Part 10
Where the grouse and plover live Far from gun and dog, A delicate and tiny flower Decks swamp and watery bog.
The Cranberry blossom dwelleth there Amid the mountains cold, Seeming like a fairy gift Left on the dreary wold.
Oh! and ’tis very beautiful, The flowers are pink and white, And the small oval polished leaves Are evergreen and bright.
’Tis such a wee, fair, dainty thing, You’d think a greenhouse warm Would be its proper dwelling-place, Kept close from wind and storm.
But on the moors it dwelleth free, Like a fearless mountain child; With a rosy cheek, a lightsome look, And a spirit strong and wild.
In autumn, all among the swamps And marshes soft and wet, Come troops of poor hill-children The ripened fruit to get.
The bushes all in water grow, In those small pools, that lie In scores among the turfy knolls On mountains broad and high.
And there the peasant children come To pull the Cranberries red, Where bold and booted sporting squires Would scarcely dare to tread.
_They_ only shoot the poor wild birds, And chase the timid hare, For their diversion; _they_ can live In luxury, without care.
But these poor peasant-children’s lot Is full of human wo, And hungry, thinly clad, and cold, They o’er the mountains go;
With feet, that shoes have never known, And legs all blue and bare, And yet, so light are they of heart, You’ll hear them laughing there.
Such laughter makes my very heart Leap up with joy to hear, It tells that even poverty Is not entirely drear.
It telleth--what I ever think, That GOD is good indeed; And that he suiteth, in us all, Our spirit to our need.
Think ye--if these poor peasants were All discontent and sour-- If they in frowns and murmurings Spent every wretched hour:--
Like many a cherished, pampered child, Whom wealth and fondness cloy, Till e’en the knowledge of a want Would be a novel joy:--
Think, if these peasants pined like him For pleasures they have not, How manifold would then have been The sorrows of their lot!
But they, unshod, bareheaded too, Fed sparsely with coarse food, Go laughing on their gleesome way, As GOD’S bright creatures should.
They are like flowers, springing up In some unkindly place, Yet full of all their colours rare, Their sweetness and their grace.
They _are_ bright flowers, that spring to cheer E’en penury’s wilderness, And often with a swelling heart, Those human flowers I bless.
Kind blessings on their bold, clear eyes, And elvish, unbound hair;-- And blessings on their laughter wild, Mid crags and moorlands bare!
In autumn mornings forth they go With baskets to the wold, Some of wicker, some of rush, Some new, and many old.
And over mountain, over glen, The merry creatures bound, On to the wide and boggy heaths, Where a thousand streamlets sound.
The small bare legs all splash about, Heeding not cold nor wet, So long as busy eyes can see, And hands the treasure get.
“_And after all this toil and moil, What profit win they thence?_”-- Perhaps a long day’s work may bring A few poor sordid pence.
But more than hundreds to the rich Are pennies to the poor, And thankfully they seek and sell The Cranberries on the moor.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
The heart of kindness seldom sours or curdles; The cream of love is in it pure and sweet: With every charm that human nature girdles, And every grace of gentleness replete, The man who has a kindly heart is most In pattern like his LORD; for where the law Of kindness rules the heart, the virtues draw Together in companionship, and post Themselves around that citadel of love. The kindly man doth always kindly prove: He has a word of sweetness for the child-- Of pity for the poor--of sympathy For all who mourn; and truly glad is he When through his generous care some sorrowing face has smiled. There’s music ever in the kindly soul, For every deed of goodness done is like A chord set in the heart, and joy doth strike Upon it oft as memory doth unroll The immortal page whereon good deeds are writ; And Heaven gives nothing sweeter to the mind Than memories of the acts that bless our human kind.
_MacKellar._
IVY.... _Constancy._
In Greece the altar of Hymen was enwreathed with Ivy, and a branch of it was presented to the new-married couple, as a symbol of the indissoluble knot. It was sacred to Bacchus, who is represented crowned with Ivy leaves, as well as those of the vine. It formed the crown of the Greek and Roman poets; and, in modern times, has been made the poet’s frequent image of constancy. The Ivy is attached to the earth by its own roots, and derives no nourishment from the substances to which it clings. The protector of ruins, it adorns the dilapidated walls which it holds together; it will not accept every kind of support, but its attachment ends only with its life.
* * * * *
When all things have their trial, you shall find Nothing is constant but a virtuous mind.
_Shirley._
* * * * *
The mountain rill Seeks with no surer flow the far, bright sea, Than my unchanged affections flow to thee.
_Park Benjamin._
* * * * *
I am constant as the northern star; Of whose true, fixed, and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Make my breast Transparent as pure crystal, that the world, Jealous of me, may see the foulest thought My heart does hold. Where shall a woman turn Her eyes to find out constancy?
