And fruits and flowers together grew And many a shrub, and many a tree ; And all put on a gentle hue, Hanging in the shadowy air, Like a picture rich and rare. It was a climate where there say The night is more beloved than day. But who that beauteous boy beguil'd — That beauteous boy ! — to linger here ? Alone by night, a little child, In place so silent and so wild — Has he no friend, no loving mother near ? 107 CHAPTER IV. FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. " And nightly, meadow-fairies, look, you sing, Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring ; The expressure that it bears, green let it be, More fertile-fresh than all the field to see ; And, Honi soit qui mal y pense, write, In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white ; Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee : Fairies use flowers for their charactery." Merry Wives of Windsor, Act v. Scene v. Fairies and Flowers ! what a world of bright ima- ginings do these two words open before us, associated together as they are by the concluding line of the above quotation from our immortal bard. Tbey are as golden keys whereby we unlock the entrance gates to a bound- less region of enchantment, as talismanic wands, at the waving of which arise visions and scenes of surpassing beauty and brightness; fair forms and delicate odours, rich hues and tones of ravishing melody, are before, and above, and around us, as we think of all that has been said and written upon this delightful subject; and we pass into the dream-land of spirits, singing, — ■ " Would you the fairy regions see, Hence to the greenwoods run with me ; 108 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. From mortals safe the livelong night, There countless feats the Fays delight ; "Where burns the glow-worm's lamp so blue, One gives each flower its proper hue ; While, near, his busy housewife weaves Ribbons of grass and mantling leaves ; Some teach young plants with grace to move, Some lead the woodbine to her love, Some strew the shores with shells and sand, While others pilot weeds to land : By moonlight these their labours free, Then follow me, follow me ! And the chafer's bugle our guide shall be." Leftlt. Come, reader, leave for awhile this work-day world ; forget the dull realities of life, and wander with us through the portals of the real, into the realms of ideality. See, what a glorious landscape lies stretched before us ! green meads and hoary forests, low-lying vales and heaven-aspiring mountains, within whose bowels the swarthy Gnomes are plying the anvil, and upon whose misty summits the king of the storm sits throned in awful grandeur ; but with these dark and malignant beings we have nought to do, our business is with, — " The Fays, that haunt the moonlight dell, The Elves, that sleep in the cowslip's bell, The tricksy Sprites, that come and go, Swifter than a gleam of light, Where the murmuring waters flow, And the zephyrs of the night, Bending to the flowers, that grow Basking in the silver sheen, With their voices soft and low, Sing about the rings of green, FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. 109 Which the Faries' twinkling feet Jn their nightly revels beat." — H. G. A. Lo ! now, the golden hues of sunset are investing with glory-crowns those tall mountains in the distance, and the shadows of twilight are stealing over the valleys; the rising gale rustles the long grass upon the hills, and sighs amid the willows that fringe the meadow stream ; the forest trees seem shaking off their slum- bers, and whispering to each other of the coming moon, which soon will bathe their hoary tops in silver, and hark I hear ye not a low sweet sound, like a chime of bells afar off? — i. " Have ye ever heard, in the twilight dim, A soft low strain That ye fancied a distant vesper hymn, Borne o'er the plain, By the zephyrs that rise on perfumed wing When the sun's last glances are glimmering ? ii. " Have ye heard that music with cadence 6weet And merry peal, Ring out like the echoes of Fairy feet O'er flowers that steal ? And did you deem that each breathing tone Was the distant vesper-chime alone ? in. " The source of that whispering strain I'll tell — For I've listened oft To the music faint of the blue Harebell In the gloaming soft : 'Tis the gay Fairy-folk that peal who ring, At even-time for their banqueting." MlSS TWAMEEY. 110 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. Is not this sweetly poetical, and worthy of the subject ? None the less so is an invocation which we have lately read in " A Vision of Fair Spirits ;" it runs thus : — "Robed in the silken gossamer that flows "Woven in lustre from your elfin loom ! Couched in the ruby chambers of the rose, Fed by its dew, and curtained by its bloom ! Hither ye Elves ! the sunbeam fainter glows, And the loved twilight gathers with its gloom- Fly from the grassy mount's untrodden brow, Drop from the scented blossoms of the bough. " Steal from the lily's dew-bespangled bell, That rings its fairy curfew to the night, — Haste from the lowly vi'let's hidden cell, Whose beauty shrinketh, widow-like, from sight, — Creep from the truant snail's deserted shell, Come from the cowslip's golden halls of light — Wake from each blossom of the apple tree, That ope's its bright pavilion to the bee. John Graham. Come, let us hasten to view the revels of the tiny folk, and who knows but we may even obtain a sight of their king and queen ; rarely indeed are mortals permitted to do this, except it be such as are gifted with a keener perception of things divine and spiritual, than the ge- nerality of mankind ; or such as, having thoroughly purged their minds of aught which is gross and sen- sual, approach nearer to the nature of the spotless beings with whom it is their privilege to hold commu- nion ; of such an one it may be said : — " Close, close your eyes in holy dread, And draw a circle round him thrice, For he on honey dew hath fed, And drank the milk of Paradise."— Shelley. FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. Ill But stay, we have a precious unguent prepared according to the receipt of a celebrated alchymist, which applied to your visual orbs, will enable you to behold without difficulty or danger, the most potent Fairy or Spirit you may encounter. This is the form of the preparation : — " E,. A pint of sallet-oyle, and put it into a vial- glasse; but first wash it with rose-water, and mary- golde water : the flowers to be gathered towards the east. Wash it till the oyle come white ; then put it into the glasse, ut supra : and then put thereto the budds of hollyhocke, the flowers of marygolde, the flowers or toppers of wild thime, the budds of young hazie : and the thyme must be gathered neare the side of a hill where Fayries use to be : and take the grasse of a fayrie throne ; then, all these put into the oyle, into the glasse : and sette it to dissolve three dayes in the sunne, and then keep it for thy use ; ut supra."* Now let us onward, for the moon has already risen, and the mists and shadows of twilight are flying before her to hide themselves in the hollows and woodland depths : — " I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows : Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine, With sweet musk roses and with eglantine ; There sleeps Titania, some time of the night, Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight." Shakspere. Listen to that unseen singer! Let us follow the voice, and we shall doubtless shortly arrive at the scene of the Fairy revels. If we mistake not this is Midsummer * Ashmolean MS S.I 112 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. night, a high festival with them, as is May-day night with the witches, who from all parts of the world meet on the Hartz mountains in Germany ; according to Goethe, this is part of their chorus on the occasion : — " The stubble is yellow, the corn is green, Now to the Brocken the witches go ; The mighty multitude here may be seen, Gathering, wizard and witch, below. Sir Urean he sitteth aloft in the air ; Hey over stock ! and hey over stone ! 'Twixt witches and incub? what shall be done ? Tell it who dare ! tell it who dare I" Shelley's Translation. By the way, one of the popular beliefs concerning Fairies, is that they originated in the East, and were brought over by the Crusaders, but it is well known that our Saxon ancestors, long before they left their German forests, believed in the existence of a diminu- tive race of beings, which were a middle species be- tween men and spirits, to whom they attributed many wonderful performances, far exceeding human art "The Father of English Poetry" tells us that, — " In the olde dayes of King Artour, Of which thes Bretons spoken gret honour, All was the land fulfilled of faerie ; The Elf-quene and hire joly compaynie Danced full oft in many a grene mede, This was the old opinion as I rede."— Chaucer. And we may well believe that Fairies were supposed to exist in this country, long prior even to the time of the first Crusade. The old Welsh bards enter- FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. 113 tained a notion that King Arthur was not dead, but conveyed away by the Fairies into some pleasant place where he should remain for a time, and then return again to reign in as great authority as ever. But into what a serious dissertation we are getting, and we all the while wandering in the dream-land of imagination. See, the Elfin torch-bearer, "Jack o' Lanthorn," flits before us, to guide us to the place of midnight revelry : — " The limits of the sphere of dream, The hounds of true and false are past, Lead us on thou wandering gleam, Lead us onward far and fast," " Through the mossy sods and stones, Stream and streamlet, hurry down, A rushing throng ! A sound of song Beneath the vault of heaven is blown ! Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones Of this bright day, sent down to say That Paradise on earth is known, Resound around, beneath, above, All we hope, and all we love, Finds a voice in this blithe strain, Which wakens hill, and wood, and rill, And vibrates far o'er field and vale, And which Echo, like the tale Of old times, repeats again." Shelley, from Goethe. Now again the sounds have all ceased to awake the responses of Echo, and we, like the lady in " Comus," are left to doubt and uncertainty. Surely our senses have not deceived us j we have heard the chime of the harebells, and the tones of elfin minstrelsy 1 we have seen the glimmering torch of the fairy guide ? O yes ' 114 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. it were treason to poesy and imagination to doubt it, and to all the pure fresh feelings of our younger days. Let us then tarry and rest ourselves upon this bank awhile, for, — " Here so silent is the -wood, And so deep the solitude, That we may- Expect, as we sit and listen, To see the eye of a Fay Through the rich foliage glisten ; Peering quietly through, Like to an atomy bead of dew, Whenever The light leaves are stirred By the foot of a bird, Or the touch of the river, Rapid and fresh, Makes the light boughs quiver, As they unmesh The water-lily, whose crystal cup, The winds waft by, and the stream buoys up j For the river has wound Its long arms round This island spot of forest ground, And, lulled by the streamlet's ripple, Fanned by the gentle wind, Here may a poet's mind Fitly the solitude people, For who that perceives the infantine leaves Burst from the branches hoary, (Himself in his youth) can question the truth Of the legends of fairy story?" Benjamin Street. Aye ! who indeed ? not we, albeit our youthful days have long since passed away, and have become " as a tale that is told." — Not I, nor thou, gentle reader, FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. 115 notwithstanding that thy once glossy and raven locks are sprinkled here and there with grey, and that thy brow is furrowed and wrinkled, by the cares and anxie- ties of mature life. Are you not still, at times, a be- liever in the " bright mythology of vanished days ?" Can you hold commune with Nature in her most secret haunts, without feeling a conviction that those haunts are peopled with bright and beautiful beings, and that the many fair forms and mellifluous sounds which de- light thy senses, are but as faint types and images of the glories unrevealed ? Oh, yes ! you must not, cannot doubt, these " legends of fairy story :" — nor think, tho' men were none, That Heav'n would want spectators, God want praise : Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep." — Milton. These are the words of one who sang of things almost surpassing comprehension, with a power and majesty that seemed like the effect of inspiration. These are the words of one who saw deeply into the mysteries of creation, and had spiritual revealings, such as are vouchsafed to few of the children of earth : — " If ere one vision touched thy infant thought, Of all the nurse, and all the priest hath taught ;' Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, The silver token, and the circled green, Or virgins visited by angel-powers, With golden crowns, and wreaths of heavenly flowers ; Hear, and believe !"— Pope. And give thanks and praises that thou hast yet enough of youthful feeling, and of unsophisticated nature left in thee, after thy many years of striving and struggling, of bitterness and of heart burning, to entertain so pure, 116 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. so holy, and so cheering a belief. We are dreamers, we own it, and we glory in the confession. We are enthusiasts — madmen, if you will, O, money-making world ! Our madness is of a healthful, elevating kind. Our dreams tend heavenward ; what says the poet ? — " Strange, that dreams present us fictions, When our waking moments teem With such fanciful convictions, As make life itself a dream." — Campbell. And are we not now in the very land of dreams, a region populous with thick coming fancies? The leafy wood- lands ! whoever tarried long amid them, without being visited by spiritual creatures, and having glimpses through the opening vistas, into a realm of infinite brightness, and of beauty indescribable ; the more especially at an hour like the present — an hour of shadowy indistinctness, and gloomy grandeur, when the moonbeams gleam fitfully through the wind- stirred branches, aud sighs and whispers are heard around, which seem like the voices of unseen beings. " Near to this wood there lay a pleasant meade Where Fairies often did their measures treade, Which in the meadows made such circles greene, As if with garlands it had crowned heene, Or like the circle where the signes we tracke, And learned shepheards call't the zodiacke ; Within one of these rounds was to he seene A hillock rise, where oft the Fairie queene At twilight sat, and did command her Elves To pinch those maids that had not swept their shelves ; And further, if by maiden's oversight, Within doors water were not brought at night, Or if they spread no table, set no bread, They should have nips from toe unto the head ; FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. 117 And for the maid that had performed each thing, She in the water-pail bad leave a ring." William Browse. At such times, and amid such scenes, it is that we realize the pictures drawn hy the old pastoral poets, and behold with the eyes of devout believers, the doings of the Fays and Fairies, whose meetings it ap- pears are not convened entirely for sport or revelry, but partly for the performance of certain weighty duties, such as are described in the foregoing and fol- lowing lines : — " Oh, these be Fancy's revellers by night ! Stealthy companions of the downy moth- Diana's motes, that flit in her pale light, Shunners of sunbeams in diurnal sloth ; — These be the feasters on night's silver cloth, — The gnat, with shrilly trump, is their convener, Forth from their flowery chambers, nothing loth, With lulling tunes to charm the air serener, Or dance upon the grass to make it greener. " These be the pretty genii of the flowers, Daintily fed with honey and pure dew — Midsummer's phantoms in her dreaming hours, King Oberon, and all his merry crew, The darling puppets of romance's view ; Fairies, and Sprites, and Goblin Elves we call them, Famous for patronage of lovers true ; — No harm they act, neither sball harm befall them, So do not thou with crabbed frowns appal them. " For these ire kindly ministers of nature To soothe all covert hurts and dumb distress ; Pretty they be, and very small of stature,— For mercy still consorts with littleness : Therefore the sum of good is still the less, 118 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. And mischief grossest in this world of wrong ; — So do these charitable dwarfs redress The tenfold ravages of giants strong, To -whom great malice and great might belong." Thomas Hood. What a delightful creed is this ; how pure, how holy, how fraught with love and sympathy, and all gentlest and kindliest feelings ! Cherish it reader, take it to thy heart, and it will be to thee as a talisman, against worldly selfishness and contempt of thy humbler fellows, or of the inferior creatures. Study it deeply, and it will teach thee how intimately connected are the mightiest and the weakest, in the chain of universal being, and how little, be the pinnacle of power on which thou art throned never so high, can be done in thy own unas- sisted strength. Cheerfulness also will this divine creed communicate to thee, and contentment with thy lot, however lowly and despised, for thou will know that there are agencies at work, to right the wronged, to aid the oppressed, and to adjust the balance of good and evil : — " These are the gentle words which nature speaks, When she would call us skywards." Barry Cornwall But let us up and away to the fairy trysting-place, which cannot be far off, for hark, again there are sweet voices above and around us, as though the sky were raining melody ; and lo ! the glow-worms form a shin- ing track to guide our vagrant feet. Still, as we pass onwaid, the sounds become more distinct, the narrow pathway widens to an open glade, and shapes, like shooting stars, are seen darting hither and thither. Oh, yes ! — FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. 119 " 'Tia the hour of Fairy ban and spell, The wood-tick has kept the minutes well, He has counted them all with click and stroke, Deep on the heart of the forest oak ; And he has awakened the sentry Elve, That sleeps with him in the haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And call the Fays to their revelry. " They come from the beds of lichen green, They creep from the mullen's velvet screen, Some on the backs of beetles fly From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, Where they swing in their cobweb hammocks high, And rocked about in the evening breeze ; • Some from the hum-bird's downy nest, Had driven him out by Elfin power, And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow crest, Had slumbered there till the charmed hour ; Some had lain in a scarp of the rock, By glittering ising-stars inlaid, And some had opened the " four-o'-clock," And stolen within its purple shade ; And now they throng the moonlight glade Above, below, — on every side, Their little minim forms arrayed In the tricksy pomp of Fairy pride." Dr. Drake's Culprit Fat. See ! see ! how they frolic and gambol in the moon- beams, and hark to the shrill peals of elfin laughter, which ever and anon swell upon the night breeze. Now they are congregating round a mad sprite, whose antics appear to afford them infinite amusement, as well they may, for so grotesque a frolicker sure never gam- bolled beneath the moon. He is the very spirit of fun and mischief; but list, he sings : — 120 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. "From Oberon in fairye-land The king of ghosts and shadows there, Mad E.obin, I, at his command, Am sent to view the night-sports here. What revel rout Is kept about, In every corner where I go, I will o'ersee, And merry bee, And make good sport, with oh, oh, oh ! " More swift than lightning can I flye About this airy welkin soone, And, in a minute's space, descrye Each thing that's done belowe the moone. There's not a hag Or ghost shall wag, Or cry, ware Goblins ! where I go ; But, Robin, I Their feates will spy, And send them home with, oh, oh, oh !" Now do the laughing Elves take up the chorus : — " By wells and rills, in mead owes greene, We nightly dance our hey-day guise ; And to our fairye king and queene We chant our moonelight minstrelsies." Percy Reliques. And a sweeter, richer voice, than any yet heard, breaks in, hushing the merry mockers to listening silence : — " Where the bee sucks, there lurk I ; In a cowslip's bell I lie : There I couch when owls do cry, On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily : FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. 121 Merrily merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough." Shakspere. It is the "dainty Ariel," who has flown hither from the " still-vexed Bermoothes," to pay homage to her sove- reign lord and lady ; see, she alights from her leathern- winged steed, and salutes her sister Fays, while Puck, or Robin Good-fellow, as the first singer is sometimes called, continues his antic movements ; he is the jester of the Fairy court, a very harlequin, a Proteus, full of strange tricks and transformations, sometimes, — " This Puck seems but a dreaming dolt, Still walking like a ragged colt, And oft out of a bush doth bolt, Of purpose to deceive us. And leading us, makes us to stray Long winter nights out of the way, And when we stick in mire and clay, He doth with laughter leave us." — Drayton. But, see, another beautiful form comes, winnowing the night air with her gossamer wings, from which fall a shower of silver spangles, as they are smitten by the moonbeams. Puck addresses her : — " How now, spirit ! whither wander you?" And her answer sounds like the warbling of a distant skylark : — " Over hill, over dale, Through bush, through briar, Over park, over pale, Through flood, through fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere ; 122 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green ; The cowslips tall her pensioners be, In their gold coats spots you see ; These be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours : I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits, I'll be gone, Our queen, and all her Elves, come here anon." Shakspere. At this announcement a shout of delight breaks from the troop of tiny listeners , they gather and form into a procession, which, led by Ariel, proceeds to where the glade opens upon a verdant meadow, at the bottom of which glides a stream, whose waters flow on with a gentle murmur. Lo ! here is the thymy bank of which we are in search, overshadowed with fragrant wood- bine, and here, — " The ringlet see Fantastically trod, where Oberon His gallant train leads out, the while his torch The glow-worm featly, and dusky night illumes : And here they foot it lightly round, and laugh : The sacred spot, the superstitious ewe Regards, and bites it not in reverence."— Hurdis. FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. 