Part 11
To watch her sadly smile to see Again each well-known spot, Where days of happiness had passed, That ne’er could be forgot:--
To have her former state restored, Maidens, and serving-men; And garments, richer than of old, He bade them bring her then.
The gardens, that the miser had Left all untrimmed and bare, Were planted, pruned, and decked anew, And stored with all things rare.
But chiefly did the lady love One glade within the wood, The shady glade, where broad and high, The noble Oak tree stood.
Sad memories, yet sweet ones too, For her that lone spot bore: ’Twas there she parted from her lord To meet on earth no more!
’Twas there, beneath that tree, he spoke His last, _last_ fond farewell! From thence she watched him ride away The eve before he fell:-- No marvel that sad lady loved The silent spot so well!
And there they oft together came, The lady and the boy, For he to her was all on earth, Her one sole living joy.
And long years after, when she slept Her warrior’s tomb beside, When the boy had grown an aged man, With grandsons by his side:--
That ancient wood he reverenced; And peasants, when they spoke Of the old tree within the glade, Called it--the Lady’s Oak.
I know the spot--though strangely time Hath altered all around, Where once the forest’s stillness lay, Now whirling wheels resound.
A large and busy peopled town E’en on that spot we see, Where dappled deer and timid birds Dwelt fearlessly and free.
But I remember when a child, One old and mouldering shell Of a most ancient, huge Oak tree Stood near the public well.
I’ve sat within it many a time, In childish sport and play, And much I mourned to see at last The trunk quite cleared away.
Soon they built there a fine new street, And noisy coaches sweep With roar and riot,--even where That lady came to weep!
Each passing year we note a change In ancient things and new; And if we see so much in one, What may not hundreds do?
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
There’s no power In ancestry, to make the foolish wise, The ignorant learned, the cowardly and base Deserving our respect as brave and good. All men feel this: nor dares the despot say His fiat can endow with truth the soul, Or, like a pension, on the heart bestow The virtues current in the realms above. Hence man’s best riches must be gained--not given; His noblest name deserved, and not derived.
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
Some men are born to endure the toil and strife And heavy burdens of the earth. They are The pillars in the temple of this life, Its strength and ornament; or, hidden far Beneath, they form its firm foundation-stone. In nobleness they stand distinct and lone, Yet other men upon them lean, and fain (Such selfishness in human bosoms swells) Would lay on them the weight of their own pain. Where greatness is, a patient spirit dwells; They least repine who bear and suffer most: In still and stern endurance they sustain The ills whereof all weaker minds complain; And in their blessed lot they stand, without a sigh or boast.
_MacKellar._
YEW.... _Sorrow_.
The Yew is among all nations an emblem of sorrow. Its bare trunk, and dark foliage, with which its fruit, looking like drops of blood, stands in harsh contrast, excite in us a sort of aversion. Persons who sleep under a Yew tree are liable to be seized with dizziness, heaviness, and violent headache. Its juice is poisonous, and the tree exhausts the soil which supports it, and destroys all other plants which spring up beneath it. The Yew was planted in old English burying-grounds, and its wood was commonly employed for making bows and arrows before the introduction of fire-arms. The Greeks, impressed with the melancholy aspect of this tree, invented the fable of the unhappy Smilax; who, seeing that her love was rejected by young Crocus, was transformed into a Yew.
* * * * *
Who that hath ever been, Could bear to be no more? Yet who would tread again the scene He trod through life before?
_Montgomery._
* * * * *
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast; Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prest With more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown, Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
And sorrowing friends stood round the bed Whereon a form was lying: ’Twas Ellen;--there the suffering saint, Without a murmur or complaint, In peace and hope was dying. A silence deep as death was there When her true soul departed; And grace and mercy crowned her end Who lived the broken-hearted.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping O’er the chords of the youthful heart, And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping, Sees the visions of fancy depart; When the bloom of young feeling is dying, And the heart throbs with passion’s fierce strife When our sad days are wasted in sighing, Who then can find sweetness in life?