_Buckingham._
* * * * *
No, never from this hour to part, We’ll live and love so true, The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin’s too.
_Goldsmith._
* * * * *
The Ivy round some lofty pile Its twining tendril flings; Though fled from thence be pleasure’s smile, It yet the fonder clings; As lonelier still becomes the place, The warmer is its fond embrace, More firm its verdant rings; As if it loved its shade to rear O’er one devoted to despair. Thus shall my bosom cling to thine, Unchanged by gliding years; Through Fortune’s rise, or her decline, In sunshine, or in tears; And though between us oceans roll, And rocks divide us, still my soul Shall feel no jealous fears: Confiding in a heart like thine, Love’s uncontaminated shrine.
_Mrs. Hale._
HOLLY.... _Foresight_.
The Holly, with its scarlet berries, is the most beautiful of the evergreens that have been used for ages to adorn the churches of old England, during the Christmas season. It is an ornament to the woods, stripped bare by the rude breath of winter; its berries serve for food for the little birds that never leave us, and its foliage affords them an hospitable shelter during the cold season. Nature, by a seeming forethought, has been careful to preserve the verdure of this handsome tree all the year round, and to arm it with thorns, that it may furnish both food and protection to the innocent creatures which resort to it for shelter. It may be added, however, that from the bark of the common Holly, when fermented and washed from the woody fibres, is made the bird-lime which is used for catching small birds.
* * * * *
With Holly and ivy, So green and so gay, We deck up our houses As fresh as the day; With bays and rosemary, And laurel complete, And every one now Is a king in conceit.
_Poor Robin’s Almanac, 1695._
* * * * *
THE HOLLY TREE.
O Reader! hast thou ever stood to see The Holly tree? The eye that contemplates it well perceives Its glossy leaves, Ordered by an intelligence so wise As might confound the atheist’s sophistries.
Below, a circling fence its leaves are seen, Wrinkled and keen; No grazing cattle, through their prickly round Can reach to wound; But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.
I love to view these things with curious eyes And moralize; And in this wisdom of the Holly tree Can emblems see, Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time.
Thus, though abroad, perchance I might appear Harsh and austere, To those who on my leisure would intrude Reserved and rude, Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be, Like the high leaves upon the Holly tree.
And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, Some harshness show, All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly tree.
And as when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green, The Holly leaves a sober hue display, Less bright than they; But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the Holly tree?
So serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng, So would I seem amid the young and gay More grave than they, That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the Holly tree.
_Southey._
* * * * *
To know the road ere on’t we trust the foot, And where it leads, and what, while journeying, We may meet, is Wisdom’s eager wish.
_Peerbold._
* * * * *
Walk Boldly and wisely in that light thou hast; There is a hand above will help thee on.
_Bailey._
MEADOW SAFFRON.... _My best days are past_.
The Meadow Saffron, or Colchicum Autumnale, springs up about the time the leaves begin to fall from the trees, and may, therefore, be said to proclaim to all nature, that the bright days of summer are past. According to Ovid, this autumnal flower owes its origin to some drops of the magic liquor prepared by Medea, to restore the aged Æson to the bloom and vigour of youth, which were spilled in the fields. As a medicine, the Colchicum is powerful, but dangerous, and must be used with caution. The poisonous quality of the plant seems to be known, as if by instinct, to all kinds of cattle. They all shun it, and in many pastures this alone will be found standing, when all other herbage has been consumed.
* * * * *
Why grieve that time has brought so soon The sober age of manhood on? As idly should I weep at noon To see the blush of morning gone. True, time will sear and blanch my brow: Well--I shall sit with aged men, And my good glass will tell me how A grisly beard becomes me then. And should no foul dishonour lie Upon my head when I am gray, Love yet may search my fading eye, And smooth the path of my decay.
_Bryant._
[Illustration: SWEET PEA PANSY
_I depart. Think on me._]
* * * * *
Oh! thou who dry’st the mourner’s tear, How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to thee! The friends who in our sunshine live, When winter comes, are flown; And he who has but tears to give, Must weep those tears alone: But thou wilt heal that broken heart, Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of wo.
_Moore._
* * * * *
Then bright from earth, amid the troubled sky, Ascends fair Colchicum, with radiant eye, Warms the cold bosom of the hoary year, And lights with beauty’s blaze the dusky sphere.
_Darwin._
* * * * *
The world around me groweth gray and old: My friends are dropping one by one away; Some live in distant lands--some in the clay Rest quietly, their mortal moments told. And when my children gather at my knee To worship GOD and sing our morning psalm, Their rising stature whispers unto me My life is waning towards its evening calm.
_MacKellar._
CHINA ASTER.... _Variety_.