123 THE HAPPY VALLEY. BY THOMAS MILLER. It was a valley filled with sweetest sounds, A languid music haunted everywhere, — Like those with which a summer eve abounds, From rustling corn, and song-birds calling clear, Down sloping uplands, which some wood sur- rounds, With tinkling rills just heard, but not too near j Or lowing cattle on the distant plain, And swing of far-off bells, now caught, then lost again. It seemed like Eden's angel-peopled vale, So bright the sky, so soft the streams did flow ; Such tones came riding on the musk- winged gale, The very air seemed sleepily to blow ; And choicest flowers enamelled every dale, Flushed with the richest sunlight's rosy glow : It was a valley drowsy with delight, Such fragrance floated round, such beauty dimmed the sight. 124' FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. The golden-belted bees hummed in the air, The tall silk grasses bent and waved along ; The trees slept in the steeping sunbeams' glare, The dreamy river chimed its undersong, And took its own free course without a care : Amid the boughs did lute-tongued songsters throng, Until the valley throbbed beneath their lays, And echo echo, chased, through many a leafy maze. And shapes were there like spirits of the flowers, Sent down to see the Summer-beauties dress, And feed their fragrant mouths with silver showers ; Their eyes peeped out from many a green recess, And their fair forms made light the thick-set bowers ; The very flowers seemed eager to caress Such loving sisters, and the boughs long-leaved, Clustered to catch the sighs their pearl-flushed bosoms heaved. One through her long loose hair was backward peep- ing, Or throwing, with raised arm, the locks aside ; Another high a pile of flowers was heaping, Or looking love askance, and when descried, Her coy glance on the bedded-greensward keeping, She pulled the flowers to pieces, as she sighed, — Then blushed like timid daybreak when the dawn Looks crimson on the night, and then again's with- drawn. FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. 125 One, with her warm and milk-white arms out- spread, On tip-toe tripped along a sunlit glade ; Half turned the matchless sculpture of her head, And half shook down her silken circling braid ; Her hack-blown scarf an arched rainbow made, She seemed to float on air, so light she sped ; Skimming the wavy flowers, as she passed by, With fair and printless feet, like clouds along the sky. One sat alone within a shady nook, With wild-wood songs the lazy hours beguiling; Or looking at her shadow in the brook, Trying to frown, then at the effort smiling — Her laughing eyes mocked every serious look ; 'Twas as if Love stood at himself reviling : She threw in flowers, and watched them float away, Then at her beauty louked, then sang a sweeter lay. Others on beds of roses lay reclined, The regal flowers athwart their full lips thrown, And in one fragrance took their sweets combined, As if they on the self-same stem had grown,] So close were rose and lip together twined — A double flower that from one bud had blown, Till none could tell, so closely were they blended, Where swelled the curving-lip, or where the rose- bloom ended. 126 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. One, half-asleep, crushing the twined flowers, Upon a velvet slope like Dian lay ; Still as a lark that 'mid the daisies cowers : Her Jooped-up tunic tossed in disarray, Showed rounded limbs, too fair for earthly bowers, She looked like roses on a cloudy day ; The warm white dulled amid the colder green ;" The flowers too rough a couch that lovely shape to Some lay like Thetis' nymphs along the shore, With ocean-pearl combing their golden locks, And singing to the waves for evermore ; Sinking like flowers at eve beside the rocks, If but a sound above the muffled roar Of the low waves was heard. In little flocks, Others went trooping through the wooded alleys, Their kirtles glancing white, like streams in sunny valleys. They were such forms, as imaged in the night, Sail in our dreams across the beaven's steep blue; When the closed lid sees visions streaming bright, Too beautiful to meet the naked view ; Like faces formed in clouds of silver light : Women they were ! such as the angels knew— Such as the Mammoth looked on, ere he fled, Scared by the plover's wings, that streamed in sunset red. FAIRIES AND FLOWERS 127 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS, BY CHARLES SWAIK. From the bright chambers of the vestal rose, No more the fairies to their revels bound ; The lily's ivory halls no more disclose Their elfin tribes, — nor fays, with goss'mer crowned, Slow float on silver blossoms to the ground : No more we hear their viewless minstrels play, As when on emerald rings they danced around, — The vision and the grace have left our day, And England's fairy world passed, with her youth, away ! The bright mythology of vanished days ! We are too wise its credence to allow ; Science hath oped too wide our colder gaze : — But are we better — wiser — happier — now That we fair fancy's birth-right disavow? No more believe that midnight eyes behold Shapes, born of air, to which the planets bow ? Nor longer seek the fairy-palace old Which elves chivalrous guard, with straw-like spears of gold ? Hither ye fays ! — fantastic elves ! — that leap The slender hare-cup, — climb the cowslip bells — And seize the wild bee as she lies asleep ! Hither, from shrines of bloom, and glow-worms cells, From leafy towns, and flowery citadels — Hither, bright fairies, — hither, to my breast!" Lead me once more where childhood's memory dwells, 128 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. In its believing beauty — beaven imprest!— Bring innocence and love, — be eacb again my guest ! Visions of immortality ! tbat sbow The longing of the mind for something more Than mortal being ! — the deep wish to know The tbings of other worlds — the angel store Of mystery, learnt but on the spirit-shore, Where midway fairies sport on fancy's track ! Glad elves ! our season of romance restore — Come, our Aladdin-years we'll wander back, — See fairy hunters gay, and their bold insect — pack ! We have breasts, now, in which affections dead Have left their " withered rings" around the heart ! And bosoms whence the child of hope hath fled, Although no fairy in its loss had part! — The cup o'erturned, though by no elfin art !_.' * The rifled chalice, and the broken bowl, Where memory by the fount whence sorrows start, Keeps green the old mythology of soul, — Those fairy realms of youth o'er which time's death- wheels roll ! Have we not tasted of the fairy dew ? Do we behold things as they really are ? Or, like Titania, gaze with spell-bound view, And lavish love on what were best afar ? Proves that not oft a stone we deem a star ? Alas ! each bosom hath its Oberon too; Susceptibility — which seeks to war With what it loves, and most desires to woo*, Yet urged — un-knowing why — to wound, and still pursue ! FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. 129 Oh, queen of fancy ! what an empire thine ! What classic loveliness pervades thy shore ! Creations, which the bard hath made divine — Idols and gods — all creeds alike adore — The mental deities of ages hoar ; Harmonious moulds where deathless paeans sound Sole consecrate to genius evermore ! — Where every step finds intellectual ground Thronged by the kings of mind that time and fame have crowned. SONG. 10M "THE GABERLUNZIE," A SCOTTISH COMEDY. O, were I king o' Fairy-land, Here I wad mak' my bower, Beneath the coltsfoot's spreading leaf, To fend me frae the shower. Or hide amang the primrose leaves, Beside the crystal well, Where, morn and eve, I'd constant wait, To see thy bonny sel'. The freshest lily's snowy breast Can ne'er wi' thine compare ! Yon fleecy cloud, like wtnter's drift, It is nae half so fair. The cloudless beauty o' the lift Will never match thy e'en ; O, were I King o' Fairy-land, Nae ither wad be Queen. i FAIRIES AND FLOWERS, T-H E PIXIES OF DEVON:. BY N. T. CARRINGTON, The age of Pixies, like that of chivalry, is gone. — There is now, perhaps, scarcely Chouse, -which they are reputed to visit. Even the fields and lanes, -which they formerly frequented, seem to be nearly forsaken. Their music is rarely heard ; and they appear to have forgotten to attend to their ancient midnigh dance. Drew's Cornwall. They are flown, Beautiful fictions of our fathers, wove In Superstition's web when Time was young, And fondly loved and cherished ; — they are flown, Before the wand of Science ! Hills and vales, Mountains and moors of Devon, ye have lost The enchantments, the delights, the visions all, The Elfin visions that so blessed the sight In the old days romantic. Naught is heard Now, in the leafy world, but earthly strains, — Voices, yet sweet, of breeze, and bird, and brook, And waterfall ; the day is silent else, And night is strangely mute ! the hymnings high — The immortal music, men of ancient times Heard, ravished oft, are flown ! O, ye have lost Mountains, and moors, and meads, the radiant throngs That dwelt in your green solitudes, and filled The air, the fields, with beauty and with joy Intense ; — with a rich mystery that awed The mind, and flung around a thousand hearths Divinest tales, tbat through the enchanted year Found passionate listeners ! FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. 131 The very streams Brightened with visitings of these so sweet Ethereal creatures ! They were seen to rise From the charmed waters, which still brighter grew As the pomp passed to land, until the eye Scarce bore the unearthly glory. Where they trod Young flowers, but not of this world's growth, arose, And fragrance, as of amaranthine bowers, Floated upon the breeze. And mortal eyes Looked on their revels all the luscious night ; And, unreproved, upon their ravishing forms Gazed wistfully, as in the dance they moved, Voluptuous to the thrilling touch of harp Elysian. And by gifted eyes were seen Wonders — in the still air ; — and beings bright And beautiful, more beautiful than throng Fancy's ecstatic regions, peopled now The sunbeam, and now rode upon the gale Of the sweet summer noon. Anon they touched The earth's delighted bosom, and the glades Seemed greener, fairer, — and the enraptured woods Gave a glad leafy murmur, — and the rills Leaped in the ray of joy ; and all the birds Threw into the intoxicating air their songs, All soul. The very archings of the grove, Clad in cathedral gloom from age to age, Lightened with living splendours ; and the flowers Tinged with new hues, and lovelier upsprung By millions in the grass, that rustled now To gales of Araby ! The seasons came Tn bloom or blight, in glory or in shade ; The shower or sunbeam fell or glanced, as pleased 132 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. These potent Elves. They steered the giant cloud Through heaven at will, and with the meteor flash Came down in death or sport ; ay, when the storm Shook the old woods, they rode, on rainbow wings, The tempest ; and, anon, they reined its rage In its fierce wild career. But ye have flown, Beautiful fictions of our fathers ! — flown Before the wand of science, and the hearths Of Devon, as lags the disenchanted year, Are passionless and silent ! The Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a race of beings, invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a small distance from a village in this county, half-way up a wood- covered hill, is an excavation called the " Pixies Parlour," the ceiling of which is formed by the roots of old trees ; it was on the occasion of a visit to this place, in the summer of 1793, that Coleridge wrote his ''Songs of the Pixies." SONG OF THE STROMKERL, BY PARK BENJAMIN. The Swedes delight to tell of the Stromkerl, or boy of the stream, who haunts the glassy brooks that steal silently through green meadows, and sits on the silver waves at moonlight, playing his harp to the Elves who dance on the flowery margin. Washington Irving. Come, dance, Elfins dance ! for my harp is in tune, The wave-rocking gales are all lulled to repose ; And the breath of this exquisite evening in June, Is scented with laurel, and myrtle, and rose. FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. 133 Each lily that hends to the breast of my stream, And sleeps on the waters transparently bright, Will in ecstacy wake, like a bride from her dream, When my tones stir the dark plumes of silence and nia;ht. My silken-winged bark shall career by the shore, As calmly as yonder white cloud in the air ; And the notes ye have heard with such rapture before, Shall impart new delight to the young and the fair. The banks of my stream are enamelled with flowers, Come, shake from their petals the sweet starry dew ; Such music and incense can only be ours, While clear falls the summer sky's curtain of blue. Ccme, queen of the revels — come, form into bands The Elves and the Fairies that follow your train ; Tossing your tresses, and wreathing your hands, Let your dainty feet dance to my wave- wafted strain. 'Tis the Stromkerl who calls you — the boy of the stream ! I hear the faint hum of your voices afar : — Come dance ! I will play till the morn's rosy beam In splendour shall melt the last lingering star ! 134 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. THE FAIRIES. Who sleep in buds the day." — Collins. " Span-long Elves that dance about a pool." Ben Jonron The moon was wandering quietly Over the starry spotted sky ; And sending down a silvery light To deck the melancholy night ; — Green leaves caught a pallid hue, Fresh grass whitened to the view ; All was still o'er earth and trees, So reposing was the breeze ; — Here and there a cloud was spread, Calm and bright above the head, Steeped in light the moon had shed. In the mead a little lake Seemed, like Nature, not awake ; Waveless was its cool clear breast, By the moonbeams charmed to rest ; — And its lilies pure and white, Breathed a perfume on the night, As if to mingle with the quiet light. I, by meditation led, On the turf my limbs had spread, And was gazing on the skies, With thought-enamoured soul and eyes. Fancy wandered wildly free, Herself amusing sportively, — Peopling all the paly air, With forms fantastically fair ; FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. 135 Or in fine imaginings, Calling forth divinest things From the filmy clouds — deep sky — And stars that beamed so watchfully, There I lay — by Fancy wrought Into most luxurious thought ; When upon my listening ear A soft note stole — delicious — clear ; 'Twas such as breathes in distant vale, From a full-hearted nightingale ; That bird so skilled a soul to move, Made up of music and of love : — It came with gentle, gentle swell, And richly rose — and finely fell. — I looked upon the placid lake, From which the music seemed to wake,— And lo ! from out each lily's cup A Fairy started, merrily up, And with a little rushy wand, Pushed its flowery boat to land. Round the lily's snowy whiteness Broke a playful, sparkling brightness ; As if the stars were hurrying there, Dancing round the watery car, To gaze on forms so lightly fair. Deep within the pebbly pool Stood the palace, bright and cool ; — Transparent were the walls. By night, The moon sent down its purest light, — Which, though at first so soft from heaven, More mellow through the wave was given ; — And even the sun's warm ray at noon Went there as gently as the moon. 136 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. From the cups the Fairies darted, Which, no longer spell -bound, started Back again to seek for rest On the lake's translucent breast. O'er a hillock, daisy-specked, And with drooping cowslips decked, Clustered all the Fairy court, In the moonbeams formed to sport. I listened, breathless with delight, To the Elves, all wild and bright, Fluttering in the charmed night. Their wings so delicately played, That the dew upon the blade Trembled not — but calmly fair, Beamed to make the light more rare. Some shot upward to the moon, — Went with thought, and came as soon : — Others on the clouds' edge seated, All the stars surrounding greeted. But ere long I saw a Fairy, Floating on his pinions airy, Take a honeysuckle horn And wind it ; — quick the breath was borne Musically soft, like love, To the sportive Elves above, On the clouds, or near the moon : — And, like falling showers at noon, In the beams of April-day, Down they shoot their sparkling way. " Come," said one, with such a voice As bade the listening heart rejoice ; — 'Twas like the air in heaven that lives, Or like the breath which evening gives, FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. 137 When the mind is Fancy's guest, And the sun salutes the west With his purple light, that flushes The bashful sky, with rosy blushes : — ' Come, ye sparklers, come to earth ! Furl your wings, which fan with mirth : All, like summer bloom descend — On our Fairy-queen attend. Make her couch of flowers, that spring O'er this meadow; — deftly bring The violets, so blue and sweet, To throw around her pearly feet : — And the lilies seek and shed, To form a pillow for her head. On primrose couch her form shall rest, With pansies scattered near her breast. Let the daisy, yellow-hearted, With its white leaves starry-parted, And the cowslips, yellowy pale, Serve her as a flowery veil — Catch the moonbeams from her eyes, And delight her as she lies !" — Oh ! 'twas a bewitching sight, To watch those revellers of the night Wand'ring o'er the silent mead, To gather flowers to form a bed For their pretty queen to lie in ; — The air grew fresher with their flying, — The dew each form's reflection gave, — ■ And in its sweet sleep laughed the wave. The couch was made, — the young queen shed Her beauty-brightness o'er the bed ; — Alas ! — the breezes from the west Came to sin? her heart to rest ; — > 138 FAIRIES AND FLOWERS. They set a floating cloud before The placid moon, and all was o'er ; — The Fairies faded into air, And left me lying lonely there. From "The Naiad, a Tale ; with other Poems," published anonymously, in 1816, the above exquisitely fanciful lines are taken ; we very much regret that the author's name is unknown to us, and feel quite assured that in this regret our readers will participate. ,SONG OF FAIRIES ROBBING AN ORCHARD. TRANSLATED BY LEIGH HUNT, From some Latin verses, in the old English drama of " Amyntas, or the impossible Dowry." We the Fairies, blithe and antic Of dimensions not gigantic, Though the moonshine mostly keep us, Oft in orchards frisk and peep us. Stolen sweets are always sweeter, Stolen kisses much completer, Stolen looks are nice in chapels, Stolen, stolen be your apples. When to bed the world are bobbing, Then's the time for orchard robbing ; Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling Were it not for stealing, stealing. 139 CHAPTER V. FLORAL SIMILITUDES. " Poetry, like truth, is a common flower. God has sown it over the earth, like the daisies, sprinkled with tears or glowing in the sun, even as He places the Crocus and the March frosts together, and beautifully mingles life and death !" Ebenezeb, Elliott. Such a definition of poetry could only have been given by one who was himself a true poet ; such a beautiful similitude could not have sprung up in any other mind than one accustomed to hold commune with that power, of which it may be said, with a slight alteration of the words of Shelley, — " As flowers beneath May's footsteps waken, As stars from night's loose air are shaken, As waves arise when loud winds call, Thoughts spring where'er that voice doth fall." Taking the simile altogether, it is exquisite, alike for its truth and beauty ; it fixes itself at once upon the memory, and becomes a part of the rich and rare adornments of that "chamber of imagery," the imagi- nation. Many such shall we have to present to you, reader, before we conclude this chapter, for 'tis a rich subject, and appropriate passages, both of prose and 140 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. poetry throng upon us, " Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks," and we are perplexed, amid such a multitude of lovely creations, what to choose, and what to reject. As a pendant to that of the " Corn Law Rhymer," we give Lady Blessington's fanciful comparison : " Some flowers absorb the rays of the sun so strongly, that in the evening they yield slight phos- phoric flashes, may we not compare the minds of poets to these flowers, which imbibing light, emit it again in a different form and aspect?" Truly may we, fair querist! who art thyself one of those imbibers and emitters of light; — a human flower, celebrated not more for its beauty of form and colouring, than for its fragrance and inward virtues ; of whom it may well be said, — " Her thoughts are garlands of new-tinted flowers, Their utterance perfume." — J. A ■ Wade. Let us take another simile, furnished us by a " Pro- verbial Philosopher," of modern times, not as applying to the lady above eulogised, but as supplying a worthy companion to the one last quoted : — "Speech is the golden harvest that followeth the flowering of thought ; Yet oftentimes runneth it to husks, and the grain be withered and scanty." — M. F. Ttjpper. Sir Humphrey Davy tells us that the first king of Great Britain said, respecting a sermon, which was excellent in doctrine, but over-charged with poetical allusions and figurative language, " that the tropes arid metaphors of the speaker were like the brilliant wild flowers in a field of corn, very pretty, but which did FLORAL SIMILITUDES. 141 Very much hurt the corn :" and if this speech were in- deed uttered by King Alfred, we want no other proof of his being both a poet and a philosopher ; for although the language of scripture is eminently figurative and metaphorical, yet a preacher who overloads his discourse with tropes and similes, is in much danger of exciting and amusing the imagination of his hearers, while he leaves their hearts and their understandings altogether untouched. A writer in "The Churchman's Monthly Review," noticing a volume of the " Pulpit Oratory," of the present day, in which there is much that is magnilo- quent and hyperbolical, and wisely and beautifully bids his author remember, that " A few overstrained and affected epithets, are often enough to change the most glowing eloquence into a painful burlesque ; as if a master were playing Handel's majestic harmonies, and a wilful child, in every touching movement, were to sweep his hand along the keys," and also, that "The homeliest address which was ever drawn from the text by a village preacher, would be more likely to affect the heart, and stir the spirit into compliance with the gra- cious invitation, than the most brilliant and flowery address ever uttered or penned." To this we may add the lines of Cowper : — " For ghostly counsel, if it either fall Below the exigence, or be not backed "With show of love, at least with hopeful proof Of some sincerity on the giver's part ; Or be dishonoured in the exterior form And mode of its conveyance * * * Drops from the lips a disregarded thing." The discourses of our Lord are justly extolled for their 142 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. divine simplicity, and though He frequently makes use of a metaphor, we are never so much struck with its exquisite beauty and propriety, as with the moral which it is intended to illustrate and enforce ; for instance :— " Consider the lilies, how they grow ; they toil not, they spin not ; and yet I say unto you, That Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these. If then God so clothe the grass, which is to-day in the field, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, how much more will he clothe you, O, ye of little faith !"