o o >- ^^'.*:' 1 v^ 55?; x;i^^ Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/bunchofrosesdesiOOskelrich A BUNCH OF ROSES DESIGNS OF PINK ROSES TULIPS WHITE ROSES, HELIOTROPE, AND MIGNONETTE PASSION-FLOWERS POEMS BY PROMINENT AUTHORS ARRANGED AND ILLUSTRATED BT SUSIE B. SKELDING AUTHOR or "Easter Flowers," "Maple Leaves and Golden Rod," etc^ NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES & BROTHER SUCCESSORS TO WHITE, STOKES, & AEEEN 1888 CONTENTS. PAGE Roses (Louise Chandler MouUon), 5 " Roses, I See the Sweetest Roses " (Richard Henrj' Stoddard), . 6 From Menotomy Lake, Facsimile of Manuscript (J. T. Trowbridge), 7 Spring has Come (Oliver Wendell Holmes), 9 An Invitation to the Country (William Cullen Bryant), . . .11 The Heliotrope (Frances L. Mace) 15 Across the Street (Thomas Bailey Aldrich), 16 HELioTROPr. (Edmund Clarence Stedman), 17 The Spring is Late (Louise Chandler Moulton) 21 From A Forest Hymn (William Cullen Bryant), .... 22 The Passion Flower (Anonymous), 23 Benedicite (J. S. Black ie) 23 [The editor acknowledges the courtesy of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Charles Scribner's Sons, D. Appleton & Co., and Roberts Brothers, in gj£yitin£^- the use of their publications; and she recognizes the personal coohesy/Af; Liouise Chandler Moulton, R. H. Stoddard, J. T. Trowbridge, Frances l! Ma<;«,^,T. B. Aldrich, and E. C. Stedman.] Copyright, 1884, By WHITE, STOKES, & ALI.EN. 438&^ •• ROSES, I SEE THE SWEETEST ROSES." From " Hymns of the Mystics, Roses, I see the sweetest roses, As in the cool kiosk I pass, Tied in a thousand fragrant posies. And fastened to the roof with grass. What has bewitched the grass I wonder ? It is the humblest weed that grows ; How comes it that it sits up yonder, And on a level with the rose t " Silence ! " The grass said, and in sadness Let fall its tears in pearls of dew ; *• The generous man robs none of gladness, And never scorns old friends for new. I am no rose among the roses, And yet there's not a child but knows That the poor grass that tied these posies Is from the Garden of the rose ! " Richard Henry Stoddard. SPRING HAS COME. The sunbeams, lost for half a year, Slant through my pane their morning rays ; For dry northwesters cold and clear, The east blows in its thin blue haze And first the snowdrop's bells are seen. Then close against the sheltering wall The tulip's horn of dusky green. The peony's dark unfolding ball. The golden-chaliced crocus burns ; The long narcissus-blades appear ; The cone-beaked hyacinth returns To light her blue-flamed chandeHer. The willow's whistling lashes, wrung By the wild winds of gusty March, With sallow leaflets lightly strung, Are swaying by the tufted larch. TULIPS. The elms have robed their slender spray, With full-blown flower and embryo leaf ; Wide o'er the clasping arch of day Soars like a cloud their hoary chief. See the proud tulip's flaunting cup, That flames in glory for an hour, — Behold it withering, — then look up, — How meek the forest monarch's flower ! When wake the violets, Winter dies ; When sprout the elm-buds, Spring is near ; When lilacs blossom, Summer cries " Bud, little roses ! Spring is here ! " The windows blush with fresh bouquets, Cut with the May-dew on their lips ; The radish all its bloom displays, Pink as Aurora's finger-tips. Nor less the flood of light that showers On beauty's changed corolla-shades, — The walks are gay as bridal bowers With rows of many petalled maids. • • • . . Oliver Wendell Holmes. //lu- <^ Su.^^^ i^ i^^ ^^^^-^-0^/-6 ^J> 4^^ %::i/^^i^.y ff^,.^ o^Z^ //Zf^c^ /^y ^U^^iey^ ot^u) J^^-^ ^^y^u-iyAcyf^J AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. Already, close by our summer dwelling, The Easter sparrow repeats her song ; A merry warbler, she chides the blossoms — The idle blossoms that sleep so long. The bluebird chants, from the elm's long branches, A hymn to welcome the budding year. The south wind wanders from field to forest, And softly whispers, " The Spring is here." Come daughter mine, from the gloomy city. Before those lays from the elm have ceased ; The violet breathes by our door as sweetly As in the air of her native east. Though many a flower in the wood is waking. The daffodil is our doorside queen ; She pushes upward the sward already, To spot with sunshine the early green. TULIPS. No lays so joyous as these are warbled From wiry prison in maiden's bower ; No pampered bloom of the green-house chamber Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower. Yet these sweet sounds of the early season, And these fair sights of its sunny days, Are only sweet when we fondly listen, And only fair when we fondly gaze. There is no glory in star or blossom, Till looked upon by a loving eye ; There is no fragrance in April breezes. Till breathed with joy as they wander by. Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows, The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks, And hollows, green in the sun, are waiting Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks. William Cullen Bryant. THE HELIOTROPE. Somewhere 'tis told that in an Eastern land, Clasped in the dull palm of a mummy's hand A few light seeds were found : with wondering eyes And words of awe was lifted up the prize. And much they marvelled what could be so dear Of herb or flower as to be treasured here, What sacred vow had made the dying keep So close this token for his last long sleep. None ever knew, but in the fresh, warm earth The cherished seeds sprang to a second birth, And eloquent once more with love and hope, Burst into bloom the purple heliotrope. Embalmed, perhaps, with sorrow's fiery tears, Out of the silence of a thousand years It answered back the passion of the past With the pure breath of perfect peace at last O pulseless heart ! as ages pass, sleep well I The purple flower thy secret will not tell, But only to our eager quest reply, " Love, hidden in the grave, can never die." Frances L. Mace. ACROSS THE STREET. With lash on cheek, she comes and goes ; I watch her when she little knows : I wonder if she dreams of it. Sitting and working at my rhymes, I weave into my verse at times Her sunny hair, or gleams of it. Upon her window-ledge is set A box of flowering mignonette; Morning and eve she tends to them — The senseless flowers, that do not care About that loosened strand of hair, As prettily she bends to them. If I could once contrive to get Into that box of mignonette, Some morning when she tends to them — She comes! I see the rich blood rise From throat to cheek ! — down go the eyes, Demurely, as she bends to them ! Thomas Bailey Aldrich. HELIOTROPE. I WALK in the morning twilight, Along a garden-slope, To the shield of moss encircling My beautiful Heliotrope. sweetest of all the flowerets That bloom where angels tread! But never such marvellous odor From heliotrope was shed. As the passionate exhalation. The dew of celestial wine, That floats in tremulous languor Around this darling of mine. For only yester-even, I saw the dearest scene! 1 heard the delicate footfall, The step of my love, my queen. Along the walk she glided : I made no sound nor sign, But ever, at the turning Of her star-white neck divine, HELIOTROPE. I shrunk in the shade of the cypress, And crouched in the swooning grass. Like some Arcadian shepherd To see an Oread pass. But when she came to the border At the end of the garden-slope, She bent, like a rose-tree, over That beautiful Heliotrope. And so she glistened onward, Far down the long parterre, Beside the statue of Hesper, And a hundred times more fair. But ah ! her breath had added The perfume that I find In this, the sweetest of flowerets. And the paragon of its kind. I drink deep draughts of its nectar; I faint with love and hope ! Oh, what did she whisper to you, My beautiful Heliotrope .? Edmund Clarence Stedfnan. THE SPRING IS LATE. She stood alone amidst the April fields, — Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and bare,— " The Spring is late," she said, " the faithless spring That should have come to make the meadows fait. *• Their sweet south left too soon, among the trees The birds, bewildered, flutter to and fro ; For them no green boughs wait, their memories Of last year's April had deceived them so. " From 'neath a sheltering pine some tender buds Looked out and saw the hollows filled with snow; On such a frozen world they closed their eyes ; When spring is cold, how can the blossoms blow ?" She watched the homeless birds, the slow sad spring, The barren fields, and shivering naked trees; ** Thus God hath dealt with me, his child," she said ; ** I wait my spring time, and am cold like these. THE SPRING IS LATE. " To them will come the fulness of their time ; Their spring, though late, will make the meadows fair. Shall I, who wait like them be blessed ? I am his own, — doth not my Father care ?" — Louise Chandler Moulton. FROM A FOREST HYMN. That delicate forest flower. With scented breath and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this great universe. — William Cullen Bryant THE PASSION-FLOWER. Its tender shoots, fostered with care, extend Far in festooned luxuriance, Its drooping flowers, to blend, Sweet mixture ! modesty and loveliness ; But more — when closely viewed, this flower appears To bear the sacred mark of sacred tears. Adding to the plant's beauty — holiness. — A nonymous. BENEDICITE. Angels holy, High and lowly, Sing the praises of the Lord ! Earth and sky, all living nature, Man, the stamp of thy Creator, Praise ye, praise ye, God the Lord ! Praise him ever, Bounteous Giver ; Praise him, Father, Friend, and Lord ! Each glad soul its free course winging, Each glad voice its free song singing, Praise the great and mighty Lord ! — y. S. Blackie. mi-^ ^ ^m ^^^^^M '-"=-"0^7,.«„,3a.; ♦'AW- V- SbJ* Pressboard Pamphlet Binder Gaylord Bros. Inc. Makers Stockton. Calit. -PM. mZl. 1S08 !?^-i^*a