The China Aster begins to blow when other flowers are scarce. It is like an afterthought of Flora’s, who smiles at leaving us. The China Aster was introduced into Europe by Father d’Insarville, a Jesuit missionary; who, about the year 1730, sent seeds of it to the royal gardens of Paris. As, by cultivation, many varieties of the Aster have been obtained, the flower has been made the emblem of variety.
* * * * *
The sleepless streams move onward Through beds of idling lilies, Chiding the foolish flowers That watch their mirrored beauty; So live the thoughtless many, Who throng the halls of fashion.
_Dawes._
* * * * *
I love the ever-varying hue Upon the face of heaven; I would not have it always blue, But oft with lightning riven. I would not have wide oceans spread A mirror e’er to see; But lashed to many a cresty head By scowling tempests free!
_C. Watson._
* * * * *
Play every string in love’s sweet lyre-- Set all its music flowing; Be air, and dew, and light, and fire, To keep the soul-flower growing.
_Mrs. Osgood._
* * * * *
The rapid and the deep--the fall, the gulf, Have likenesses in feeling and in life. And life, so varied, hath more loveliness In one day than a creeping century Of sameness.
_Bailey._
* * * * *
Youth loves and lives on change, Till the soul sighs for sameness; which at last Becomes variety; and takes its place.
_Bailey._
* * * * *
Variety’s the source of joy below, From which still fresh revolving pleasures flow; In books and love the mind one end pursues, And only change the expiring flame renews.
_Gay._
* * * * *
Wherefore did nature pour her bounties forth With such a full and unwithdrawing hand, Covering the earth with odours, fruits, and flocks, Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable, But all to please and sate a curious taste?
_Milton._
AMERICAN STARWORT.... _Welcome_.
The Starwort is another late-blooming flower. It is exclusively indigenous to North America and the Cape of Good Hope. The flowers are of every variety of hue, and present a very attractive appearance.
* * * * *
Stranger, new flowers in our vales are seen, With a dazzling eye, and a lovely green.-- They scent the breath of the dewy morn: They feed no worm, and they hide no thorn, But revel and grow in our balmy air; They are flowers which Freedom hath planted there.
This bud of welcome to thee we give,-- Bid its unborn sweets in thy bosom live; It shall charm thee from all a stranger’s pain, Reserve, suspicion, and dark disdain: A race in its freshness and bloom are we; Bring no cares from a worn-out world with thee.
_Mrs. Sigourney._
JUNIPER.... _Protection_.
The Juniper has been the favourite of Superstition. The ancients consecrated the shrub to the Furies. The smoke of its green roots was the incense which they offered in preference to the infernal gods; and they burned its berries during funerals to ban malign influences. In some parts of Europe, the peasant still believes that the perfume of Juniper berries purifies the air, and drives evil spirits from his humble cot. The Juniper is made to signify protection, on account of the defensive qualities ascribed to it by superstition, and the shelter its drooping branches afford to small animals which are hard pressed by the hunters.
* * * * *
I have found out a gift for my fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me that plunder forbear, She will say, ’twas a barbarous deed.
“For he ne’er could be true,” she averred, “Who could rob a poor bird of its young;” And I loved her the more, when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
_Shenstone._
HAZEL.... _Peace--Reconciliation_.
Fable gives the following account of the origin of the signification of the Hazel. There was a time when men were at constant war with each other, and could not be restrained from cruelty and revenge by any tie of kin. The gods at length took pity on them. Apollo and Mercury made presents to each other, and descended to the earth. The god of harmony received from the son of Maia the shell of a tortoise, out of which he had constructed a lyre, and gave him in exchange a Hazel stick, which had the power of imparting a love of virtue and of reconciling hearts divided by envy and hate. By the power thus given him, Mercury taught men the love of peace, and of home and country, and made commerce the bond of nations. Adorned with two light wings, and entwined with serpents, the Hazel rod given to the god of eloquence by the god of harmony is still, by the name of caduceus, the emblem of peace, commerce, and reconciliation.
* * * * *
Oh then that wisdom may we know, Which leads a life of peace below!
_Sprague._
* * * * *
Peace, sweet peace is ever found In her eternal home on holy ground.
_Mrs. Embury._
* * * * *
And see, As yet unclothed, the Hazel tree Prepares his early tufts to lend The coppice first-fruits; and depend In russet drops, whose clustered rows, Still closed in part, in part disclose, Yet fenced beneath their scaly shed, The pendent anther’s yellow head.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
I trust the frown thy features wear, Ere long into a smile will turn; I would not that a face as fair As thine, beloved, should look so stern. The chain of ice that winter binds, Holds not for aye the sparkling rill; It melts away when summer shines, And leaves the waters sparkling still: Thus let thy cheek resume the smile That shed such sunny light before; And though I left thee for a while, I’ll vow to leave thee, love, no more.