* Equally simple and appropriate are the words of the prophet : " Woe to the crown of pride, to the drunk- ards of Ephraim, whose glorious beauty is a fading flower." f And again : " All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field : The grass withereth, the flower fadeth ; because the Spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it : surely the people is grass. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth ; but the word of our God shall stand for ever."J Many such passages will occur to the minds of our readers, proving the truth of these remarks. Well may it be said : — "As vanishes the fleeting shade, As flowers before the evening fade, Such is the life of feeble man, His days are measured by a span." — Favtcett. Our readers have already been warned, and had exam- ples, of our disposition for wandering beyond the boundaries of the subject chosen for discourse. In truth we are sad vagrants, but we hope they will like us none the less, especially when, as in the present * Luke, xii., 27. t Isaiah, xxviii., 9. t Isaiah, xl., 6. FLORAL SIMILITUDES. 145 instance, we return to the right path with a whole armful of poetical beauties — a bundle of similitudes ! — " 'Twas then that in me 'gan to bud anew • Immortal Truth — heaven's brightest evergreen ! The lily, Virtue, near ; and hard by grew The pansy, Peace, the star-flower, Faith, and then Sweet woodbine, Hope — that loves the heart t' entwine ! How precious now became their hues, their scents ; Dearer, perhaps, because they bloomed between My spirits twice ten thousand sin-made rents, As blossoms lovelier look on time-reft battlements !" Vincent Thompson. This is a bouquet, let us now seek out a few single symbolical flowers. Some one, we know not who, has finely said, " Opportunity is the flower of time, and as the stalk may remain when the flower is cut off, so time may remain with us, when opportunity is gone for ever," and another unknown writer exclaims, — " If bliss be a frail and perishing flower Born only to decay, Oh ! who — when it blooms but a single hour- Would fling its sweets away ?" Thus admonished, let us seize the present time to examine and enjoy our collection of sweets, lest we lose the opportunity, and it never more return. In " Let- ters from Palmyra," we find this passage: "As this dark mould sends upwards, and out of its very heart, the rare Persian rose, so doeshope grow out of evil, and the darker the evil the brighter the hope, as from a richer and fouler soil comes the more vigorous plant and larger flower." This is very beautiful ; but what says the poet upon the subject?— 144 FLORAL SIMILITUDES, " The hope, in dreams "of a happier hour, That alights on misery's brow, Springs out of the silvery almond flower That blooms on a leafless bough." — Moore. In the writings of D'Israeli, occurs the following allusion to night-blooming flowers : — " Active enjoyments in the decline of life constitute the happiness of literary men. The study of the arts and literature spreads a sunshine over the winter of their days ; and their own works may be as delightful to themselves, as roses plucked by the Norwegian amidst his snows. In the solitude, and the night of human life, they discover that unregarded kindness of nature, which has given flowers that only open in the evening, and only bloom through the night season :" — "Like timid jasmine buds, that keep Their odour to themselves all day, And when the sunlight dies away, Let the delicious secret out To every breeze that roams about." As the modern Anacreon poetically says, and cheer- ing, indeed, is it to the jaded and world-wearied spirit, to find such flowers breathing their fragrance upon the evening of life, blossoming upon the downward path which leads to the cold grave, and giving beauty and freshness to the winter season. " The rose is fragrant, but it fades in time ; The violet sweet, but quickly past its prime ; White lilies hang their heads and soon decay, And whiter snow in minutes melts away ; Such, and so withering, is our blooming youth. Dryden. FLORAL SIMILITUDES. 14G The simile of the Persian poet here occurs to our mind : — " Youth, like a thin anemone, displays Its silken leaves, and in a morn decays.' Hafiz. And still more forcibly are we reminded of the Greek lines, of which the lines by Dryden would almost seem to be a translation, so closely are they followed ; — "Fragrant the rose, but soon it fades away; The violet's sweet, but quickly will decay ; The lily fair a transient beauty wears ; And the white snow soon melts away in tears : Such is the bloom of beauty, cropt by time, Full soon it fades, and withers in its prime." Theocritas. and then again we have the words of an old English poet: " Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, "Whose short refresh upon the tender green, Cheers for a time but till the sun doth show, And straight 'tis gone, as it had never been. Soon does it fade that makes the fairest flourish, Short is the glory of the blushing rose ; The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish, Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose." Daniel. Such is the morn of existence — the joyous period when we look into the blue distance with admiring eyes, and imagine that the world we are about to enter is a scene of enchantment, but this soon passes away ; and has the pride and the strength of manhood a firmer tenure of existence ? Oh, no ! of the whole period of our earthly being we may well say : — K 146 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. "What is life ? like a flower, with the bane in its bosom, To-day full of promise — to-morrow it dies ! — And health — like the dew-drop that hangs in its blossom, Survives but a night, and exhales to the skies ! — How oft 'neath the bud that is brightest and fairest, The seeds of the canker in embryo lurk ! How oft at the root of the flower that is rarest — Secure in its ambush the worm is at work ?" Da. Beattie. This allusion to the insidious spoiler which works destruction on that which shelters it, brings to memory the words of the Prince of Denmark : — " Virtue itself 'scapes not calumnious strokes, The canker galls the infants of the spring Full oft before their buttons be disclosed." Shakspere. This likening of life to a flower, has ever been a, favourite metaphor with the poets. Take another very beautiful example : — " This life of ours is like a rose, Which, whilst it beauties rare array, Doth then enjoy the least repose ; When virgin-like, its blush we see, Then is't of every hand the prey, And by each wind is blown away; Yea, though from violence 'scaped free, Yet doth it languish and decay. So, whilst the courage hottest boils, And that our life seems best to be, It is with danger compass'd still, Of which, though none it chance to kill, As nature fails, the body falls." Wm. Alexander. As life then is so short, we should so live and labour FLORAL SIMILITUDES. 147 that we may have pleasing remembrances to console and cheer us at its close ; let us work earnestly and diligently, not only for our own good, but for that of our fellow-creatures : — " Oh ! let us live so, that, flower by flower, Shutting in turn, may leave A lingerer still for the sunset hour, A charm for the shaded eve !" — Hemans. Mrs. Jameson, in drawing a parallel between the cha- racters of Schiller's Thekla, and Shakspere's Juliet, thus writes : — " The timidity of Thekla in her first scene, her trembling silence in the commence- ment, and the few words she addresses to her mother, remind us of the unobtrusive simplicity of Juliet's first appearance ; but the expression is different ; the one is the shrinking violet, the other the unexpanded rose- bud." Again, of the love of Juliet, she says:— "In Juliet alone we find it exhibited under every variety of aspect, and every gradation of feeling, it could possibly assume in a delicate female heart: as we see the rose, when passed through the colours of the prism, catch and reflect every tint of the divided ray, and still it is the same sweet rose." The maiden here alluded to tells Romeo, " This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet." And her father, lamenting over her, says, — " Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field." Poor maiden ! to her may we well apply the words, which have immortalized Margaret, the heroine of the old ballad : — 148 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. " Her bloom was like the springing flower. That sips the silver dew ; The rose was budding in her cheek Just opening to the view. But love had, like the canker worm, Consumed her early prime ; The rose grew pale and left her cheek, She died before her time." — Mallet. But to return to the authoress above quoted, who also beautifully observes, "Juliet, like Portia, is the foster- child of opulence and splendour ; she dwells in a fair city — she has been nurtured in a palace — she clasps her robe with jewels — she braids her hair with rainbow- coloured pearls ; but in herself she has no more con- nection with the trappings around her, than the lovely exotic transplanted from some Eden -like climate, has with the carved and gilded conservatory which has reared and sheltered its luxuriant beauty." Again, in her remarks upon the character of Miranda, in the Tempest, she gives us the following felicitous floral simile : — " Her bashfulness is less a quality than an in- stinct, it is like the self- folding of a flower, spontaneous and unconscious." Of her charms we might aptly say, in the language of the old dramatists : — " What a sweet modesty dwells round about them, And like a nipping morn pulls in their blossoms." Beaumont and Fletcher. And with a poet of the present day repeat, as we re- flected on her history ; — "Withdrawn was she from passing eyes By more than fortune's outward law By bashful thoughts, like silent sighs, By feeling's lone retiring awe. FLORAL SIMILITUDES. 149 So fair the veil that twilight weaves Around its golden shows, Or shadow of its own green leaves Upon the crimson rose." — Archaeus. Nay, this is not exactly it either ; the lines are beau- tiful, but the flower — the flower is that of love, and must not be likened to any other than Juliet, — rich, delicate, and glowing; — breathing her heart out in sighs of passionate perfume to Romeo, the nightingale of her affections. What shall it be then, the pansy ? Nay, that is already appropriated to the " fair vestal throned in the west." Ah ! we have it. The timid Miranda, of course, is like — " A violet,"by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ; Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky." — Wordsworth. Modesty is ever akin to virtue, as those flowers which shrink most from sight, hiding in leafy copses, and green dells, and shady woodlands, are the sweetest and most tenderly beautiful. They remind us of — " Humility, that low sweet root From which all heavenly virtues shoot." — Moore. We must here be permitted to quote again from the " Provei-bial Philosopher ;" the lines which follow are so admirable both in sentiment and expression, that we could not resist the temptation which the subject offered of using them : — " Humility is the softening shadow before the statue of excel- lence, &.nd lieth lowly on the ground, beloved and lovely as the violet 5 130 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. Humility Is the fair-haired maid that calleth worth her brother, The gentle, silent nurse, that fostereth infant virtue : Humility bringeth no excuse ; she is welcome to God and man : Her countenance is needful unto all who would prosper in either world ; And the mild light of her sweet face is mirrored in the eyes of her companions, And straightway stand they accepted children of penitence and love. As when the blind man is nigh unto a rose, its sweetness is herald of its beauty, So when thou favourest humility, be sure thou art nigh unto merit." — M. F. Tupper. Here we are brought back again to the " Queen of the Flowers." Well, we must e'en go with the stream, despite of our love and preference for the more modest and shrinking violet : — " Do we not of the rose itself require That it be quite a rose, and give forth scent, Knowing that God thereto the means hath lent ? And shall we less of woman ? No ! the higher "We deem of her, the more will she aspire ; Ask the Godlike of her, she'll yield it, too, Sure as the rose its divine scent can do." — H. Ellison. So says the author of "Touches on the Harp of Nature," and so say we ; for if ever perfection dwelt upon earth, it was in woman's form of grace and mind of purity ; — ' Oh ! may her way be as paved and roofed above With flowers, as soft as thoughts of budding love." — Kea s. The author of " the Roue " says, " We would have women creatures of nature as well as of education : we would have their hearts as well as their heads, culti- FLORAL SIMILITUDES. 151 vated, and not find them, as they now too often are, — ■ flowers like those discovered hy our late travellers to the North Pole, beautiful to the eye, but enclosed in an icicle, which on melting destroyed them." Why, what a cynical fellow is this, a very Diogenes of modern times ! — one who prefers natural to artificial flowers — virtues to accomplishments ! One who evidently thinks, " That the graces of the mind Which adorn fair womankind,- Virtues, and affections warm,— Never should be left to wither Like the flowers in wintry weather, While accomplishments, which form Round them barriers of frost, Are admired and valued most." — H. G. A. Well, after all, we are inclined to coincide in his opinion ; and so, reader, are you, or we hold you un- worthy of the love of any true woman, such as was Corinne, the warm-hearted daughter of Italy, filled to overflowing with passionate feeling, as are her own blue skies with sunlight. Of her Madame de Stael writes : — " This lovely woman, whose features seemed designed to depict felicity, — this child of the sun, a prey to hidden grief, — was like a flower, still fresh and brilliant, but within whose leaves may be seen the first dark impress of that withering blight which soon shall lay it low." — Poor Corinne ! " The long black lashes veiled her languid eyes, and threw a shadow over the tintless cheek : beneath was written this line from the 'Pastor Fido' — ' Scarcely can we say this was a Rose.' " The words in which an English poet lamented the fate of Lady Jane Grey, are applicable to her : — 152 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. " Thou didst die Even like a flower beneath the summer ray, In incensed beauty, and didst take thy way Even like its fragrance, up into the sky." J. W. Ord. " The faces of the maidens seemed to resemble their own flower gardens ; there was the snow'drop, so delicate and retiring ; the p7-17nro.se, looking boldly up in its inno- cence ; the daisy, only plain because it grows so com- monly; the rose-bud red and beautiful; — and so might the fancy go on in imagining and tracing in each face a resemblance to some flower." This is a picture of a group of maidens drawn by Thomas Miller, who well knows how to deck his " Rural Sketches" witb floral similes. But if this conceit had entered into the mind of the lover of either of those maidens, would he not have said, think ye ? — "Even as a flower ! No, loveliest ! be not to me as a flower, The uncertain sun calls forth its odorous breath, The sweeter perfume gives the speedier death. The sport and victim of a summer hour — Loveliest, be not a flower." H. G. Bell. Let us suppose that misfortune had fallen upon this lover, or that he was fearful that such might visit him, and is expressing to the object of his affections his doubts as to her constancy under such circumstances, would she not reply, with Agnes in the " Prodigal Son"— " Thou surely dost not think my faith a flower To live or droop with fortune's sun and shade." D. Jerrold FLORAL SIMILITUDES. 153 We will now imagine that the storm has burst upon the head of the devoted swain ; his prospects are blighted, sickness, and then death ensues, and the disconsolate maiden thus makes her lament : — "Woods, hills, and rivers, now are desolate, Since he is gone, the which did all them grace : And all the fields do wail their widowed state, Since death their fairest floiuer did late deface. The fairest floiuer in field that ever grew, Was Astrophel, that was, we all may rue. " What cruel hand of cursed foe unknown Hath cropt the stalk that hore so fine a flower? Untimely cropt before it well was grown, And clean defaced it in untimely hour. Great loss to all that ever him did see, Great loss to all, hut greater loss to me ! " Break now your garlands. O ! ye shepherd lasses, Since the fair floiuer that them adorned is gone ; The flower that them adorned is gone to ashes ; Never again let lass put garland on ; Instead of garland, wear sad cypress now, And bitter elder, broken from the bough." Thus mourned the sister of Sir Philip Sidney over the memory ci her incomparable brother; and thus, though in somewhat different language, might have mourned the village maiden for her departed lover Let us take one more lament, it is that of a parent for his lost children: — " Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms Of our hopes, and hearts, and hearth ; Two asleep lie buried under — Three light forms yet gladden earth : 154 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. Thee, our Hyacinth, gay Charlie, Willie, thee, out -Snowdrop pure, Back to us, shall second spring-time, Never more restore." — Moir. The language of deep passion, whether it be love, hate, joy, or sorrow, which prompts the utterance, is ever poetical ; and next to the first named of these, we may place the latter, as having given rise to the greatest number of beautiful compositions. Witness Spenser's "Teares of the Muses," etc.; Milton's " Lycidas ;" Shelley's "Adonais," and a thousand other ex- quisitely touching Elegies and Laments, to which we might refer ; we must give one Stanza in honour of poor Keats, for the sake of the simile embodied in it:— " But now, thy youngest, dearest, one has perished, The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew Like a pale flower, by some sad maiden cherished, And fed with true-love tears instead of dew : Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! Thy extreme hope, the loveliest, and the last, The bloom, whose petals nipt before they blew, Died in the promise of the fruit, is waste ; The broken lily lies — the storm is overpast." — Shelley. We have now reached the limits prescribed for this division of our subject, and therefore conclude with these consolatory lines of Miss Bremer : — " The flowers of love and hope we gather here, Shall yet bloom for us on the home of God ; They shed not their last fragrance o'er the bier, They lie not withered on the cold grave sod." FLORAL SIMILITUDES. ]5< FLORAL SIMILITUDES. BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. The snowdrop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. Then the pied wind flowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness. And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, Whom youth makes so fair, and passion so pale, That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green; And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music so delicate, soft and intense, It was felt like an odour within the sense ; And the rose like a nymph to the bath address'd, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ; And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup, Till the fiery star which is its eye, Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky ; 156 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuherose, The sweetest flower for scent that blows; And all rare blossoms from every clime Grew in that garden in perfect prime. ***** And on the stream whose inconstant bosom Was pranked, under boughs of embowering blossom. With golden and green light, slanting through Their heaven of many a tangled hue, Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, And starry river-buds glimmered by, And around them the soft stream did glide and dance With a motion of sweet sound and radiance.' And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, Which led through the garden along and across, Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees, Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells ; As fair as the fabulous asphodels, And flowerets, which drooping as day drooped too, Fell into pavilions white, purple, and blue, To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew. And from this undefined Paradise The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet Can first lull, and at last must awaken it,) When Heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them, As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ; FLORAL SIMILITUDES. 157 For each one was interpenetrated With the light and the odour its neighbour shed, Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear, Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. FLORAL EMBLEMS. BY WILLIAM BROWNE. The daisy scattered on each mead and down A golden tuft within a silver crown — Fair fall that dainty flower ! and may there be No shepherd graced that doth not honour thee ! The primrose, when with six leaves got in grace, Maids as a true-love in their bosoms place ; The spotless lily, by whose pure leaves be Noted the chaste thoughts of virginity ; Carnation sweet, with colour like the fire, The fit resemblance of inflamed desire ; The harebell, for her stainless azured hue, Claims to be worn of none but those are true ; The rose, like ready youth, in beauty stands, And would be cropped by none but fairest hands The yellow kingcups, Flora them assigned To be the badges of a. jealous mind ; The orange-tawny marigold, the night Hides not her colour from a searching sight ; The columbine, in tawny often taken, Ts then ascribed to such as axe forsaken; Flora's choice buttons of a russet dye Is hope, even in the depth of misery. 158 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. THE SLEEPING FLOWER GIRL, BY E. L. MONTAGUE. On a raised bank beside a sanded bay, Slumbered the way-side gatherer. On her cheek Youth was not — nor delight, nor strength, nor health. But something like the phantoms of all these : Their inward light had risen, and waned, and set, And on her face the sad reflection slept — Slept like the moon-ray on Endymion's brow. There was a toned vibration in the air, And a soft ripple in the new-formed wave ; But the breeze stirred her not, — nor the wave's voice, Even though the very flowers within her grasp Bowed to its melody, and seemed to seek Their once sweet dew-drops in the acrid brine. There came a trouble to her sleep. A brief And sudden starting shook the wild-flower leaves, That, loosed in fear, dropp'd quivering from her grasp. Away they rolled along the mossy bank, And downward to the deep ; till, drunk with tears, All perishing, they sunk — to bloom no more. As though their loss awoke her to a sense Of something sweet departed, up she rose, And, bending o'er the brink, spread wide her hands For what was past recalling; then with sighs, Like to the wave- wind's murmur, went her way. And, winged from the rest, a soft breeze came And spoke unto the tireless ocean's ear, FLORAL SIMILITUDES. 