_Mrs. Embury._
* * * * *
He is dead. Those words toll on the ear, The knell of hopes, and fears, and fleshy aims. The spirit light has cast a farewell beam-- Has shaken off its way-worn gear, and winged To heaven. Sorrow will demand her tears, For he was lovely, and leaves a hollow In our near-drawn sphere which none may upclose. But thoughts of heaven, through tears, will light us, Making that refresh which seemed to blast!
_C. Watson._
DEAD LEAVES.... _Death_.
A more appropriate emblem of death than the remains of the forest’s refreshing verdure could not be selected. Withered by the chill breath of ruthless Winter, the leaves strew the earth; and, in time, mingle with the dust, like ourselves. The eye cannot help watching how the winds pursue, scatter, whirl, and drive these remnants of departed life.
* * * * *
No longer mourn for me when I am dead. Then you shall hear the surly, sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell. Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking of me then should work you wo!
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Now shall my verse, which thou in life didst grace, Not leave thee in the grave, that ugly place, That few regard, or have respect unto: Where all attendance and observance ends; Where all the sunshine of our favour sets; Where what was ill no countenance defends, And what was good the unthankful world forgets.
_Daniel._
* * * * *
Hence, profane grim man! nor dare To approach so neere my faire. Marble vaults, and gloomy caves, Church-yards, charnell-houses, graves, Where the living loath to be, Heaven hath designed to thee. But if needs ’mongst us thou’lt rage, Let thy fury feed on age.
_Habington._
* * * * *
So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand I’ the instant we withdraw the moving hand, But some short time retains a faint, weak course, By virtue of the first impulsive force; And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile Thy crown of bays, oh let it crack awhile, And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes.
_Carew._
* * * * *
Ah! thou hast left to live; and in the time When scarce thou blossom’dst in thy pleasant prime: So falls by northern blast a virgin rose, At half that doth her bashful bosom close; So a sweet flower languishing decays, That late did blush when kissed by Phœbus’ rays; So Phœbus mounting the meridian’s height, Choked by pale Phœbe faints unto our sight; Astonished Nature sullen stands to see The life of all this all so changed to be; In gloomy gowns the stars this loss deplore, The sea with murmuring mountains beats the shore.
_Drummond._
* * * * *
Death is the crown of life: Were death denied, poor men would live in vain; Were death denied, to live would not be life: Were death denied, even fools would wish to die.
_Young._
* * * * *
Death is the sea, and we like rivers flow To lose our selves in the insatiate maine, Whence rivers may, she ne’er returne againe. Nor grieve this christall streame so soone did fall Into the ocean; since shee perfumed all The banks she past, so that each neighbour field Did sweete flowers cherish by her watring, yeeld, Which now adorne her herse.
_Habington._
* * * * *
We bore him to the grave while yet ’twas morn, The winter sunlight shining on his coffin: The weight of grief was heavy to be borne, And the salt tears rose in our eyelids often. We slowly walked in mutely sad procession; The pitying people freely made us way; And the blest child, yet guiltless of transgression, We softly placed between the walls of clay. We sang a hymn--we bowed our heads to pray; And GOD, who had our bitter grief appointed, Sent also strengthening grace by lips anointed. We looked again on George as low he lay Deep in the earth; and when we homeward went, We felt his home was better ’yond the firmament.
_MacKellar._
MISTLETOE.... _I climb to greatness_.
The Mistletoe is a creeping plant which grows on the tops of the tallest trees. The proud oak is its slave, and nourishes it with his own substance. The Druids paid a kind of adoration to it, as the emblem of a weakness that was superior to strength: they regarded the tyrant of the oak as equally formidable to men and gods.
* * * * *
’Tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, Whereto the climber upwards turns his face: But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high above the sun of glory glow, And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow Contending tempests on his naked head, And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.
_Byron._
* * * * *
Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
On the summit see, The seals of office glitter in his eyes; He climbs,--he pants,--he grasps them. At his heels, Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.
_Cowper._
* * * * *
If any man must fall for me to rise, Then seek I not to rise. Another’s pain I choose not for my good. A golden chain-- A robe of honour is too poor a prize To tempt my hasty hand to do a wrong Unto a fellow man. This life hath wo Sufficient, wrought by man’s satanic foe; And who that hath a heart would dare prolong Or add unto the sorrows of a soul That seeks some healing balm to make it whole? My bosom owns the brotherhood of man; From GOD and truth a renegade is he Who scorns a poor man in his poverty, Or on his fellow lays a supercilious ban.