_Wm. Leggett._
* * * * *
Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing, Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die-- Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing, Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky. Life is but shadows, save a promise given, Which lights up sorrow with a fadeless ray. Oh, touch the sceptre!--with a hope in heaven, Come, turn thy spirit from the world away.
_Anon._
OAK.... _Nobility_.
The form of the Oak tree, when grown fairly and naturally, is a perfect emblem of its qualities, so firm set, so massive, and strong. You may always know it instantly, whether as a wintry skeleton form, bare, and gnarled, and angular, or in its summer garb of rich and finely massed foliage, always the monarch of the woods.
* * * * *
True is, that whilome that good poet said, The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known, For man by nothing is so well bewrayed As by his manners, in which plain is shown Of what degree and what race he is grown.
_Spenser._
* * * * *
How vain are all hereditary honours, Those poor possessions from another’s deeds, Unless our own just virtues form our title, And give a sanction to our fond assumption!
_Shirley._
* * * * *
Whoe’er amidst the sons Of reason, valour, liberty, and virtue, Displays distinguished merit, is a noble Of nature’s own creating. Such have risen, Sprung from the dust; or where had been our honours?
_Thomson._
* * * * *
LIFE OF AN OAK TREE.
Long centuries have come and passed Since, in a stormy wind, An acorn fell one autumn day, Like thousands of his kind.
The wild swine fed in the forests then, And hungry beasts were they; They crunched the mast where’er it fell, And they feasted well that day.
But as they trampled all about With heavy hoofs, they trod That acorn--perchance hundreds more-- Deep in the yielding sod.
Years came and went.--The acorn grew And became a young Oak tree; With a slender, straight, and flexile stem, Dressed in rich greenery.
Time passeth on.--The young tree rose A bold and noble thing; Each summer showed a leafier crest, And a longer shoot each spring.
There came into the ancient wood Some stern official men; They marked the fairest, loftiest trees, And they were doomèd then.
They glanced upon the tall young Oak, And quickly passed it by, And laughing harshly, said ’twould do By the next century.
Soon through the forest’s solemn glades There rang that deathful sound, The woodman’s axe;--and crashing fell Trunks, branches, all around.
Craftsmen of many kinds there came For that oak timber good, And carried it in loads away From its old native wood.
Some floated far o’er ocean’s waves Mid stormy winds and squalls, Both merchant-ships, and men-of-war, “Old England’s Wooden Walls.”
Some, raised on high, with rare device The royal roof support, And look down in the banquet-hall On king, and queen, and court.
Some, quaintly carved, and polished fair, May shrine a pictured face, Of Dolci’s gentle loveliness, Or Raphael’s angel grace.
And many a toilet mirror owes, Its flowered and gilded frame To the good trees of which I sing:-- Well have they won their fame!
And massive tables, that have once Groaned ’neath baronial fare, If they could talk of that Oak wood, Might tell of dwelling there.--
The young Oak tree yet statelier grew, And broader spread its shade, And the dappled deer lay sheltered ’neath The canopy it made.
Years came and went.--The Oak tree stood In full-grown prime and pride, And lords of various mind and mood Possessed those woodlands wide.
The first, a reckless forester, Loved horse, and hawk, and hound, And he chased all o’er his wide domains, Wellnigh the whole year round.
His lady fair, as dames were wont, In those long bygone days, Loved hawking too; and gallant trains She led through forest ways.
’Twas a merry and a winsome thing, When lord, and squire, and knight Rode forth, mid bugles ringing shrill, With dainty ladies bright, To sweep along by vale and hill, Or through the forest glade, Where the echoes of their laughter light A merry music made.
And oft they reined their palfreys in Beneath the young Oak tree, And oft foretold how grand a thing In after-time ’twould be.
These jocund sports passed all away; For direful civil war Spread its fell curse throughout the land, Wasting it near and far.
And the next lord these broad lands had, A warrior stern was he, He dwelt with camps and cannon more Than sylvan glade and tree.
He died in battle; and his lands By craft and deeds unfair, His brother claimed and won, although His infant son was heir.
This hard, bad man was miserly, And loved no thing save gold; He soon marked out the stately tree, To be cut down and sold.
What was its beauty unto him?-- The grand and noble thing! His dull eyes only measured well What moneys it would bring.
But while he doomed the lordly oak, His wicked life ebbed low, And suddenly, death summoned him From his ill-got hoards to go.
The grand estate--the ancient hall, The woods, and wealth untold, Came then unto that warrior’s child, A boy of ten years old.
He was a thoughtful, quiet boy, For though yet young in years, His mother’s sorrows and his own Had made him old in tears.
And with a calm and gentle joy Came home that youthful heir, For his chief source of gladness was, To bring his mother there:--