159 Words full of love and pity : — '• Sacred keep," She cried, " Oh sea, thy portion of the gift J Sweet to the sense, these fair but fading things, Flowers though they seem, are human joys and hopes Shook by some strong convulsion from the heart, Henceforth they dwell in us and we in them ; For we are Nature's ministers, and in her All things are centred, when the spirits of earth Grow to their full proportion." So she ceased, And, with a breath, the atoms which had formed Those seeming flowers, dispersed ; and some in air, Some to the waters, to the skies went some, Till all were vanished : but though lost to view, The passionate wealth of the world-wearied spirit, Loosed from its miser hold, yet lived the more, Disseminated wide through Nature's range. THE PERISHED FLOWERS. BY AN ARAB POET. Godlike and beautiful art thou, Light of our eyes, beloved, adored Youth, love, sit throned upon thy brow, Earth's joys for thee their treasures hoard. But as the fleeting shadow, seen And gone, — man's beauty fades to dust ; A perished flower, where life hath been, Fell death still claimed his transient trust, 160 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. THE "UT FLOS IN SEPTIS " OE CATALLUS, TRANSLATED BY BRAND. A tender maid is like a floweret sweet, Within the covert of a garden born ; Nor flock, nor hind, disturb the calm retreat, But on the parent stalk it blooms untorn, Refreshed by vernal rains and gentle heat, The balm of evening and the dews of morn : Youths and enamoured maidens vie to wear This flower their bosom's grace, or curled amid their hair. No sooner gathered from the vernal bough, Where fresh and blooming to the sight it grew, Then all who marked its opening beauty blow, Forsake the tainted sweet and faded hue. And she who yields, forgetful of her vow, To one but newly loved another's due, Shall live, though high for heavenly beauty prized, Unhonoured by the youths, andby the maids despised PALLAS, FROM THE ^NEID, TRANSLATED BY DRYDEN. Of oaken twigs they twist an easy bier, Then on their shoulders the sad burden rear, The body on this rux-al hearse is borne : Strewed leaves and fun'ral greens the bier adorn. All pale he lies, and looks, a lovely flower, New cropt by virgin hands, to dress the bow'r. Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below, No more to mother earth, or the green stem shal) owe. FLORAL SIMILITUDES. 161 DANjE, by t. westwood. I saw a flower in a pathless wood, Deep hidden in a mazy labyrinth Of rank wild grass, briars, and prickly leaves. 'Twas a strange donjon for so fair a thing, Dreary, and dark, and rude; but as I gazed On its transparent hues and bending grace, A golden sunbeam, stealing from a cloud, Alit on the green summit of the wood, And lover-like, heeding no obstacles, Shot through the clustering foliage and thick shade Of interwoven boughs, through tangled brake, Briar and branching fern, and tarried not Till, having reached its bourn it smiling lay On the white bosom of that lonely flower. It was a pleasant sight to see how soon The pretty prisoner raised its drooping head, And gave back smile for smile, and opening wide Its leaves, that erst were folded, seemed to woo The shining guest still nearer to its heart : It was a pleasant sight, and while I eyed Their amorous dalliance, many a gentle thought Arose unsummon'd. F,ancy, too, put forth Her wanton spells, and lured me far away, A willing wanderer. I scarce can tell Whither, so rapid was the sunny flight, The merry elfin led ; but once, methinks, Twining the flow 'ret in her rainbow wreath, She bore it followed by the golden beam, To bygone ages, and to distant climes, And called it — Danae. L 162 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. THE FRIENDSHIP FLOWER, BY B,. M. MILNES. When first the Friendship flower is planted Within the garden of your soul, Little of care or thought are wanted To guard its beauty fresh and whole ; But when the one impassioned age Has full revealed the magic bloom, A wise and holy tutelage Alone can shut the open tomb. It is not absence you should dread, — For absence is the very air By which, if sound at root, the head Shall wave most wonderful and fair ; With sympathies of joy and sorrow Fed, as with morn and even dews, Ideal colouring it may borrow Richer than ever earthly hues. But oft the plant, whose leaves unsere Refresh the desert, hardly brooks The common-peopled atmosphere Of daily thoughts, and words, and looks ; It trembles at the brushing wings Of many a careless fashion-fly, And strange suspicions aim their stings To taint it as they wanton by. Rare is the heart to bear a flower, That must not wholly fall and fade, Where alien feelings, hour by hour, Spring up, beset, and overshade ; FLORAL SIMILITUDES. 163 Better a child of care and toil, To glorify some needy spot, Than in a glad redundant soil To pine neglected and forgot. Yet when, at last, hy human slight, Or close of their permitted day, From the sweet world of life and light Such fine creations lapse away, — Bury the relics that retain Sick odours of departed pride, — Hoard as ye will your memory's gain, But let them perish where they died. TO A LOVER OF FLOWERS; BY B. SIMMONS. Still, gentle lady, cherish flowers — True fairy friends are they, On whom, of all thy cloudless hours, Not one is thrown away ; By them, unlike man's ruder race, No care conferr'd is spurned, But all thy fond and fostering grace A thousand-fold return' d. The rose repays thee all thy smiles — The stainless lily rears, Dew in the chalice of its wiles, As sparkling as thy tears. The glances of thy gladden' d eyes Not thanklessly are pour'd ; In the hlue violet's tender dyes Behold them all restored. 164 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. Yon bright carnation — once thy cheek Bent o'er it in the bud ; And back it gives thy blushes meek In one rejoicing flood ! That balm has treasured all thy sighs, That snow- drop touch' d thy brow, Thus not a charm of thine shall die Thy painted people vow. THE WOODLAND FLOWER, BY MISS LANDON. A gentle creature was that girl, Meek, humble, and subdued ; Like some lone flower that had grown up In woodland solitude. Its soil has had but little care, Its growth but little praise, And dim it droops the timid head It has not strength to raise. For other, brighter blooms are round, And they attract the eye ; They seem the sunny favourites Of summer earth and sky. The human and the woodland flowers Have yet a dearer part, — The perfume of the hidden depths, The sweetness of the heart. FLORAL SIMILITUDES. TO BY JOHN CLARE. 165 Fair was thy bloom, when first I met Thy summer's maiden blossom ; And thou art fair and lovely yet, And dearer to my bosom. O, thou wert once a wilding flower, All garden-flowers excelling, And still I bless the happy hour That led me to thy dwelling. Though nursed by field, and brook, and wood, And wild in every feature, Spring ne'er unsealed a fairer bud, Nor found a blossom sweeter. Of all tbe flowers the spring hath met, And it hath met with many, Thou art to me the fairest yet, And loveliest of any. Though ripening summers round thee bring, Buds to thy swelling bosom, That wait the cheering smiles of spring, To ripen into blossom ; These buds shall added blessings be, To make our lives sincerer : For as their flowers resemble thee, They'll make thy memory dearer. 166 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. And though thy bloom shall pass away, By winter overtaken, Thoughts of the past will claims display, And many joys awaken. When time shall every sweet remove, And blight thee on my bosom — Let beauty fade — to me, my love, Thou'lt ne'er be out of blossom! THE BANKS OF DEVON BY ROBERT BURNS. How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green spreading bushes and flowers blooming fair, But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon, Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on the sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals in the evening each leaf to renew. O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, And England, triumphant, display her proud rose, A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. FLORAL SIMILITUDES. 167 THE WREATH; FROM UHLAND E. N. — bentley's miscellany. There went a maid, and plucked the flowers That grew upon a sunny lea ; A ladye from the greenwood came, Most beautiful to see. She met the maiden with a smile, She twined the wreath into her hair, " It blooms not yet, but it will bloom, Oh ! wear it ever there!" And as the maiden grew, and roamed Beneath the moon so pale and wan, The tears fell from her, sad and sweet, The wreath to bud began. And when a joyous bride she lay Upon her faithful leman's breast, Then smiling blossoms burst the fold, Of their encircling vest. Soon cradled gently in her lap, The mother held a blooming child, Then many a golden fruit from out The leafy chaplet smiled. And when, alack ! her love had sunk Into the dark and dusky grave, In her dishevelled hair, a sere Dry leaf was seen to wave. 168 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. Soon she too, there, beside him lay, But still her dear loved wreath she wore : And it — oh ! wondrous sight to see — Both fruit and blossom bore. STANZAS. FROM WARD'S MISCELLANY. She drooped, as droops the lotus flower, When summer eves are dim ; And softly swells, from minster tower, The holy vesper-hymn. Strayed there a wild bee o'er her breast, A gale across the stream, To sear her fair transparent vest, Or mar its mystic dream 1 The wild bee wandered not ; the gale Slept on the dimpling well ; And none beheld how purely pale Those dew-bent clusters fell. As beautifully wan, as meek, As silently declining, She drooped, for whom these eyes are weak, This woe-worn heart repining. No burst of sorrow rent the link Uniting soul with clay ; Like lotus-flower from river's brink, Her semblance passed away. FLORAL SIMILITUDES. 169 THE FLOWER, BY GEORGE HERBERT. " Flower of the Soul ! emblem of sentient Thoughts, With prayer on prayer to chorded harps ascending, Till at the clouded portals, humbly bending, They, like the holy martyrs' pale cohorts, Wait solemn — while sounds of dew descending Their presence recognize, approve, and bless ; — Flower ! shedding fragrance from a dark recess, Thy roots lie passive in this mortal soil ; Thy beauty blooms on high — serene, beyond our coil !" Quoted in Horne's New Spirit of the Age. How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns ! ev'n as the flowers in spring ; To which, besides their own demean, The late past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Grief melts away like snow in May ; As if there were no such cold thing. Who would have thought my shrivell'd heart Could have recovered greenness ? It was gone Quite under ground, as flowers depart To see their mother root, when they have blown ; Where they, together, all the hard weather, Dead to the world, keep house unknown. These are thy wonders, Lord of Power ! Killing and quick' ning, bringing down to Hell, And up to heaven in an hour ; Making a chiming of a passing bell, We say amiss, " This or that is ;" Thy word is all, if we could spell. 170 FLORAL SIMILITUDES. Oh, that I once past changing were ; Fast in thy Paradise, where no flow'r can wither ! Many a spring I shoot up fair, OfFring at heav'n, growing and groaning thither, Nor doth my flower want a spring shower, My sins and I joining together. But while I grow in a straight line, Still upward bends as if heav'n were mine own, Thy anger comes, and I decline What past to that? What pole is not the zone Where all things burn when thou dost turn, And the least frown of thine is shown 1 And now in age I bud again : After so many deaths I live and write : J once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing. O, my only light, It cannnot be that I am he, On whom thy tempests fell at night ! These are thy wonders, Lord of Love ! To make us see we are but flow'rs that glide : Which when we once can find and prove, Thou hast a garden for us where to bide ; Who would be more, swelling through store, Forfeit their Paradise by their pride. 171 CHAPTER VI. FLORAL CEREMONIES. "Bring, Flora, bring thy treasures here, The pride of all the blooming year, And let me thence a garland frame." — Shenstone. We have said, in a former chapter, that we can prove the high antiquity of the application of Flowers to ceremonial purposes, and we now proceed to give such proof as is afforded us by the testimony of ancient writers, and of those modern ones who have made a study of the subject; foremost amongst these latter must be ranked the author of "Flora Historica," from whose excellent work we have derived much of the information which follows. " The worship of Flora," says Mr. Phillips, "among the heathen nations, may be traced up to very early days. She was the object of religious veneration among the Phocians and the Sabines, long before the foundation of Rome; and the early Greeks worshipped her under the name of Chloris. The Romans instituted a festival in honour of Flora as early as the time of Romulus, as a kind of rejoicing at the appearance of the blossoms, which they welcomed as the harbingers of fruits. The festival games of Floralia were not, however, regular- 172 _ FLORAL CEREMONIES. ly instituted until five hundred and sixteen years after the foundation of Rome, when on consulting the cele- brated books of the Sybil, it was ordained that the feast should be annually kept on the 28th day of April, that is four days before the calends of May." — Boun - teous May ! — " Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing." As Milton sings, but we shall have much to say of our modern " Feast of Flowers," which, doubtless, had its origin in that above spoken of, and which was in- troduced by the Roman conquerors into Britain. " O ! fairest of the fabled forms ! that stream, Dressea by wild Fancy, through the poet's dream, Still may thy attributes of leaves and flowers, Thy gardens rich, and shrub-o'ershadowed bowers," And yellow meads, with spring's first honours bright, The child's gay heart and frolic step invite ; And while the careless wanderer explores Th' umbrageous forest or the rugged shores, Climbs the green down or roams the broom-clad'waste, May Truth and Nature form his future taste ! Goddess ! on youth's blest hours thy gifts bestow ; Bind the fair wreath on virgin Beauty's brow, And still may Fancy's brightest flowers be wove Round the gold chains of hymeneal love." Charlotte Smith. It is thus that an English poetess apostrophizes the Goddess Flora, who, according to classical author- ity, was " married to Zephyrus, and received from him the privilege of presiding over flowers and enjoy- ing perpetual youth." — She was represented by Ovid and others as. crowned with flowers, and holding in her FLORAL CEREMONIES. 173 hand the horn of plenty ; perhaps we can find her portrait among our collection of poetic beauties. Ah ! here it is ! — " The vision comes ! — while slowly melt away ••Night's hovering shades hefore the eastern ray, Ere yet declines the morning's humid star, Fair Fancy hrings her ; in her leafy car Flora descends to dress the expecting earth, Awake the germs, and call the huds to birth ; Bids each hybernacle its cell unfold, And open silken leaves and eyes of gold Of forest foliage, of the firmest shade, Enwove by magic hands, the car was made ; Oak and the maple plane without entwined, And beech and ash the verdant concave lined The saxifrage, that snowy flowers emboss, Supplied the seat ; and of the mural moss The velvet footstool rose, where lightly rest Her slender feet in cyprepedium dressed. The tufted rush that bears a silken crown, The floating feathers of the thistle's down, In tender hues of rainbow lustre dyed, The airy texture of her robe supplied ; And wild convolvuli, yet half unblown, Formed, with their wreathing buds, her simple zone ; Some wandering tresses of her radiant hair Luxuriant floated on the enamoured air ; The rest were by the scandix points confined, And graced, a shining knot, her head behind — While, as a sceptre of supreme command, She waved the anthoxanthum in her hand." Charlotte Smith. We wish that our space permitted us to quote the de- scription of the attendants of the beautiful Goddess of Flowers from the same poem, and the exquisite forms of perfumed loveliness which the earth and the waters 174) FLORAL CEREMONIES. put forth to welcome her approach, but the poet of Lusitania is waiting to tell us how, — " Zephyr and Flora emulous conspire To breathe their graces o'er the field's attire ; The one gives healthful freshness, one the hue, • Fairer than e'er creative pencil drew. Pale as the lovesick hopeless maid they dye The modest violet ; from the curious eye The modest violet turns her gentle head, And by the thorn weeps o'er her lowly bed ;] Bending beneath the tears of pearly dawn, The snow-white lily glitters o'er the lawn ; Lo ! from the bough reclines the damask rose, And o'er the lily's milk-white bosom glows ; Fresh in the dew, far o'er the painted dales, Each fragrant herb her sweetest scent exhales." Camoens. We must not now pause to describe how " Pomona, fired with rival envy, views The glaring pride of Flora's darling hues," And endeavours to outvie their beauty and fragrance with her own luscious productions, but turn to the author of "the Task." — Listen to him I — Oh, lady readers ! — " The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns, The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown, And sullen sadness that o'ershade, distort, And mar the face of beauty, when no cause For such immeasurable woe appears : These Flora banishes, and gives the fair Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own." COWPER. From the Roman Antiquities we learn, that "Among the Latins, a bride on her wedding-day was dressed in FLORAL CEREMONIES. 175 a long white robe with a purple fringe ; her face was covered with a red veil, and her head was crowned with flowers. On arriving at the house of her husband, she found woollen fillets round the door-posts, which were adorned with flowers, and anointed with the fat of wolves to avert enchantment." " I oft have seen upon a bridal day, Full many maids clad in their best array, In honour of the bride, come with their flaskets Filled full of flowers ; others in wicker baskets Bring from the marish rushes to o'erspread The ground, whereon to church the lovers tread : Whilst that the quaintest youth of all the train Ushers the way with many a piping strain." William Browne. Says our old pastoral poet, in allusion to this custom, as still followed in comparatively modern times, though to us the period of which he writes may be spoken of as "long, long ago." In a similar strain sings Dray- ton, whose picturesque description of the Marriage of the Thames and Isis will be found farther on. An- other of the Company of Singers of the Elizabethan era, makes this playful allusion in his Epithalamium : — " Now busie maydens, strew sweet flowres, Much like our bride in virgin state, — Now fresh, then prest, soone dying ; The death is sweet, and must be yours, Time goes on crutches till that date, Birds fledged must needes be flying." Christopher Brooke. Then again, in the play of "the Two Noble Kins- men," we find a very sweet bridal-song, beginning thus : — 176 FLORAL CEREMONIES. " Roses, their sharp spines being gone/ Not royal in their smells alone, But in their hue; Maiden-pinks, of odours taint, Daisies, smell-less, yet most quaint, And sweet thyme true. " Primrose, first-born child of ver, Merry spring- time's harbinger, With her bells dim ; Oxlips, in their cradles growing, Marigolds on death-beds blowing, Lark-heels trim. "All dear Nature's children sweet, Lye 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet, Blessing their sense ! Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious, or bird fair, Be absent hence." iX,ETCH£.R. Even at the present day, it is quite customary with us to strew the path of the bride and bridegroom with flowers, and to offer them nosegays as they come from church ; and in Wales, as in some of our rural districts, where the primitive observances have been better pre- served, wreaths and garlands are worn on such occa- sions, and even suspended in the place of worship it- self; and to those who condemn this practice as un- christianlike, we would say in the words of Bishop Heber, " If this be heathenish, Heaven help the wicked ! But I hope you will not suspect that I shall lend any countenance to this kind of ecclesiastical tyranny (which would forbid such rites and observ- ances), or consent to men's consciences being burdened with restrictions foreign to the cheerful Spirit of the FLORAL CEREMONIES. 177 Gospel." This was written in reference to. the de- nouncement of a certain crown of flowers used in mar- riages, as "a device of Satan," and a desire expressed by an over jealous professor of Christianity, to excom- municate some young persons for wearing masks, and acting in some private rustic theatricals. As the Greeks and Romans were lavish of flowers afc their weddings, so do the modern Italians delight to use them on such occasions. Here is a picture of the preparation for a wedding at Florence, drawn by a poetic pencil : — " 1 stopped beneath the walls Of San Mark's old cathedral halls. I entered, and beneath the roof, Ten thousand wax -lights burnt on high, And incense from the censors fumed As for some great solemnity The white robed choristers were singing ; Their cheerful peals the bells were ringing ; Their deep voiced music floated round, As the far arches sent forth sound — The stately organ : — and fair bands Of young girls, strewed with lavish hands, Violets o'er the mosaic floor ; And sang while scattering the sweet store." L. E. L. Let us now take our readers to a nortnern clime, where the mighty heart of Nature yet heats warmly beneath her rugged exterior, and the bright flowers open their perfumed chalices in the green valleys, heedless of the snow-covered mountains which frown upon them on every side : — To Sweden, where " from the bank of the river nearest Semb, a little fleet of gaily decorated 178 FLORAL CEREMONIES. boats is pushing off. In the principal boat sits the lady of Semb, her eyes turned with quiet enjoyment now on the beautiful scenes of Nature, now on the still more beautiful objects that are nearer to her — two happy human beings. Beside her, more like a little angel than a child, sits tbe little Hulda ; a garland of gay flowers twined among her golden locks. But the looks of all were turned upon the bride and bride- groom ; and they were, indeed, beautiful to look upon, so inwardly happy did they seem. Other boats con- tained the wedding guests. The men who rowed had all garlands on their yellow straw hats, and thus to the sounds of gay music they passed on to the chapel. This was a simple building, with no other ornament than a beautiful altar picture, and the flowers and branches of trees, with which the walls and floor were decorated in honour of the occasion."