_MacKellar._
ASH TREE.... _Grandeur_.
* * * * *
It is sure, Stamped by the seal of nature, that the well Of mind, where all its waters gather pure, Shall with unquestioned spell all hearts allure. Wisdom enshrined in beauty--Oh! how high The order of that loveliness.
_Percival._
* * * * *
The sky is changed!--and such a change! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And this is in the night:--most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,-- A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again ’tis black,--and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth, As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.
_Byron._
* * * * *
I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of mine own.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
But lo! the dome--the vast and wondrous dome, To which Diana’s marvel was a cell-- Christ’s mighty shrine above his martyr’s tomb! I have beheld the Ephesian’s miracle-- Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell The hyæna and the jackal in their shade; I have beheld Sophia’s bright roofs swell Their glittering mass i’ the sun, and have surveyed Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem prayed; But thou, of temples old, or altars new, Standest alone--with nothing like to thee-- Worthiest of GOD, the holy and the true. Since Zion’s desolation, when that He Forsook his former city, what could be, Of earthly structures in his honour piled, Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, Has grown colossal, and can only find A fit abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality; and thou Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, See thy God face to face, as thou dost now His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.
_Byron._
* * * * *
What peremptory, eagle-sighted eye Dares look upon the heaven of her brow, That is not blinded by her majesty?
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
The glorious sun Stays in his course, and plays the alchymist, Turning, with splendour of his precious eye, The meagre, cloddy earth to glittering gold.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
No! I shall never lose the trace, Of what I’ve felt in this bright place; And should my spirit’s hope grow weak,-- Should I, O God! forget thy power, This mighty scene again I’ll seek, At the same calm and glowing hour; And here at the sublimest shrine That nature ever reared to thee, Rekindle all that hope divine, And feel my immortality!
_Moore._
CHAMOMILE.... _Energy in Adversity_.
Italy! Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rents Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, And hath denied, to every other sky, Spirits which soar from ruin:--thy decay Is still impregnate with divinity. Which gilds it with revivifying ray.
_Byron._
* * * * *
I said to Penury’s meagre train, Come on--your threats I brave; My last poor life-drop you may drain, And crush me to the grave; Yet still the spirit that endures, Shall mock your force the while, And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours With bitter smile.
I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, Pass on--I heed you not; Ye may pursue me till my form And being are forgot; Yet still, the spirit which you see Undaunted by your wiles, Draws from its own nobility Its high-born smiles.
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
When a great mind falls, The noble nature of man’s generous heart Doth bear him up against the shame of ruin, With gentle censure, using but his faults As modest means to introduce his praise; For pity, like a dewy twilight, comes To close th’ oppressive splendour of his day, And they who but admired him in his height His altered state lament, and love him fallen.
_Joanna Baillie._
* * * * *
Oh, more or less than man--in high or low, Battling with nations, flying from the field; Now making monarchs’ necks thy footstool, now More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield; An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, However deeply in men’s spirits skilled, Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, Nor learn that tempted fate will leave the loftiest star. Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy, Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled With a sedate and all-enduring eye;-- When fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child, He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.
_Byron._
CITRON.... _Estrangement_.
Ev’n as one heat another heat expels, Or as one nail by strength drives out another; So the remembrance of my former love Is by a newer object quite forgotten.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Few years have passed since thou and I Were firmest friends, at least in name, And childhood’s gay sincerity Preserved our feelings long the same. But now, like me, too well thou know’st What trifles oft the heart recall; And those who once have loved the most Too soon forget they loved at all. And such the change the heart displays, So frail is early friendship’s reign, A month’s brief lapse, perhaps a day’s, Will view thy mind estranged again. If so, it never shall be mine To mourn the loss of such a heart; The fault was Nature’s fault, not thine, Which made thee fickle as thou art. As rolls the ocean’s changing tide, So human feelings ebb and flow; And who would in a breast confide Where stormy passions ever glow?