* Yes ! — " 'Tis a morn for a bridal, the merry bride bell Tolls out through the -woodland that skirts the chapel." Do you not hear it ringing ? Do you not see the gay procession pass onward ? and are you not aware of a delicious perfume emanating from the flowers which bestrew the way, and garlands of the merry company : — " But other lands and other floral rites, The thought poetic, and the pen invites." in Eastern nations flowers and perfumes have been considered one of the indispensable enjoyments of the higher classes of society, from the remotest antiquity. From those nations the Romans appear to have bor- rowed this delicate refinement, and to have carried it to the utmost excess in their costly entertainments, * Bremer's " Strife and Peace." FLORAL CEREMONIES. 179 They soon began to consider flowers as forming a very essential article in their festal preparations ; and it is the opinion of Baccius, that, at their desserts, the number of their flowers far exceeded that of their fruits. The odour of flowers was thought to arouse the fainting appetite, and it certainly must have added an ethereal enjoyment to the grosser pleasures of their banqueting boards : — " Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, To wreath the cup ere the wine is poured; Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and vale, Their breath floats out on the southern gale, And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, To deck the hall where the bright wine flows." Hemans. Flowers were not only used as a stimulus to the palate, or that two senses might be gratified at one time, but it was thought that certain plants and flowers facilitated the functions of the brain, and assisted materially to neutralize the inebriating qualities of wine. Even the warriors did not hesitate to crown themselves with flowers during their principal repast. These observa- tions are equally applicable to the Greeks, as to the Romans : — " Soft went the music the soft air along, While fluent Greek, a vowelled under-song, Kept up among the guests, discoursing low At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow, But when the happy vintage touched their brains, Louder they talked, and louder came the strains. Soon was god Bacchus at meridian height, Flushed were their cheeks and bright eyes double bright, 180 FLORAL CEREMONIES. Garlands of every green, and every scent, From vales deflowered, or forest trees branch-rent, In baskets of bright osiered gold were brought, High as the handles heaped, to suit the thought Of every guest ; that each, as he did please, Might fancy-fit his brows, silk -pillowed at his ease." Keats. Horace/ it seems, could not sit down to his bachelor's glass of wine without his garland. This lively little ode occurs at the conclusion of his first book ; — " I tell thee, boy, that I detest The grandeur of a Persian feast , Not for me the Linden's rind Shall the flowery chaplet bind. Then search not where the curious rose Beyond his season loitering grows ; But beneath the mantling vine, While I quaff the flowing wine, The myrtle's wreath shall crown our brows, While you shall wait and I carouse." Translated by Francis. " The allusion to Persia in this ode," says Phillips, " confirms our idea, that the taste for flowers came to Rome from the East ; garlands were suspended at the gates, or in the temples, where feasts or solemn rejoicings were held, and at all places where public joy and gaiety were desired ;" thus, in the play of " All for Love," Serapim says — " Set before your doors The images of all your sleeping fathers, With laurels crowned ; with laurels wreath your posts, And strew with flowers the pavement ; let the priest Do present sacrifice ; pour out the wine, And call the gods to join with you in gladness." Drtden FLORAL CEREMONIES. 181 And again, in M the Distrest Mother," we find an allusion to the floral decorations which it was customary to place in the hands of victims in the ancient sacri- fices, at which the priests also appeared crowned with flowers : — " Thus the gay victim with fresh garlands crowned, Pleased with the sacred pipe's enlivening sound, Through gazing crowds in solemn state proceeds, And dressed in fatal pomp, magnificently bleeds." Phillips. " In the annual festivals of the 1'erminalia, the peasants were all crowned with garlands of flowers," says Cicero, and from " Irving's Antiquities," we learn that " sacri- fices among the Romans were of different kinds ; the place erected for offerings was called ara or altare, an altar; it was erected with leaves and grass, adorned with flowers, and bound with woollen fillets." And this author further tells us, that "in the triumphal pro- cessions of Rome the streets were strewec with flowers, and the altars smoked with incense." Let us now take a picture of one of these Roman triumphs ; speak- ing of the Conqueror, the poet says, — " He comes, and with a port so proud, As if he had subdued the spacious world ; And all Sinope's streets were filled with such A glut of people, you would think some god Had conquered in their cause, and them thus ranked, That he might make his entrance on their heads ! While from the scaffolds, windows, tops of houses, Are cast such gaudy showers of garlands down, That e'en the crowd appear like conquerors, And the whole city seems like one vast meadow Set all with flowers, as a clear heaven with stars.' Nathaniel Ls£. 182 FLORAL CEREMONIES. Here is another by a more modern hand : — * Throughout the city joyful shouts resound, The gates are garlanded, the columns hound With victor laurels, while from lovely hands Sweet flowers are showered upon the martial hands As in glad pomp the proud processions march Through many a fair arcade and trophied arch." Agnes Strickland. And yet one more ; it is by T. B. Macauley ; we are still at the " Seven hilled city" in the time of her pris- tine vigour, ere she had become luxurious and effemi- nate : hark at the Io triumphe which swells upon the gale ! Hark to the shouts of the multitude, and the pealing of the silver-throated trumpets ! It is the feast of the twin brothers, Castor and Pollux, who won for Rome the battle of the Lake Regillus : — " Ho, trumpets, sound a war-note ! Ho, lictors clear the way ! The knights will ride, in all their pride, Along the streets to-day. To-day the doors and windows Are hung with garlands all, From Castor, in the Forum, To Mars, without the wall, Each knight is robed in purple, With olive each is crowned ; A gallant war-horse under each Paws haughtily the ground. On ride they to the Forum, While laurel-boughs and flowers, From house-tops and from windows, Fall on their crests in showers. FLORAL CEREMONIES. 183 Unto the Great Twin Brethren Lo ! all the people throng, With chaplets and with offerings, With music and with song. While flows the Yellow River, While stands the Sacred Hill, The proud Ides of Quintilis Shall have such honour still." Lays of Ancient Rome. On the subject of chaplets and garlands so much has been said and written, that we might fill a volume with mere quotations; by the ancients beauty and divinity were alike crowned with them — the objects of their earthly love, and of their unearthly adoration ; they have equally graced the altar and the domestic hearth ; the temple, the palace, and the cottage ; and even down to the present day, wherever shrines and images are set up as visible manifestations of things holy and invisible, there do wreaths and garlands of flowers continue to be offered and suspended ; and among those who, like ourselves, reject as sinful, or, at least quite unnecessary, all created forms and vain repre- sentations of the Deity, they are considered as the fittest ornaments for female loveliness and childish in- nocence ; and the most beautiful objects wherewith we can regale the senses in seasons of festivity and re- joicing. In the old ballad of " St. George and the Dragon," this verse occurs: — " Nay, stay, dear daughter quoth the queen, And as thou art a virgin bright, That hast for virtue famous been, So let me clothe thee all in white ; And crown thy head with flowers sweet,' An ornament for virgins meet." Percy Reljques. 184 FLORAL CEREMONIES. This maiden was to be offered as a propitiatory sacrifice to the Dragon, and thus, like the victim of the pagan ceremonial, went to her death with floral decorations. So, when the fair Serena was surprised by the " Salvage men," and condemned to be slain, — " The priest himself a garland did compose Of finest flowers, and with full busie care His bloody vessels wash, and holy fire prepare. Fairie Queen. While of those who eagerly awaited the consummation of the horrid rite it is said, — ; Of few green turfes an altar soon they fayned, And deckt it all with flowers which they nigh hand obtained.' Fairie Queen. Then, again, are we no t told of the Knight Sir Cali- dore, that during his tarriance amid the shepherds, he,— " Saw a fairie damzell, which did wear a crown Of sundry flowers, with silken ribbands tied, Yclad in home-made greene that her own hands had dyde." Fairie Queen. And did not the same knight, " one day as he did range the fields abroad," behold in the midst of a goodly band of dancers, one who — " Seemed all the rest in beauty to excell, Crowned with a rosie girlond, that right well Did her beseeme : and ever as the crew About her daunst, sweet flowers that far did smell, And fragrant odours they upon her threw." Fairie Queen. As we look upon these pictures we are transported in fancy to Arcadian fields and groves ; the green valley FLORAL CEREMONIES. 185 and the sparkling rivulet are before us ; the sound of the shepherd's pipe, the soft bleating of the sheep, and the drowsy hum of the wild-bees meet our ears, while the perfume of the thyme and other odoriferous plants and flowers steal over the senses with a soothing in- fluence, like slumber ; we dream, yet we are awake ; we behold realities as though they were but phantoms — creatures of imagination. All is shadowy, indistinct, yet full of beauty and intelligence. Lo, you now, you happy-looking group of men and women, laden with bright-hued blossoms, and verdant boughs, piping and singing so merrily as they cross the plain. Let us question him who sits watching his sheep by the stream, that glides so glassily along the foot of the green hill, — " From whence come all these shepherd swains And lovely nymphs attired in green V Hark, he answers, — " From gathering garlands on the plains To crown our fair, the shepherds' queen." Nearer they come, yet nearer, and now the words of their song can be distinguished : — " Bring hither the pinke and purple columbinp, With gillyflowers • Bring sweet carnations, and sops in wine, Worn of paramours. Strew me the ground with daff-adown-dillies, And cowslips, and kingcups, and loved lilies. The pretty paunce, And the chevisaunce, Shall match with the flower-de-luce." M. Drayton. 180 FLORAL CEREMONIES. Let us follow the singers through yon grove of myrtles into the open space beyond, where upon a grassy hil- lock, a throne is erected, of turf, overarched with boughs reft from the neighbouring trees, and literally covered with wreaths and clusters of the fairest flowers ; and lo, the queen ! — "See where she sits upon the grassie greene, A seemly sight ! Yclad in scarlet, like a mayden queene, And ermines white. Upon her head a crimson coronet, With daffodils and damask roses set : Bay-leaves betweene, And primroses greene Embellish the sweete violet."— Spencer. We have purposely avoided here speaking of May-day festivities, because another opportunity will occur of doing so, in "the Poetry of the Months." The chapter which follows will fully explain why no allusion is here made to the custom of decorating corpses and places of sepulture with flowers. We take leave of this portion of our subject with the words of the sweetest of Spanish poets: — ' This lucid fount whose murmurs fill the mind, The verdant forests waving with the wind ; The odours wafted from the mead, the flowers In which the wild bee sits and sings for hours ; These might the moodiest misanthrope employ, Make sound the sick, and turn distress to joy." Gracilasso de la Vega. FLORAL CEREMONIES. 18? WELL FLOWERING. From the earliest times of Christianity a day was set apart to commemorate our Lord's ascension into Heaven. On this day, parish boundaries are frequently perambulated, accompanied by ■well-known customs. At Penkridge, in Staffordshire, as well as at Wolverhampton, long since the Reformation, during the time of processioning, the inhabitants used to adorn their wells with boughs and flowers ; and this elegant custom is still practised annually at Tissington, in Derbyshire, where it is denominated " well-flowering." A modern divine has given an interesting account of tbis pleasing ceremony, for which, see Time's Telescope, for 1827, and a Mr. T. L. Merritt, has written a poem on the subject, from which we extract the following : — VILLAGER'S SONG. Bring flowers ! bring flowers ! to the crystal well That springs 'neath the willows in yonder dell ; Bring the meadow-sweet fair, And the vale-lily rare ; Blend the cowslip's hue With the violet blue ; And the primrose bring, Sweet blossom of Spring, With a garland gay Of beautiful May ! And we'll scatter them over the charmed well, And learn our fate from its mystic spell : — Bring flowers ! bring flowers ! 188 FLORAL CEREMONIES. To the well, to the well — away ! away ! With a gladsome heart, and a roundelay ! For the lark is a-wing, And the nightingales sing, And each balmy flower Wakes to welcome the hour ; Not a cloud sails by To darken the sky, And the breeze is at rest On the bluebell's breast : All nature rejoices, and so will we, With a lightsome heart right merrily : — Bring flowers ! bring flowers 1 And she whose flower most tranquilly Glides down the stream, our Queen shall be ; In a crown we'll wreathe Wild flowers that breathe ; With the sweet eglantine The forget-me-not twine, And the purple heart's-ease, — 'Tis the emblem of peace ; And the pimpernel shy With its storm-seeing eye : And the maiden by whom this wreathe shall be worn, Shall wear it again on her bridal morn : — Wreathe flowers ! wreathe flowers ! In the early ages of Christianity, the common people were accustomed to honour wells and fountains with the titles of saints and martyrs ; as St. John's, St. "Winifred's, and St. Agnes' well. Though this was forbidden by the canons of St. Anselm, FLORAL CEREMONIES. 189 many pilgrimages continued to be made to them, and the custom was long retained of throwing nosegays into fountains and chap- lets into wells. From this practice originated the ceremony of sprinkling rivers with flowers, which, in reference to the Severn, is alluded to by both Milton and Dkyden, and also thus ele gantly described in " The Fleece :" — "With light fantastic toe the nymphs Thither assembled, thither every swain ; And o'er the dimpled stream a thousand flowers, Pale lilies, roses, violets, and pinks, Mix'd with the greens of burnet, mint, and thymp Ai^d trefoil, sprinkled with their sportive arms. Such custom holds along the irriguous vales. From Wreken's brow to rocky Dolvoryn, Sabrina's early haunt." HYMN OF THE TURKISH CHILDREN. BY MIS8 *ARDOB. A recent traveller in Turkey describes an interesting ceremony, witnessed by her, performed at a time of excessive drought. " At dusk, the village children, walking two and two, and each carrying a bunch of wild flowers, drew near the cistern in their turn, and sang to one of the thrilling melodies of the country, a hymn of supplication." Allah ! Father ! hear us ; Our souls are faint and weak : A cloud is on our mother's brow, A tear upon her cheek : 190 FLORAL CEREMONIES. We fain would chase that cloud away, And stay that sad'ning tear ; For this it is to-night we pray — Allah! Father !— hear ! We seek the cooling fountain, Alas ! we seek in vain ; The cloud that crowns the mountain Melts not away in rain. The stream is shrunk, which through our plain Once glided bright and clear ; Oh ! ope the secret springs again — Allah! Father !— hear ! * We bring thee flowers, sweet flowers, All withered in their prime ; No moisture glistens on their leaves, They sickened ere their time. And we, like them, shall pass away, Ere wintry days are near ; Shouldst thou not hearken as we pray — Allah ! Father ! — hear ! FLORAL CEREMONIES. 191 HINDOO GIRLS FLOATING THEIR TRIBUTARY OFFERINGS DOWN THE GANGES As they passed along a sequestered river after sunset, they saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank, whose employment seemed to them so strange, that they stopped their palanquins to observe her. She had lighted a small lamp, filled with oil of cocoa, and placingit on an earthen dish, adorned with a wreath of flowers, had committed it, with a trembling hand, to the stream, and was now anxiously watching its progress down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. Lalla Rookh was all curiosity ; — when one of her attendants, who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges, (where this cere- mony is so frequent, that often in the dusk of the evening, the river is seen glittering all over with lights, like the Oton-tala, or sea of stars) informed the princess that it was the usual way in which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages offered up vows for their safe return. If the lamp sunk imme- diately, the omen was disastrous ; but if it went shining down the stream, and continued to burn till entirely out of sight, the return of the beloved object was considered as certain. Lalla Rookh. They bend above the moonlit stream With gathered fruit and flowers ; The last on which the sun has left The earlier rosy hours. One sends a vow to him afar — Oh ! — never can the heart Know half the love it cherishes Until it comes to part. 192 FLORAL CEREMONIES. A thousand things are then recalled, Though scarcely marked at first ; But lingering thoughts in after hours Betray how they were nurs'd. Another sends a little boat Upon its happier way ; She knows to-morrow will restore The eyes she loved to-day They bend with all the eager hopes, The confidence of youth, Which makes the future it believes, And trusts itself with truth. And never Grecian chisel formed Shapes of more perfect grace, Than by the moonlit Ganges bend Each o'er her mirrored face. Ah ! love takes many shapes ; at first It comes as flashes fly That bear the lightning on their wings, And then in darkness die. But after comes a steadier light, A long and lasting dream ; Like the full heaven which the sun Flings down on life's dark stream. One lingers — for she dares not trust Her lamp upon the wave ; FLORAL CEREMONIES. 193 She knows the omen ere it come — Her heart is its own grave. There is a love that in the soul Burns silent and alone, Though all of earthly happiness, Has long, too long been flown. But like the lotus, whose soft depths Receive the morning sun ; The true fond flower still looks to heaven, Though light and day are done. And she, amid her gladder friends, Seems pensive on the strand ; And keeps her fairy bark unlaunched Beside her trembling hand. Why should she send her fairy freight To question future pain ; She knows her utter misery — She loves, and loves in vain. I pray his pardon — he who traced The graceful forms I see ; Oh, magic painter to thy skill The spirit yields its key. The treasures of these distant lands Are given to thy will ; But thou hast yet a dearer charm — The heart obeys thee still. K 194 FLORAL CEREMONIES. After the feast of Whitsuntide, says Von Teitz, the young Russian maidens seek the banks of the Neva, and fling in its waters wreaths of flowers. These are tokens of affection to absent friends. Our own modern Anacreon thus addresses the river in which his suppositious wreaths are cast : — Flow on, thou shining 1 river, But ere thou reach the sea, Seek Ella's bow'r and give her The wreaths J fling o'er thee : And tell her thus : — If she'll he mine, The current of our lives shall be, With joys along their course to shine Like those sweet flowers on thee. But if in wandering thither, Thou find she mocks thy pray'r, Then leave those wreaths to wither Upon the cold bank there. And tell her thus : — When youth is o'er, Her lone and loveless charms shall be, Thrown by upon life's weedy shore, Like those sweet flowers from thee I FLORAL CEREMONIES AT THE MARRIAGE OF THE RIVERS THAMES AND ISIS. BY MICHAEL DRAYTON. The Naiads and the Nymphs, extremely overjoyed, And on the winding banks all busily employed, Upon this joyful day some dainty chaplets twine : Some others chosen out, with fingers neat and fine, FLORAL CEREMONIES. 195 Brave Anadems* do make: some Bauldricks up do bind: Some Garlands ; and to some the nosegays are assigned ; As best their skill did serve. But for that Thame should be Still manlike as himself, therefore they will that he Should not be dressed with flowers to gardens that be- long, (His bride that better fit,) but only such as sprung From the replenisht meads and fruitful pastures near, To sort which flowers some sit ; some making garlands were: The Primrose placing first, because that in the Spring It is the first appears ; then only flourishing ; The azured Harebell next; with them they neatly mixt : T' allay whose luscious smell they Woodbine placed betwixt. Among those things of scent there prick they in the Lily, And near to that again her sister Daffodilly. To sort these flowers of show with others that were sweet, The Cowslip then they couch, and the Oxlip for her meet : The Columbine amongst they sparingly do set, The yellow King-cup, wrought in many a curious fret And now and then among, of Eglantine a spray, By which again a course of Lady-smocks they lay : The Crow-flower, and thereby the Clover-flower they stick, The daisy over all those sundry sweets so thick, * Crowns of Flowers. 196 FLORAL CEREMONIES. As Nature doth herself to imitate her right ; Who seems in that her pearlf so greatly to delight, That every plain therewith she powdereth to behold. The crimson Darnel-flower ; the Blue-bottle and gold, Which though esteemed but weeds, yet for their dainty hues, And for their scent, not ill, they for their purpose choose. Thus having told you how the bridegroom Thame was drest, I'll show you how the Bride, fair Isis, they invest; Sitting to be attired under her Bower of State, Which scorns a meaner sort than fits a princely rate : In Anadems for whim they curiously dispose, The Red, the dainty White, the gaudy Damask Rose. For the rich Ruby, Pearl, and Amethyst men place In kings' imperial crowns, the circle that enchase. The brave Carnation, then, of sweet and sovereign power, (So of his colour called, although a July flower.) With the other of his kind, the speckled and the pale ; Then the odoriferous Pink that sends forth such a gale Of swertness, yet in scents as various as in sorts : The purple Violet then the Pansy there supports : The Marigold above t' adorn the arched bur; The double- Daisy, Thrift, the Button -Batchelor; Sweet William, Sops in wine, the Campion, and to these Some Lavender they put, and Rosemary, and Bays : Sweet Marjorum with her like, sweet Basil rare for smell, With many a flower whose name were now too long to tell: * Margarite means both a pearl and a daisy. FLORAL CEREMONIES. 197 And rarely with the rest the goodly Flower -de-lice. Thus for the nuptual hour all fitted point device, Whilst some still busied are in decking of the bride, Some others are again as seriously employed, In strewing of those herbs at bridals used that be, Which every where they strew with bounteous hand and free ; The healthful Balm and Mint from their full laps do fly, The scentful Camomile, the verdurous Costenry. They hot Muscado oft with milder Maudlin cast : Strong Tansy, Fennel cool, they prodigally waste: Clear Hyssop, and therewith the comfortable Thyme ; Germander with the rest ; each thing then in its prime ; As well of wholesome herbs, as every pleasant flower, Which Nature here produced to fit this happy hour. Amongst these strewing kinds, some other wild that grew, As Burnet all abroad, and Meadow-wort they threw. SHEPHERDS' GARLANDS, BY WILLIAM BROWNE. The pansy, thistle, all with prickles set, The cowslip, honey-suckle, violet, And many hundreds more that graced the meads, Gardens and groves where bounteous Flora treads, Were by the shepherd's daughters (as yet are Used in our cots) brought home with special care : For bruising them they not alone would quell, But rot the rest, and spoil their pleasing smell, 198 FLORAL CEREMONIES. Much like a lad, who in his tender prime, Sent from his friends to learn the use of time, As are his mates, or good or bad, so he Thrives to the world, and such his actions be. As in the rainbow's many coloured hue, Here see we watchet deepened with a blue, There a dark tawny with a purple mixt, Yellow and flame with streaks of green betwixt, A bloody stream into a blushing run, And ends still with the colour which begun, Drawing the deeper to a lighter stain, Bringing the lightest to the deep'st again. With such rare art each mingleth with his fellow, The blue with watchet, green and red with yellow, Like to the changes which we daily see About the dove's neck with variety, Where none can say, though he it strict attends, Here one begins, and there the other ends. So did these maidens, with their various flowers, Deck up their windows, and make neat their bowers. Using such cunning as they did dispose The ruddy peony with the lighter rose: The monk's-hood with the bugloss, and entwine The white, the blue, the flesh-like columbine, With pinks, sweet-williams, that far off, the eye Could not the manner of their mixtures spy. Then with those flowers they most of all did piize, With all their skill, and in most curious wise, (On tufts of herbs or rushes) would they frame A dainty border round the shepherd's name: FLORAL CEREMONIES. 1 " Fair flowers in sweet succession should arise Through the long, blooming year, above the grave ; Spring breezes will breathe gentlier o'er the turf, And summer glance with mildest, meekest beam, To cherish piety's dear offerings. There Rich sounds of autumn ever shall be heard,— Mysterious, solemn music, waked by winds To hymn the closing year ! And when the touch Of sullen winter blights the last, last gem, That bloomed around the tomb — O ! there should be The polished and enduring laurel — there The green and glittering ivy, and all plants — ■ All hues and forms, delicious, that adorn The brumal reign, and often waken hopes Refreshing. Let eternal verdure clothe The silent fields where rest the honoured dead, While mute affection comes, and lingers round With slow soft step, and pensive pause, and sigh, All holy," — Carrington. FUNERAL FLOWERS. 217 In Glamorganshire, it is yet a custom to strew the bed whereon a corpse rests, with fragrant flowers. So, in the South of England, a chaplet of white roses is borne before the corpse of a maiden by a young girl, nearest in age and resemblance to the deceased, and after- wards hung up over her accustomed seat at church. They are emblematical, says Washington Irving, of purity and the crown of glory, which she has received in heaven : — " A garland shall be formed By art and nature's skill, Of sundry coloured flowers In token of good-will, — The blessed crown of glory, And the hopes which us do fill." Many and very beautiful are the allusions made to this custom by our old poets and dramatists we shall only have space to quote a few of them from the prince of song and master of the passions : — Akviragus. " With fairest flowers "While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor The azured hare-bell, like thy veins ; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, which, not to slander, Out-sweetened not thy breath ; the ruddock would With charitable bill, bring thee all this ; Yea, and furred moss besides, when flowers are none, To winter-ground thy corse." — Cymbeline, Act IV. Bellarius. " Here's a few flowers, but about midnight, more : The herbs that have en them cold dew o' the night Are strewings fitt'st for graves. — Upon their faces :— , 218 FUNERAL FLOWERS. You were as flowers now wither"*! : even so These herhlets shall, which we upon you strew." Cymbeline, Act IV. Queen. — " Sweets to the sweet ; Farewell ! {Scattering flowers) I hoped thou should'st have been my Hamlet's wife ; 1 thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, And not t' have strew'd thy grave. — Hamlet, Act V. In this burial scene of poor Ophelia, we find the priest saying : — " Here she is allowed her virgin rites, Her maiden strewments." Some editions have it " her virgin crants," that is garlands. Her brother, Laertes, says : — -Lay her i' the earth ; And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring. Which reminds us of the following quaint epitaph by Robert Herrick : — "In this little urn is laid Prudence Baldwin, once my maid ; From whose happy spark here let Spring the purple violet," FUNERAL FLOWERS. 219 CEMETERIES. There are now four public cemeteries in the immediate vici- nity of Paris, viz., Montmartre, Pere La Chaise, Vaugirade, and Sainte Catherine; nor is our own metropolis without three or more of these picturesque places of sepulture, and it is hoped that the day will arrive when no thickly populated town or city will be unprovided with an open and airy spot, conse- crated to the repose of the dead, where their graves may be decked with flowers, and where the sorrowing survivors may find a consolation in paying those last offices of affection, apart from the noise and bustle of the crowded thoroughfares of every day existence. With J, A. Wade : — > " We like the mockery that flowers Exhibit on the mound, Beneath which lie the happy hours Hearts dreamt, but never found." And say, with Miss Landon, " It may be a weakness, though growing out of all that is most redeeming in our nature — the desire that is in us to make the city of the departed beautiful, as well as sacred. The green yew that flings down its shadow, the wild flowers that spring up in the long grass, take away from the desolation ; they are the type and sign of a world be- yond themselves Even as spring brings back the leaf to the bough, the blossom to the grass, so will a more glorious spring return to that which is now but a little human dust." After wandering in the second-named of the above cemete- ries, Eliza Rennie thus sweetly sings : — 220 FUNERAL FLOWERS. "Pale, yet sweet, were the garlands affection had flung, To tell, after death, still how fondly it clung To the memory of those who had shed o'er life's hours The rich balmy incense of love's perfumed flowers. The mother's despair was a moment beguiled With the lilies she strewed o'er her fair sinless child ; And the bright fadeless hue of the olive's dark leaf Brought e'en to the widow a pause in her grief; And the laurels, when strewn on the patriot's tomb, Staunched the tears of a nation when mourning his doom." And the Editor of " Chambers's Journal" thus finely and sen- sibly concludes his description of the Necropolis at Glasgow :— " Can we but wonder that Cemeteries of this kind should be so rare, when we think in what a different position we are placed by them with respect to departed friends ? As funeral matters are usually ordered, we seem to part for ever from those we have loved and lost. We consign them to the cold, dark, and untended ground — the place of their rest is locked up from our sight, or trodden only by strangers — and, ere long, the lank grass, the nettle, and the rank weed, choke up their unvisited graves. How different is it with Cemeteries of the character of Pere La Chaise ! When we lay down a loved one there, we can still hold sweet communion with him. We can show our affec- tion by planting the loveliest flowers of summer above his head, and please ourselves with the belief that the tribute is not un- beheld or unappreciated. We can pull a flower from the place of his repose, and carry it about with us, gratified with the thought, that, if we cannot have our friend again, we have some- thing, at least, that has sprung from his dust. The place of death is no longer, in our eyes, a place of gloom, desertion, and sorrow, at the bare idea of which we shudder with horror and dismay. It is an agreeable resting-spot, to which we retire at the close of life, still to be visited, and gazed on, and cared for, by those we hold dear. Such is the change in our feelings on FUNERAL FLOWERS. 221 this subject, which these beautiful Cemeteries are calculated to effect; and assuredly it is a change adapted neither to make us worse men, nor to render us less happy. When we have before us, besides, the monumental tributes raised by their country above the honoured dead — when we see the reward bestowed on wortb, talent, and virtue, even when life is over — the spectacle is well fitted to excite in us a noble emulation, and to rouse us to exertions that may earn a similar fate for ourselves. Every way do these beautifications of the grave appear to us to be commendable and useful, and before many years pass over, we hope to see in the land of Britain, many a Pere La Chaise — many an ornamental Cemetery — like that adorning the mistress of the Clyde." In the Necropolis here alluded to, are deposited the remains of one of Scotland's sweetest singers, whose beautiful lines we quote, as remarkably appropriate : — VERSES WRITTEN A FEW DAYS BEFORE HIS DEATH. BY WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping, Life's fever o'er, Will there for me be any bright eye weeping That I'm no more? Will there be any heart still memory keeping Of heretofore? When the great winds, through leafless forests rushing, Like full hearts break ; When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing, Sad music make ; Will there be one, whose heart despair is crushing, Mourn for my sake ? 222 FUNERAL FLOWERS. When the bright sun upon that spot is shining With purest ray, And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twining, Burst through that clay ; Will there be one, still on that spot repining Lost hopes all day 1 When no star trembles, with its eye of glory, On that low mound ; And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary Its loneness crowned ; Will there be then one versed in misery's story Pacing it around ? It may be so — but this is selfish sorrow To ask such meed — A weakness and a wickedness, to borrow, From hearts which bleed The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow Shall never need. Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling— Thou gentle heart; And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling, Let no tear start ; It were in vain. — For time has long been knelling: Sad one, depart I FUNERAL FLOWERS. 223 LINES, BY M. A. BROWNE. " Do not pluck the flowers, they are sacred to the dead.' An inscription, similar to the foregoing, is seen in many parts of the Roman Catholic Burial Ground, Botanic Gardens, Cork. Oh ! spare the flowers, the fair young flowers, The free glad gift the summer brings ; Bright children of the sun and showers, Here do they rise, earth's offerings. Rich be the dew upon you shed, Green be the bough that o'er you waves, Weariless watchers by the dead, Unblenching dwellers 'midst the graves ! Oh ! spare the flowers ! their sweet perfume, Upon the wandering zephyr cast, And lingering o'er the lowly tomb, Is like the memory of the past. They flourish freshly, though beneath Lie the dark dust and creeping worm, They speak of Hope, they speak of Faith ; They smile, like rainbows thro' the storm. Pluck not the flowers — the sacred flowers ! Go where the garden's treasures spread, Where strange bright blossoms deck the bowers, And spicy trees their odours shed. 224 FUNERAL FLOWERS. There pluck, if thou delight' st, indeed, To shorten life so brief as theirs, But here the admonition heed — A blessing on the hand that spares ! Pluck not the flowers ! In days gone by A beautiful belief was felt, That fairy spirits of the sky Amidst the trembling blossoms dwelt. Perhaps the dead have many a guest, Holier than any that are ours, Perhaps their guardian angels rest Enshrined amidst the gentle flowers. Hast thou no loved one lying low, No broken reed of earthly trust ? Hast thou not felt the bitter woe With which we render dust to dust ? Thou hast ! and in one cherished spot, Unseen, unknown to earthly eyes, Within their heart, the unforgot Entombed in silent beauty lies. Memory and Faith, and Love so deep, No earthly storm can reach it more — Affection that hath ceased to weep, These flourish in thy bosom's core. Spare then the flowers ! With gentle tread Draw near, remembering what thou art, For blossoms sacred to the dead, Are ever springing in thy heart. FUNERAL FLOWERS. 225 BURIAL PLACE OF SHELLEY AND KEATS, BY N. P. WILLIS. With a cloudless sky, and the most delicious air ever breathed, we sat down upon the marble slab laid over the ashes of poor Shelley, and read his own lament over Keats, who sleeps just below, at the foot of the hill. The Cemetery is rudely formed into three terraces, with walks between ; and Shelley's grave and one without a name, occupy a small nook above, made by the projection of a mouldering wall tower, and crowded with ivy and shrubs, and a peculiarly fragrant yellow flower, which per- fumes the air around for several feet. The avenue by which you ascend from the gate is lined with high bushes of the marsh-rose, in the most luxuriant bloom, and all over the Cemetery the grass is thickly mingled with flowers of every hue. In his preface to his lament over Keats, Shelley says : — " He was buried in the romantic and lovely Cemetery of the Protestants ; under the pyramid which is the tomb of Astius, and the massy walls and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome. It is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place." If Shelley had chosen his own grave at the time, he would have selected the very spot where he has since been laid — the most sequestered and flowery nook of the place he describes so feelingly. In the last verses of the elegy, he speaks of it again with the same feeling of its beauty :— "Go thou to Rome, — at once the Paradise, The grave, the city, and the wilderness ; And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise, And flowering weeds and fragrant copses dress The hones of Desolation's nakedness, Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead Thy footsteps to a slope of green access, Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread. p 226 FUNERAL FLOWERS. " The grey walls moulder round, on which dull Time Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary hrand ; And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, Pavilioning the dust of him who planned This refuge for his memory, doth stand Like flame transformed to marble ; and beneath A field is spread, on which a newer band Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death, Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath." Poor Keats ! this is indeed a fitting resting place for thee, who on thy death-hed, saidst thou already felt the daisies grow- ing over thee ; and poor Shelley! too : thou hast left no one be- hind thee who can write so sweetly and so touchingly of thy last resting-place, as thou hast done of his, who, in the bitter- ness of his heart, at the malicious power of his enemies, desired these words to be engraved on his tomb : " Here lies one whose name was written in water" Very beautifully does the author, from whom we have quoted the above description of the burial- place of these two highly gifted men, conclude : " It takes away from the pain with which one stands over the grave of an ac- quaintance or a friend, to see the sun lying so warm upon it, and the flowers springing so profusely and cheerfully. Nature seems to have care for those who died so far from home, binding the earth gently over them with grass, and decking it with the fairest flowers." What says Lady E. S. Wortlet? — " A grave for the gifted! — where, where shall it be ? Where the bright summer treasures yield wealth to the bee — Where the faint thrilling voice of some fountain is heard, And the rich air is rent by night's passionate bird. FUNERAL FLOWERS. 227 " Where old chestnut trees shed round a twilight of gloom, Which doth hallow and mellow the wild flowers' meek bloom ; Where the fragrant spring rains dance in joy to earth's breast, — Sweet earth, with a blessing of richness oppressed. ''Where the whitest of roses undazzlingly blow, More fair and more soft than the wreathed mountain snow; Where the starlight still tremblingly signals the hours, And throws sudden gleams o'er the wood-bosomed bowers. " Where the sun-flower shall turn, and the lily shall bend, The acacia its leaves with the willow shall blend ! Oh ! the old kingly laurel's illustrious bloom O'ershadowed their life, be that for their tomb!" THE LEGACY OF THE ROSES. BY MISS 1ANDON. Oh ! plant them above me, the soft, and the bright, The touched with the sunset's crimson light, The warm with the earliest breath of spring, The sweet with the sweep of the west wind's wing; Let the green bough and the red leaf wave — Plant the glad rose tree upon my grave. 228 FUNERAL FLOWERS. Why should the mournful willow weep O'er the quiet rest of the dreamless sleep 1 Weep for life with its toil and care, Its crime to shun, and its sorrows to bear ; Let tears, and the signs of tears, be shed Over the living, not over the dead ! Plant not the cypress, nor yet the yew, Too heavy their shadow, too gloomy their hue, For one who is sleeping in faith and love, With a hope that is treasured in heaven above ; In a holy trust are my ashes laid — Cast ye no darkness, throw ye no shade. Plant the green sod with the crimson rose, Let my friends rejoice o'er my calm repose, Let my memory be like the odours shed, My hope like the promise of early red ; Let strangers share in their breath and bloom — Plant ye the bright roses over my tomb ! It is thus that-atrue poetess gives expression to the last wishes of Edward Rose, a citizen of London, who dying in 1653, left twenty pounds, for the purchase of an acre of land, for the poor of -the village of Barnes, in Surrey, where his remains are placed, upon condition that a number 'of rose-trees should be planted around his grave, and kept fresh and flourishing. Mr. Mackay, in his '^Thames and its Tributaries," is rather severe upon this worthy man, accusing him of putting an " inordinate price upon his petty charity," but the sum bequeathed was, in those days, no inconsiderable one, and the condition seems to be very easy of fulfillment. We all desire to be kept in remem- brance, and the same feeling which caused the Saxon poet to exclaim : " Go mark my hillock with a simple flower," no doubt prompted Edward Rose to annex this condition to his legacy. FUNERAL FLOWERS, 229 MRS. HEMANS AND,L. E. L. "A touching and graceful compliment -was once paid to L. E. L. It was a tribute from America, sent from the far-off banks of the Ohio, — a curious species of the Michigan rose, accompanied by a prayer that she would plant it on the grave of Mrs. Hemans. To no hand could it have been more appropriately transmitted, than to the hand which wrote so reverently and rapturously of that gifted woman." — Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L. The author of the above work, Laman Blanchard, in the introduction, mentions a very beautiful expression of L. E. L., when writing of a great author, lately dead: — " I almost fear to praise such a man ; but comfort myself with thinking that though few can raise the carved marble over a great au- thor's remains, all may throw aftoiver on his grave." How touch- ingly beautiful are L. E. L.'s Stanzas on the Death of Mrs. Hemans ; well may she repeat from this lamented authoress's <'Lays of Many Lands," — " The rose, the glorious rose, is gone/ and continue : — " Bring flowers to crown the cup and lute, — Bring flowers, — the bride is near ; Bring flowers to soothe the captive's cell, Bring flowers to strew the bier ! Bring flowers 1 thus said the lovely song ; And shall they not be brought To her who linked tbe offering With feeling and with thought ? *' Bring flowers, — the perfumed and the pure, — Those with the morning dew, A sigh on every fragrant leaf, A tear on every hue. 230 FUNERAL FLOWERS. So pure, so sweet, thy life has been, So filling earth and air With odours, and with loveliness, Till common scenes grow fair." NELLY'S FUNERAL, BY CHARIES DICKENS. Tn " Home's New Spirit of the Age," we find it noticed thus :— " A curious circumstance is observable in a great portion of the scenes of tragic power, pathos, and tenderness, contained in va- rious parts of Mr. Dickens's works, which it is possible may have been the result of harmonious accident, and the author not even subsequently conscious of it. It is that they are written in blank verse, of irregular metre and rhythms, which Southey, and Shelley, and some other poets, have occasionally adopted. Witness the following description from • The Old Curiosity Shop.' " " And now the bell — the bell She had so often heard by night and day And listened to with solid pleasure, E'en as a living voice — Rung its remorseless toll for her, So young, so beautiful, so good. " Decrepit age, and vigorous life, And blooming youth, and helpless infancy, Poured forth — on crutches, in the pride of strength And health, in the full blush Of promise — the mere dawn of life — To gather round her tomb. Old men were there Whose eyes were dim And senses failing — FUNERAL FLOWERS. 231 Granddames, who might have died ten years ago, And still heen old — the deaf, the blind, the lame, The palsied The living dead in many shapes and forms, To see the closing of this early grave ! What was the death it would shut in, To that which still would crawl and creep above it • " Along the crowded path they bore her now ; Pale as the new-fallen snow That covered it ; whose day on earth Had been so fleeting. Under that porch where she had sat when Heaven In mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, She passed again and the old church Received her in its quiet shade. "Throughout the -whole of the ahove, only two unimportant words have heen omitted — in and its ; " granddames" has been substituted for "grandmothers," and " e'en" for "almost." All that remains is exactly as in the original, not a single word transposed, and the punctuation the same to a comma. The brief homily that concludes the funeral is profoundly beautiful • " Oh ! it is hard to take The lesson that such deaths will teach, But let no man reject it, For it is one that all must learn And is a mighty universal Truth, When Death strikes down the innocent and young. For every fragile form from which he lets The parting spirit free, A hundred virtues rise, In shapes of mercy, charity, and love, To walk the world and bless it. 232 FUNERAL FLOWERS. Of every tear That sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, Some good is born some gentler nature comes." " Not a word of the original is changed in the above quotation, which is worthy of tne best passages in Wordsworth, and thus meeting on the common ground of a deeply truthful sentiment, the two most unlike men in the literature of the country, are brought into close proximation. The following is from the con- cluding paragraph of 'Nicholas Nickleby :' — " The grass was green above the dead boy's grave Trodden by feet so small and light, That not a daisy drooped its head Beneath their pressure. Through all the spring and summer time Garlands of fresh flowers, wreathed by infant hands, Rested upon the stone." THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS, BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. There is a Reaper whose name is Death, And with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. " Shall I have nought that is fair ?" saith he, " Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." FUNERAL FLOWERS. 