_Byron._
* * * * *
Tis otherwise decreed, and I submit! Alone I guide my bark adown the stream; Dark is the voyage, around the night-birds flit, The waves are tinged by no sweet-smiling beam. And now I breathe the parting word--Farewell! And now, the cords which fondly bind, I sever! Break from the scenes I once had loved so well,-- And tear thine image from my heart for ever!
_J. W. Hanson._
* * * * *
Farewell, Theresa! that cloud which over Yon moon this moment gathering we see, Shall scarce from her pure path have passed, ere thy lover Swift o’er the wide wave shall wander from thee. Long, like that dim cloud, I’ve hung around thee, Darkening thy prospects, saddening thy brow; With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found thee; Oh! think how changed, love, how changed art thou now! But here I free thee: like one awaking From fearful slumber, this dream thou’lt tell; The bright moon her spell too is breaking, Past are the dark clouds; Theresa, farewell!
_Moore._
DRAGON PLANT.... _You are near a snare_.
He secretly Puts pirate’s colours out at both our sterns, That we might fight each other in mistake, That he should share the ruin of us both!
_Crown._
His tongue was soft as velvet leaf, His poison-fangs concealing; But where he stung, the festering wound Was past the art of healing. “Beware of him whose speech is smooth,” The mother spake her daughter; “The deepest depths are ever found Where flows the smoothest water.” “His heart is like an angel’s heart,” The daughter spake her mother; “He seeks to be to thee and me A loving son and brother.” She listened to his guileful tale, Nor heeded words of warning; Ah! bitterly did future pain Repay her present scorning. For Robin laid his cunning game With art so deep and skilful, That gentle Ellen’s mind was turned To disobedience wilful.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
Is there no way to save thee? minutes fly, And thou art lost! _thou!_ my sole benefactor, The only being who was constant to me Through every change. Yet, make me not a traitor! Let me save thee--but spare my honour!
_Byron._
* * * * *
Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose What ne’er was meant for other ears? Why thus destroy thine own repose, And dig the source of future tears? Oh! thou wilt weep, imprudent maid, While lurking, envious foes will smile, For all the follies thou hast said, Of those who spoke but to beguile.
_Byron._
* * * * *
Again, I tell thee, ask not; but by all Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven--by all The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope To emulate them, and to leave behind Descendants worthy both of them and thee-- By all thou hast of blest in hope or memory-- By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter-- By all the good deeds thou hast done to me, Good I would now repay with greater good, Remain within--trust to thy household gods And to my word for safety, if thou dost As I now counsel--but if not, thou art lost!
_Byron._
REED.... _Single Blessedness_.
But earlier is the rose distilled, Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Love not, love not; the thing you love may change; The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange, The heart still warmly beat, and not for you.
_Mrs. Norton._
* * * * *
Alone! alone! how drear it is always to be alone! In such a depth of wilderness, the only thinking one! The waters in their path rejoice, the trees together sleep-- But I have not one silver voice upon my ear to creep!
_Willis._
* * * * *
Do any thing but love; or, if thou lovest, And art a woman, hide thy love from him Whom thou dost worship. Never let him know How dear he is; flit like a bird before him; Lead him from tree to tree, from flower to flower; But be not won; or thou wilt, like that bird, When caught and caged, be left to pine neglected, And perish in forgetfulness.
_Miss Landon._
* * * * *
O many a summer’s morning glow Has lent the rose its ray, And many a winter’s drifting snow Has swept its bloom away; But she has kept the faithless pledge To this, her winter hour, And keeps it still, herself alone, And wasted like the flower.
_O. W. Holmes._
* * * * *
My heart is with its early dream; It cannot turn away To seek again the joys of earth, And mingle with the gay. The dew-nursed flower that lifts its brow Beneath the shades of night, Must wither when the sunbeam sheds Its too resplendent light. My heart is with its early dream, And vainly love’s soft power Would seek to charm that heart anew, In some unguarded hour. I would not that some gentle one Should hear my frequent sigh; The deer that bears its death-wound, turns In loneliness to die.
_Mrs. Embury._
FENNEL.... _Strength_.