233 He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes. He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise, He bound them in their sheaves. " My Lord has need of these flow'rets gay," The Reaper said and smiled ; " Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. " They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear." And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love, She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above. O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day ; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. THE WEDDING WAKE, BY GEORGE DARLEY. We'll carry her o'er the churchyard green, Down by the willow trees ; We'll bury her by herself between. Two sister cypresses. ■ 23-i FUNERAL FLOWERS. Flowers of the sweetest, saddest hue. Shall deck her lowly hed, Rosemary at her feet we'll strew, And violets at her head. The pale rose, the dim azure-bell, And that lamenting flower, With ai ! ai ! its eternal knell, Shall over- bloom her bower. — Her cypress bower ; whose shade beneath Passionless she shall lie ; To rest so calm, so sweet in death, 'Twere no great ill to die ! Ye four fair maids, the fairest ye, Be ye the flower strewers ! Ye four bright youths the bearers be, Ye were her fondest wooers ! To church ! to church ! ungallant youth, Carry your willing bride ! So pale he looks ! 'twere well, in sooth, He should lie by her side ! The bed is laid the toll is done, The ready priest doth stand ; Come, let the flowers be strown, be strown, Strike up ye bridal band ! 235 CHAPTER VI [I. WILD FLOWERS. "Wild Flowers seem to me the true philanthropists of their race. Their generous and cheerful faces ever give a kindly- greeting to the troops of merry village children who revel in their blossoming wealth ; and right welcome are they gladdening the eyes of the poor mechanic, when he breathes the fresh country air on Sunday, and gathers a handful of cowslips or daffodils, or the prouder foxglove, to carry home, and set in the dim window of his pent-up dwelling. So dear and beautiful are Wild Flowers, that one would think every one must love them.' Miss Twamley. Aye, must love them indeed, Lady ! well might Burns pause with his plough, to lament over the daisy which he had destroyed; well might Wordsworth pen, I know not how many stanzas, to the same simple flower, and to the golden celandine ; and well might another child of song exclaim : — " Oh ! I'll never envy riches, though toilin' at the plough, There's flowers alang the peasant's path, e'en kings might stoop to pu'."—G. W. The primrose and the violet, the cowslip and the daf- fodil, and all the sweet dwellers in the green lanes, and the shady woods, and the sunny meadows, have ever been the especial favourites, not only of those, who 236 WILD FLOWERS. being denied access to the conservatory and the par- terre, are not brought into contact with the more richly tinted and gorgeous productions of foreign climes, but also of the whole race of poets, many of whom are surrounded with these splendid exotics, in their dwel- lings, and every day walks ; and most, or all of whom, enjoy frequent opportunities of observing and admiring them; and yet for poems in praise of the geranium and the cactus, we might search in vain ; while for those which celebrate the "wildings of nature," have we not enough to fill volumes ? Aye! volumes fraught with beauty and fragrance, of which this is but a foretaste and a specimen. " Not only -with vine leaves and ears of corn Is nature dress'd, but 'neath the feet of man, As at a sovereign's feet, she scatters flowers, And sweet and useless plants, which, born to please, Disdain to serve." — Madame de Stael. We have italicised two words in this quotation, because ■we do not like them. It is our creed and belief that nothing which God has created is useless ; we may not perceive its applicability to any known purpose, but we are not therefore to conclude that it is of no service — that it performs no important function in the great scheme of universal being; our greatest living poet says ; — " Small service is true service while it lasts, Of friends, however humble, scorn not one ; The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun." We are but too apt to look upon part of the vegetation with which the earth is covered — " clothed as with a WILD FLOWERS. 23T garment of beauty" — as worthless and contemptible, especially when there are no blossoms, which with their tint or perfume, afiord gratification to the senses ; and to pass by "common weeds" as vile things, not simply useless, but mischievous : — "Scorn not those rude, unlovely things, All cultureless that grow, And rank o'er woods, and wilds, and springs, Their vain luxuriance throw. " Eternal love and wisdom drew The plan of earth and skies ; And He the span of heaven that threw, Commands the weeds to rise. " Then think not nature's scheme sublime These common things might spare ; — For science may detect in time A thousand virtues there."— J. F. Smith. Daily more and more are the mysteries of nature un- folded to us ; daily more and more are her " Hidden Uses" made manifest. Oh, yes ! — " There be flowers making glad the desert, and roots fattening the soil, And jewels in the secret deep, scattered among groves of coral, And comforts to crown all wishes, and aids unto every need, Influences yet unthought, and virtues and many inventions, And uses above and around, which man hath not yet regarded For every green herb, from the lotus to the darnel, Is rich with delicate aids to help incurious man." M. F. Tupper. It is in no irreverent spirit that we venture to quote the command which came to the apostle Peter from heaven, 238 WILD FLOWERS. with a slight alteration, to suit our purpose. " What God has created, that call thou not useless," for nothing is there which may not be made applicable to satisfy our bodily or mental wants ; if it contribute not, di- rectly or indirectly, to our sustenance, or comfort, or relief in sickness, yet will it yield moral instruction, or intellectual pleasure, and therefore is it truly serviceable to vis. We have quoted in the first portion of this volume, a very beautiful poem, entitled, " The Use of Flowers," the conclusion of which we cannot refrain from giving once more ; the author answers the ques- tion, why were they created ? thus ; — " To whisper hope— to comfort man— Whene'er his faith is dim, For whoso careth for the flowers Will care much more for him." And this is the moral which may be drawn from the meanest weed, or blade, or leaf, on which we gaze. We have not the original to refer to, but cannot help think- ing that useless was not exactly the word to express Madame de Stael's meaning, as she says directly after, " which, born to please," and this negatives the idea of their being useless, as it implies an end and a purpose, which they are to answer, though not, perhaps, the highest. And now for the second count in the indictment — the other objectionable word — which is also open to the suspicion of being a mistranslation ; that flowers disdain to serve, we strongly deny. Of all the creatures and ob- jects which minister to man's wants, or pleasures, they are the gentlest, the most unresisting ; he may crush -;-'' -$&? WILD FLOWERS. 239 them, trample on them, do with them as he will, yet there they are, ever smiling up in his face, yielding him their fragrance, their nutriment, their alleviation for bodily pain, and mental disquietude : — " Oh ! tell me not the gentle flowers Disdain to serve mankind,— To renovate the sinking powers, To soothe the troubled mind, When gloomily the welkin lowers, And fortune is unkind ; " They comfort man in his distress, They smile when he is gay ; Their fragrance and their loveliness, They yield him day by day ; For patience and for humbleness, No servitors like they." — H. G. A. They are pulled and scattered to the four winds, by the hand of careless childhood, yet ever do they spring up again for his delight and gladness ; they are gathered alike by the soft white hand of beauty, and the toil- hardened one of industry, unrepining they breathe out their fragrant lives on the bosom of the former, and borne by the latter into the crowded city, they strive to beautify and perfume his hot and murky dwelling- place. Here is a picture of them thus striving : — " A broken flower-pot, with a string secured, Contained a living treasure — a green clump — (Just bursting into bloom) of the field orchis. ' You care for flowers,' I said, ' and that fair thing, The beautiful orchis, seems to flourish well With little light and air.' * It won't for long,' The man made answer, with a mournful smile, 240 WILd FLOWERS. Eyeing the plant — ' I took it up, poor tiling ! But Sunday evening last, from the rich meadow, Where thousands bloom so gay, and brought it here, To smell of the green fields for a few days, Till Sunday comes again — and rest mine eyes on, When I look up, fatigued, from these dead gems And yellow glittering gold.' " — Miss Bowles.' The man was a working jeweller, and could estimate rightly the great value of the precious ore, and glitter- ing gems, entrusted to him ; and yet more highly did he prize the simple Wild Flower, which reminded him of his rarely enjoyed country walks, and brought some- thing of the freshness and beauty of nature into his home and his heart ; pleasant associations were min- gled with the sight of that flower, and it cheered and refreshed him at his labour, to look upon it, and to think ;— " Thus, when within my sunless room, Heartsick, and mocked by mammon's leaven, Thy pyramids of purple bloom, Blush through the loneliness and gloom, My spirit bursts its living tomb, And basks beneath the open heaven."* We have thus endeavoured to defend our beloved friends, the flowers, from the charge of disdaining to serve, by showing the true service which they render to * If our readers refer to page 262, 'they will find the poem from which this stanza is taken ; it is so beautiful, that we were induced to depart from a rule laid down when we commenced this volume, to admit nothing written on, or to, an individual flower, because we wished to preserve all such for a future and more comprehensive work ; however, it will well bear quoting a second time, and few of our readers, we imagine, but will thank us for giving it here, unshorn of its due and fair proportions. WILD FLOWERS. 241 man ; and now, let us give a companion picture to the one above ; — it is from " Nina Sforza:" — " I late was passing by a poet's door, ' "Who, on his window-sill, with wasted care, Had placed a hungry shrub for light — a want That crowded quarter miserly supplied A wild field-rose it was ; it may be, slipped As sweet remembrance of his wanderings ; 'Twas withering fast, yet, 'midst its dry, curl'd leaves, One sickly bud had struggled into bloom. That bud, so pale, so common, fix'd my step ; I thought it priceless, and, except for shame, Had very gladly stolen away a leaf ; I, whose court-life had ever been perfumed With every rarest flower that we know. Now, think you, 'twas the rose-bud that I saw ? Believe it not ! It was the poet's soul Diffused by mental magic, over all Which environed the proud connection of his name." R. Z. S. Troughton. " Better," says our most delightful of essayists, Leigh Hunt, "better hang a wild rose over the toilet, than nothing. The eye that looks in the glass will see there something besides itself, and acquire something of a religious right to respect itself, in thinking by how many objects in the creation the bloom of beauty is shared." And again, speaking of "Breakfast in Sum- mer," he says: — "Set flowers on your table, a whole nosegay if you can get it, — or but two or three, — or a single flower, — a rose, a pink, nay, a daisy. Bring a few daisies and buttercups, from your last field walk and keep them alive in a little water; and, preserve but a bunch of clover, or a handful of flowering grass, one of the most elegant, as well as cheap, of nature's Q 242 WILD FLOWERS. productions, — and you have something on your table that reminds you of the beauty of God's creation, and gives you a link with the poets and sages that have done it most honour. Put but a rose, or a lily, or a violet, on your table, and you and Lord Bacon have a custom in common ; for that great and wise man was in the habit of having the flowers in season set upon his table, — morning, and, we believe, noon, and night; that is to say, at all his meals ; for dinner, in his time, was taken at noon ; and why should he not have flowers at all his meals, seeing that they were growing all day ? Now here is a fashion that shall last you for ever, if you please ; never changing with silks, and velvets, nor dependent upon the caprice of some fine gentleman or lady. The fashion of the garments of heaven and earth endures for ever, and you may adorn your table with specimens of their drapery, — with flowers out of the fields, and golden beams out of the blue ether." Shall we not away, then, reader, to gather the wild beauties of nature, which are so lavishly scattered abroad for us, and adorn our homes with that drapery of the earth and the heavens ? Shall we not go forth into the wild wood, and the green valley, exclaiming ; — " Who would not wander here ? Who would not here Grow old in song ? The poet, soul-refresh'd, With glowing cheek and eye uplift to heaven, Might look through nature here to nature's God. Farewell, cold World, farewell ! I flee to thee, O, Nature ! Hail, thou solitary vale ! And hither come, Imagination ! Come, And waft my soul to isles of poesy !" Ebenezer. Elliot. For as Miss Pardoe exclaims : — " Is not the holiness WILD FLOWERS. 243 of nature a loftier contemplation than the gilded sa- loons of the great 1 The power to feel and to appro- priate the noble gifts of the Creator, eminently more glorious, than the talent to discover the finite perfec- tions of the creature ? Is not the breeze which sweeps over the heathy hill, or through the blossom-scented valley, more redolent of real sweetness than the per- fume-laden halls of luxury ?" Without pausing to answer this solemn questioning, which to us seems un- answerable, otherwise than in the affirmative, we will, as we proceed in quest of Wild Flowers, call memory to our aid, and place before those who have accompa- nied us thus far in our erratic wanderings, " A Sketch from Nature." — " I know a coppice, where the cuckoo-flower Blooms, like a maiden in her sylvan bower ; "Where the wild hyacinth shakes her purple hells To every gentle zephyr, that of the spring-time tells ; There the spotted orchis, on her throne of green, Lifteth up her pyramid, as she were crowned queen Of the leafy solitude ; there the nightingale To the fragrant cotton tree, telleth such a tale, That the droning humble bee pauseth oft to listen, Seated on the hawthorn blooms, that with dew-drops glisten. Oh, 'tis a pleasant spot to while away an hour, Listing to the sighing breeze, or the tinkling shower, That upon the fresh green leaves all so gently patters ; — Drinking in the melody that the song-bird scatters, Till the thirsty soul is full, e'en to overflowing, Of that pure and holy joy, out of commune growing With sweet Nature, in her green, and solitary haunts, For which the care-worn dweller in the crowded city pants. Close upon this coppice, there's a dingle deep, Wherein a drowsy wood-god^might securely sleep, 244 WILD FLOWERS. All with brambles overgrown, and long tangled grass, Seldom human feet, I wis, into its depths do pass ; Some day, when the sun of June near hath run its race, I will thither bend my steps, to explore the place, For methinks, beneath its shagged, and bramble-clothed sides, Like a nun within her cell, the purple foxglove hides. Let the sons of mammon laugh, it is my delight Forth to fare and gather flowers, and my heart grows light When I hear the singing bird, and the humming bee ; Pleasures such as these entail no after misery." — H. G. A. Here is a companion picture, limned by a more skilful hand, perhaps, but not by one who more truly and de- votedly loves nature, than does the author of the above : — " I know a brook that all the livelong day Babbles the silence of a vale away, With gurgle, gurgle, for its ceaseless song ; Many a hermit flower is found along Its mossy banks — some deep secluded, where None know their being, save the prying air, That is their faithless confident, and tells The fragrant sighs he heard within their cells Some, less retired, bent vainly o'er the brook, For their sweet image in its mirror look ; A broken reflex in the water-glass Is all they find — they gaze — they hope — alas ! They die despairing, amorous of themselves !— Why still ye not the waters, sylphs and elves ! And let me, in my lonely musing walk, Hear a wild blossom to its beauty talk ? " What would it say ? — delight and purity, And music, surely would its language be To its sweet rival-self within the stream- Alas ! this minds me of a long-fled dream ! J. A. Wadz. WILD FLOWERS. 245 A dream, doubtless, of vanished beauty — of a light that is quenched — of fragrance wasted upon the air ! but let us on in our sweet quest, listing, as we go, to the words of the lately departed poet, Campbell : — " I de- light in the Flowers of the Field ; they have all some charm or other in my eyes, — with their shapes and hues they speak a language of their own, to my ima- gination ; and when T have admired their beauty, I like to consult the dictionary about their uses and quali- ties." Better still were it to have some friend acquainted with the hidden properties of nature's various produc, tions, to whom, like Thyrsis lamenting for his Damon- one might say : — " Thou shalt cull me simples, and shall teach Thy friend the name and healing powers of each, From the tall hlue-bell to the dwarfish weed, What the dry land, and what the marshes feed ; For all their kinds alike to thee are known, And the whole art of Galen is thine own." The friends of the poet, aDove alluded to, might well exclaim, with the concluding words of the quotation : — "Ah ! perish Galen's art, and withered be The useless herbs that gave not health to thee." COWPER, FROM MlLTON'. Wronging, in the bitterness of their grief, the plants which were powerless to save him:— " Who bade the many-coloured bow With brighter, richer, hues to glow, And from the lowly Field Flowers rose, To meet the last of all our race, Stern moralizing, face to face, With Time and Life, in their last throes."— H. G. A. 246 WILD FLOWERS. Let us now put ourselves under the guidance of William Howitt — one who knows well where the sweetest Wild Flowers are to he found, and who has, moreover, a true eye for the beautiful and picturesque in nature, and a true heart to sympathize, alike in grief or joy, with his fellow-men. See what an English landscape opens before us as we follow the path which he indi- cates : " It is evening, what a calm and basking sun- shine lies on the green landscape. Look around, — all is beauty, and richness, and glory. Those tall elms, which surround the church-yard, letting the grey tower get but a passing glimpse of the river, and that other magnificent circle of solemn trees, which stretch up the side of the same fair stream, — how they hang in the most verdant and luxuriant masses of foliage ! What a soft, hazy, twilight floats, about them ! What a slum- berous calm rests upon them! Slumberous did I say? no, it is not slumberous ; it has nothing of sleep in its profound repose. It is the depth of a contemplative trance ; as if every tree were a living, thinking, spirit, lost in the vastness of some absorbing thought. It is the hush of a dream-land ; the motionless majesty of an enchanted forest, bearing the spell of an irrefragable silence." Pause here a moment, while we repeat a few lines, which this idea has brought to our memory, we have but to change the time from evening to night, and it will be exactly applicable : — " Old trees by night are like men in thought, By poetry to silence wrought ; They stand so still, and they look so wise, With folded arms, and half shut eyes, More shadowy than the shade they cast When the wan moonlight on the river passed." F. W. Fabeiu WILD FLOWERS. 247 And now to continue our examination of the beauties of the prospect before us : — " See over those wide mea- dows, what an affluence of vegetation ! — How that herd of cattle, in colour, and form, and grouping, worthy the pencil of Cuyp or Ruysdael, graces the plenty of that field of most lustrous gold ; and all around, the grass growing for the scythe, almost overtops the hedges with its abundance. As we track the narrow footpath, we cannot avoid a lively admiration of the rich mosaic of colours that are woven all through them — the yellow rattle — the crimson stems and heads of the burnet, that plant of beautiful leaves — the golden tri- folium — the light quakegrass — the azure milkwort — and clover scenting all the air. And lo ! there are the mowers at work ! there are the hay-makers ! Green swathes of mown grass — hay-cocks and waggons ready to bear them away — it is summer, indeed !" We must have another verse of poetry — another quaff from the Pierian springs — what shall it be ? Oh ! let us quote from a poet whom we have hitherto too much neg- lected : — ' ' Hark ! where the sweeping scythe now rips along ; Each sturdy mower emulous and strong, Whose writhing form meridian heat defies, Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries ; Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet, But spares the rising clover, short and sweet. Come Health ! come Jollity ! light-footed, come ; Here hold your revels, and make this your home." Bloomfield. Now again for Howitt's rich prose : — " What a fragrance comes floating on the gale from the clover in the standing grass ; from the new-mown 248 WILD FLOWERS. hay ; and from those sycamore trees, with all their pendant flowers. It is delicious ; and yet one cannot help regretting that the year has advanced so far. Here, the wild rose is putting cut ; the elder is already in flower ; they are all beautiful, but saddening signs of the swift-winged time. Let us sit down by this little stream, and enjoy the pleasantness that it pre- sents, without a thought of the future. Ah ! this sweet place is just in its pride. The flags have sprung thickly in the bed of the brook, and their yellow flowers are beginning to show themselves. The green locks of the water ranunculuses are lifted by the stream, and their flowers form snowy islands on the surface ; the water-lilies spread out their leaves upon it like the palettes of fairy painters; and that opposite bank, what a prodigal scene of vigorous and abundant vege- tation it is. There are the blue geraniums as lovely as ever; the meadow-sweet is hastening to put out its foam-like flowers ; that species of golden flowered mustard occupies the connecting space between the land and water; and harebells, the jagged pink lichnis, and flowering grass of various kinds, make the whole bank beautiful."* Beautiful, indeed ! Well might the lady of this painter of Nature sing : — " I love the odorous hawthorn flower, I love the wilding's hloom to see ; Ilove the light anemonies That tremble to the faintest breeze, And hyacinth-like orchises Are very dear to me. " The star-wort is a fairy flower, The violet is a thing to prize, * Rural Life in England. WILD FLOWERS. 249 The wild pink on the craggy ledge, The waving, sword-like water's-edge, And e'en the Robin-run-i'-the-hedge, Are precious in mine eyes." And why are they precious ? " Less that they are so beautifu', Than that they are so plentiful, So free for every child to pull." — Mary Howi . Herein the lady agrees with many others who have written on this delightful subject; as the quotation at the head of our chapter well expresses it, Wild Flowers are "the true Philanthropists of Nature;" says \iot another sweet singer : — " And then I love the Field Flowers, too, Because they are a blessing given E'en to the poorest little one, Who wanders 'neath the vault of heaven : The garden flowers are reared by few, And to that few belong alone , But flowers that spring by vale or stream, Each one may claim them for his own." Anne Pratt. Besides their superior fragrance, to which we shall pre- sently make allusion, there is also another reason named by this author, for her love of Wild Flowers ; we will give it, not in her own words, as they will be "round at page 258, where we have quoted the whole of her poem, but in those of a sister of song. It is that they are fraught with, — 250 WILD FLOWERS. " Sweet memories of that blissful time, Life's day-spring ! lovelier than its prime/ When with the bird on summer morn, That carolled earliest from the thorn, I was awake, and singing too, And gathering wild flowers wet with dew." Caroline Bowlfs A writer in the Quarterly Review observes thus : " One characteristic of our native plants we must mention, that if we miss in them something of the gorgeousness and lustre of more tropical flowers, we are more than compensated by the delicacy and variety of their per- fume ; and just as our woods, vocal with the nightin- gale, the blackbird, and the thrush, can well spare the gaudy feathers of the macaw, so we can consign the oncidiums, and cactuses, and the impomseas of the tropics, for the delicious fragrance of our wild banks of violets, our lilies-of-the-valley, our woodbine, or even the passing whiff of a hawthorn bush, a clover or bean field, or a gorse common." Yes, we can well spare those gaudy strangers, for the sweet and beautiful produc- tions of our own woods and fields possess, in themselves, all that the heart or the imagination can require in a flower: wandering amid them we may say, with Milton : — " Now gentle gales Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole These balmy spoils.*' WILD FLOWERS. 251 «y FIELD FLOWERS. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. Ye Field Flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I doat upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened the sight Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow cush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweeten'd the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June : Of old ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, Where the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind* And your blossoms were part of her spell. Even now what affection the violet awakes ; What loved little islands twice seen in the lakes, Can the wild water-lily restore ; What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, And what pictures of pebbled and minuowy brooks in the vetches that tangled their shore. 252 WILD FLOWERS. Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion or ague of fear Had scathed my existence's bloom ; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, tyith the visions of youth to re-visit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb. WILD FLOWERS. BY ROBERT NICOLL. Beautiful children of the woods and fields ! That bloom by mountain streamlets 'mid the heather, Or into clusters, 'neath the hazels, gather, — Or where by hoary rocks you make your bields, And sweetly flourish on through summer weather, — I love ye all ! Beautiful flowers ! to me ye fresher seem From the Almighty band that fashioned all, Than those that flourish by a garden- wall ; And I can image you, as in a dream, Fair modest maidens, nursed in hamlets small, — I love ye all! Beautiful gems ! that on the brow of earth Are fixed, as in a queenly diadem ; Though lowly ye, and most without a name, Young hearts rejoice to see your buds come forth, As light erewhile into the world came, — I love ye all ! WILD PLOWERS. 253 Beautiful things ye are, where'er ye grow ! The wild red rose — the speedwell's peeping eyes — Our own bluebell — the daisy, that doth rise Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow ; And thousands more of blessed forms and dyes, — I love ye all ! Beautiful nurslings of the early dew ! Fanned ; in your loveliness, by every breeze, And shaded o'er by green and arching trees ; I often wish that I were one of you, Dwelling afar upon the grassy leas, — I love ye all! Beautiful watchers ! day and night ye wake ! The Evening Star grows dim and fades away, The Morning comes and goes, and then the day Within the arms of Night its rest doth take ; But ye are wakeful wheresoe'er we stray, — I love ye all! Beautiful objects of the wild-bee's love ! The wild-bird joys your opening bloom to see, And in your native woods and wilds to be ; All hearts, to Nature true, ye strangely move ; Ye are so passing fair — so passing free, — I love ye all ! Beautiful children of the glen and dell — The dingle deep — the moorland stretching wide, And of the mossy fountain's sedgy side ! Ye o'er my heart have thrown a lovesome spell ; And, though the Worldling, scorning, may deride, — I love ye all! 254 WILD FLOWERS. BRING t ME FLOWERS. BY T. K, MERRITT. Bring, bring me wild flowers from th' enamel'd fields, Green woods and shady lanes, those pleasant places ; Where many a gentle flower its perfume yields, The sense delighting ; With smiles, like those of dear, familiar faces, Fond looks requiting. The Snowdrop earliest braves the brawling blast, Nodding her welcome to each passer-by ; Dauntless as Innocence, she to the last Bears charmed life ; Waving her emerald wand she doth defy The tempest-strife. The modest Primrose next, so meek and pale ; The Violet then, — and which more sweet than she ?— Lading with redolence each passing gale ; And by her side The queen of Spring-flowers — Wood Anemone, In sylph-like pride ; I love that flower most delicately fair, So fondly bending on her slender stay, As though in love with her own leaves; and where, In field or grove, Be leaves so exquisitely wrought as they — Chaplet for Love ! WILD FLOWERS. 255 The Periwinkle with its fan-like leaves, All nicely level'd, is a lovely flower, Whose dark wreath, myrtle-like, young Flora weaves ; There's none more rare, Nor aught more meet to deck a Fairy's bower, Or grace her hair. I love the Cowslip with its yellow cup, And there the honey-bee delights to dwell, A thirst, still lingering for the last sweet sup, Till daylight fade ; Humming her merry airs o'er twilight dell, And dewy glade. The Blue bell, clust'ring on her drooping stem, Like lovelorn Dryad, sorrowful doth weep, Chanting o'er violets dead their requiem : Oh ! hallowed tomb ! But hush, sweet Bells, perchance they do but sleep, — Again may bloom. The virgin Lily-of- the- Vale I love, Laden with sweets Arabia cannot give ; Distilled from liquid music of the grove, By nightingales Poured out, as emulous to please, they strive In love fraught tales. The odorous May, too, love I from my soul, With buds.like pearls in roseate light displayed ; Chaste as some maiden robed in Hymen's stole, Blushing and fair ; Breathing her tremulous sighs out, half afraid, In anxious prayer. 256 "WILD FLOWERS. And next the Meadow-sweet, all fragrant, bring, In lace-like broidery daintily arrayed ; Fit couch for Nymph-fly with the filmy wing, To wile an hour ; Meet pair ye be — sure for each other made — Insect and flower. The Wilding Rose, which garlands many a spray, Glowing with blushes delicately blent ; Breathing her soul in balmy sighs away Through summer's noon ; Fading at last in pallid languishment, Alas ! how soon. The scented Briar on the hill-side blooming,. With crimson buds besprent; the Fox-glove bending, Whose bell flowers warn the lark of morning's coming On murmuring breeze; Her graceful beauty to the wild woods bend : — Then bring me these. And thou, sweet Cystus, who dost meekly creep, Fragile and delicate, whose life's a day, Drinking of amber sunbeams madly deep, To bloom and die ! To think that thou must fade so soon away — It makes one sigh. The azure Harebell, that doth ceaseless ring Her wildering chimes to vagrant butterflies, As they in dalliance fan her with their wing, Hath charms for me ; Those flower-like creatures know no fairer prize To woo, than she. WILD FLOWERS. 257 And prithee bring that tiny scarlet flower, With eye of lustrous amethyst adorned, Endued with prescience of the stormy hour ; Meek Pimpernel, Whose closing lids wise shepherd never scorned, But heeds them well. The curious Orchis, too, both Fly and Bee, Which seem as climbing up the tender stem, — (So exquisite is Nature's mimicry Of insect life !) In eagerness to sip the dewy gem, With nectar rife. Nor all forgotten be those humbler flowers,— Daisies and Buttercups — the child's first love; Which lent their magic to our guileless hours, Ere cares were known : Ah ! joyous time ! through verdant meads to rove, With wild flowers strewn. And — oh ! be sure, be sure ye bring me this — The love-link 'tis of pure and precious thought, Memento blest of love-engendered bliss, Balm of the soul : Yes, bring the pale, blue- eyed Forget-me-not, To bind the whole ! But why should I descant on every flower, Since all are beautiful, all Heaven-sent ; To earth the Angel Mercy's choicest dower, Since Man's dire fall : Enough : sweet flowers ! ye be my heart's content — I love you all ! 258 WILD FLOWERS. WILD FLOWERS. BY ANNE PRATT. Why is it that I love the flowers That grow in woods, and lanes, and fields Better than all the glowing ones The richly cultured garden yields 1 Why is it that the daisy has A charm for me, all flowers ahove ; Or why the hawthorn's fragrant breath, More than the myrtle's do I love ? The cuckoo-flower and hyacinth, These blossoms of each woodland wild, — The primrose and anemone, O, I have prized them from a child ! And still the odours that arise From clusters of the wild woodbine, Are sweeter, lovelier to me, Than scent of Eastei-n jessamine. And yet the flowers I prize so much, Than cultured flowers are not more sweet, And they are withered sooner far, Than those we in the garden meet; Their colours are not half so gay As tints of flowers from far-off land, From isle of Greece, or Indian grove, Nurtured by man with careful hand. WILD FLOWERS. 259 But meadow flowers bring to my mind The thoughts of pleasant days gone by, When with my sisters, hand in hand, We roamed beneath the summer sky ; And twined a garland for our hats, Of blossoms from each bush around, And linked the daisies into chains, And culled the cowslips from the ground. And then I love the field flowers, too, Because they are a blessing given Ev'n to the poorest little one, That wanders 'neath the vault of heaven ; The garden flowers are reared for few, And to those few belong alone ; But flowers that spring by vale or stream, Each one may claim them for his own. The rich parterre is walled around, But meadow lands stretch far and wide, And we may gather lovely flowers, For miles along the river side ; And far amidst the landscape wild, Wander the scenes of beauty o'er, Now lingering in the violet glen, Now roaming on the thymy moor. Or pause where foam-like meadow queen, Scatters her blossoms on the lake, Or where the Orchis blooms among The lady-fern or feathery brake ; -Dr sit beside the winding path Bordered by ripening wheat or oat, When on the gentle summer air The poppy's crimson banners float* 260 WILD FLOWERS. And O, I joy as Spring comes round, Flinging her scents o'er glen and hill ! For though I love the garden flowers, I love the wild buds better still. Then let me stray into the fields, Or seek the green wood's shady bowers, Marking the beauties and the scents, Of simple blossoms — sweet wild flowers. A WILD FLOWER WREATH. by the author of " Nugce Sacra." If stranger hands might dare A wild-flower wreath prepare, The sweet enthusiast's hair, Her flowing hair to bind — Oh ! I would haste to bring The violet of Spring, Whose odours scent the wing Of every passing wind. Each flower that early blows, The May-bough's wreathed snows, The wild-brier's folded rose, And woodbine's fragrant bloom ; The speedwell's eye of blue, Suffused with morning dew, Should smilingly glance through The tresses of the broom. WILD FLOWERS. 261 The rustic blushing heath, That lurks the fern beneath, Should grace our wilding wreath With many a pendant bell ; The fair anemone Might well with these agree, Reft from her sheltering tree, Low in the copsewood dell. No less the floweret pale, The lily of the vale, That scents the roving gale, Yet loves its leafy shade ; And well my hand, I ween, (If such my task had been,) Could twine the myrtle green To crown the mountain maid. SONNET BY WORDS WORTH. Ere yet our course was graced with social trees It lacked not old remains of hawthorn bowers, Where small birds warbled to their paramours ; And earlier still was heard the hum of bees ; I saw them ply their harmless robberies, And caught the fragrance which the sundry flowers, Fed by the stream with soft perpetual showers, Plenteously yielded to the vagrant breeze. There bloomed the strawberry of the wilderness, The trembling eye-bright showed her sapphire blue, The thyme her purple like the blush of even ; And if the breath of some to no caress Invited, forth they peeped so fair to view, All kinds alike seemed favourites of heaven. 262 WILD FLOWERS. THE ORCHIS PYRAMIDALIS. BY* DOUGLAS ALLPORT. A flow'r is not a flow'r alone A thousand sanctities invest it; And as they form a radiant zone, Around its simple beauty thrown, Their magic tints become its own, As if their spirit had possessed it.. The sprightly morning's " breezy call," And cool grey light around it streaming ; The holy calm of even-fall, The majesty of night, and all The glories of its starry pall Above it eloquently beaming. " The precious things of heav'n — the dew" That on the turf beneath it trembled ; The distant landscape's tender blue, The twilight of the woods that threw Their solemn shadows where it grew, Are at its potent call assembled. And while that simple plant, for me Brings all these varied charms together, I hear the murmurs of the bee, The splendour of the skies I see, And breathe those airs that wander free O'er banks of thyme and blooming heather. WILD FLOWERS. 263 Thus, when within my sunless room, Heart-sick and mocked by mammon's leaven, Thy pyramids of purple bloom, Blush through its loneliness and gloom, The spirit bursts its living tomb, And basks beneath the open heaven. There, as on some green knoll reclined, The summer landscape round me glowing, While gentle ardours fill the mind, 1 leave th' unquiet world behind, And hear a voice in every wind, Around my fervid temples blowing. The self-same voice, how calm and still ! That rends the rocks, and wakes in thunder ; Proclaiming from the tinkling rill, The vocal copse, and breezy hill, As meekly as the dews distil, Its ceaseless ministries of wonder. "Th' Eternal Power and Godhead" then Is seen and lov'd in all around us ; Seen in the deep and dewy glen, And loved to agonizing, when We know ourselves to be but men, And feel this tabernacle bound us. Thus through this wood-side plant, the mind Sweeps the vast range of things created, And longs, and pants, and fails to find, In earth, air, ocean, sky combined, Those joys unfading and refined, By which its famine may be sated. 264 WILD FLOWERS. Its very cravings wean it hence, It anchors where its rest remaineth ; And who has pow'r to drive it thence ? Its Helper is Omnipotence, The Rock of Ages its defence, And sinlessness the prize it gaineth. TO A WILD FLOWER. BY WILLIAM ANDERSON. In what delightful land, Sweet scented flower, didst thou attain thy birth ? Thou art no offspring of the common earth, By common breezes fann'd ! Full oft my gladden'd eye, In pleasant glade, or river's marge has traced (As if there planted by the hand of taste,) Sweet flowers of every dye. But never did I see, In mead or mountain, or domestic bower, 'Along many a lovely and delicious flower, One half so fair as thee ! Thy beauty makes rejoice My inmost heart — I know not how 'tis so, — Quick coming fancies thou dost make me know, For fragrance is thy voice. And still it comes to me, In quiet night, and turmoil of the day, Like memory of friends gone far away, Or, haply, ceased to be. WILD FLOWERS. 265 Together we'll commune, As lovers do, when, standing all apart, No one o'erhears the whispers of their heart, Save the all-silent moon. Thy thoughts I can divine, Although not uttered in vernacular words, Thou me remind'st of songs of forest birds ; Of venerable wine ; Of earth's fresh shrubs and roots ; Of Summer days, when men their thirsting slake In the cool fountain, or the cooler lake, While eating wood-grown fruits. Thy leaves my memory tell Of sights and scents and sounds, that come again, Like ocean's murmurs, when the balmy strain Is echoed in its shell. The meadows in their green, Smooth-running waters in the far-off ways, The deep-voiced forest where the hermit prays, In thy fair face are seen. Thy home is in the wild, 'Mong sylvan shades, near music haunted springs, Where peace dwells all apart from earthly things, Like some secluded child. The beauty of the sky, The music of the woods, the love that stirs Wherever Nature charms her worshippers, Are all by thee brought nigh. 266 WILD FLOWERS. I shall not soon forget What thou hast taught me in my solitude, My feelings have acquired a taste of good, Sweet flower ! since first we met. Thoubring'st unto the soul A blessing and a peace, inspiring thought ; And dost the goodness and the power denote Of Him who formed the whole. THE WILD FLOWERS. BY JP. J. SMITH. Sweet wilding tufts, that 'mid the waste, Your lowly buds expand; Though by no sheltering walls embraced, Nor trained by beauty's hand: The primal flowers which grace your stems, Bright as the dahlias shine, Found thus, like unexpected gems, To lonely hearts like mine. 'Tis a quaint thought, and yet, perchance, Sweet blossoms, ye are sprung From flowers that over Eden once Their pristine fragrance flung; — That drank the dews of Paradise, Beneath the starlight clear ; Or caught from Eve's dejected eyes Her first repentant tear. IS D E X, Adams, H. G., 12, 21, 40, 48, 54, 56, 108, 151, 17S, 239, 243, 245 iEschylus 20(3 Alexander, William 146 Alfred, King 140 Allport, Douglas 240, 262 Anderson, William 264 Anon 14,24,25,71,77,81,143,212,235,260 Arab Poet 159 Archaeus 148 Ashmolean MSS Ill Baillie, Joanna 82 Barrett, Miss 178 Barton, Bernard 27 Beattie, Dr. William 146 Beaumont and Fletcher 49, 148, 176 Bell, H. G 152 Benjamin, Park 132 Bentley's Miscellany 167 Blackwood's Magazine 73 Blair 203 Blanchard Laman 229 Blessington, Countess of 88, 140 Bioomfield 247 Bowles, Caroline 239, 250 Bowles Rev. W. Lisle 101 268 INDEX. Brand 210 Bremer, Miss 154, 178 Brooke, Christopher 175 Browne, M. A 15, 223 Browne, Sir Thomas . . " 45 Browne, William 80, 116, 157, 175, 197 Bruce, Michael 205, 213 Bryant, W. C 20 Burns 65, 166 Byron 12, 46, 50, 53, 214 Camoens 174 Campbell 116, 209, 245, 251 Carrington 84, 85, 130, 216 Catullus 160 Chambers's Journal • 2 Chateaubriand „ 211,212,213 Chaucer 112 Churchman's Monthly Review 141 Cicero 181 Clare, John 25, 44, 82, 165, 204 Coleridge 86, 106 Condor, Josiah 83 Corbold, Mrs. . • 62 Cornwall, Barry 42, 118 Cowley 17, 205 Cowper 13, 76, 141, 174, 206 Crabbe „ 87 Cunningham Allan 16 Daniel 145 Darley, George 233 Davy, Sir H 140 De Genlis, Madam 82 INDEX. 269 De Pise, Christine 66 De Stael, Madam 151, 236 Dickens, Charles 230 D'Israeli 144 Drake, Dr 119 Drayton, Michael 121, 185, 194 Dryden 144, 180, 208 Dyer 189 Edinburgh Magazine 53 Elliott Ebenezer 139, 242 Ellison, Henry , 150 Ephon 75, 204, 214 Faber, F. W 246 Fawcett 142 Flora Domestica - 44 Flora Historica 45, 171, 180 Flowers, Language of 47 Fuller 22 Gaberlunzie, The 129 Goethe 112, 113 Goldsmith 18 Gracilasso de la Vega 186 Graham, John 23, 110 Hafiz 145 Hall, Basil 17 Hammer, Mons 54 Hastings, Lady Flora 24 Heber, Bishop 176 Hemans, Mrs. ... 25, 30, 31, 58, 83, 97, 147, 179, J9P, 207 Herbert, George 77, 169 Herrick, Robert 211, 218 Hervey, T. K 16 270 INDEX. Hofiman, C. F 60 Home 89 Hood, Thomas 77, 117 Horace 180 Housman, R. F 99 Howitt, Mary 13, 22, 35, 68, 238, 248, 249 Howitt, William 246, 247, 248 Hurdis 11, 122 Hunt, Leigh 60,138,241 Impossible Dowry, The 138 Irviny's Antiquities 181 Irving, Washington 217 Jameson, Mrs 147, 148 Jerrold, Douglas 152 Jewsbury, Miss 104 Keats 11, 84, 150, 179 Keeble 21 Knowles, Herbert 204 Lamprey, S. T 215 Landon, Miss ... 21, 63, 84, 90, 164, 177, 191, 219, 227, 229 Landor, W. S 23 Lee, Nathaniel 181 Leftly 108 Longfellow, H. W 232 Macauley, T. B 182 Mackay, Charles . 228 Mallet 148 Marvell, Andrew 94 Merritt, T. L 187, 254 Miller, Thomas 123 Milnes, R. M 162 Milton 115, 172, 245 s 250 INDEX. 271 Moil 153 Montague, E. L 158 Montgomery, James 202, 203 Montgomery, Robert 76 Moore, Thomas 46, 95, 144, 149, 191, 194 Mosclms 206 Motherwell, William 226 Naiad, The, etc 134 New Spirit of the Age 169, 230 Nicoll, Robert 252 Nugce Sacra 260 Ord, J. W 152 Ossian 203 Owen 208 Palmyra, Letters from . , 143 Pardoe, Miss 189, 242 Pastor Fido , 151 Patterson 64 Paul the Silentiary ,210 Pembroke, Countess of 153 Percival, J. G 59 Percy Reliques 120, 183 Phillips, Ambrose 181 Pickering 36 Pollok, Robert 43, 51, 56, 92 Pope 115 Pratt, Anne 249, 258 Prideaux, W.H 103 Prior, Matthew 14 Quarterly Review 250 Reddell, C. L 91 Rennie, Eliza 220 Richter, J, P 24 272 INDEX. Richardson, Mrs . 23 Roman Antiquities 174 Roue, The 150 Scripture 14, 142, 13, 238 Shakspere . 50, 79, 90, 107, 111, 120, 121, 146, 147, 217, 218 Shelley 84, 110, 139, 154, 155, 225 Shenstone 171 Sigourney, Mrs 45 Simmons, B 103 Smith, Charlotte 43, 172, 173 Smith, Horace 22, 38 Smith, J. F. 237, 266 Southey 45, 200 Spenser „ 184, 186 Street, Benjamin 114 Strickland, Agnes 182 Swain, Charles 47, 72, 127 Theocritus 145 Thompson, Vincent 143 Troughton, R. Z. S 7 . . 241 Tully 209 Tupper, M. F 140, 149, 237 Turner, Annette . . . . 15 Twamley, Miss 85, 109, 235 Virgil . . . . , 160, 208, 209 Wade, J. A 140, 219, 244 Ward's Miscellany 33, 168 Westwood, Thomas 161 Willis, N. P 18, 75, 81, 225 Wilson, Professor . . 78 Wordsworth 16, 18, 19, 22, 70,79, 149, 236, 261 Wortley, Lady E. S 226 Young 79 H.G.CLARKE AND CO. rRINTERS, OLD BA1LET.