Part 2
The Aloe is attached to the soil by very feeble roots; it delights to grow in the wilderness, and its taste is extremely bitter. Thus grief separates us from earthly things, and fills the heart with bitterness. These magnificent and monstrous plants are found in barbarous Africa: they grow upon rocks, in dry sand under a burning atmosphere. Some have leaves six feet long, and armed with long spires. From the centre of these leaves shoots up a slender stem covered with flowers.
Sister Sorrow! sit beside me, Or, if I must wander, guide me: Let me take thy hand in mine, Cold alike are mine and thine. Think not, Sorrow, that I hate thee,-- Think not I am frightened at thee,-- Thou art come for some good end; I will treat thee as a friend.
_R. M. Milnes._
* * * * *
And this is all I have left now, Silence and solitude and tears; The memory of a broken vow, My blighted hopes, my wasted years!
_Anon._
* * * * *
It may be that I shall forget my grief; It may be time has good in store for me; It may be that my heart will find relief From sources now unknown. Futurity May bear within its folds some hidden spring From which will issue blessed streams; and yet Whate’er of joy the coming year may bring, The past--the past--I never can forget.
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
Of comfort no man speak: Let’s talk of graves, of worms, of epitaphs: Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let’s choose executors, and talk of wills; And yet not so--for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies in the ground?
_Shakspeare._
WORMWOOD. ... _Absence._
Wormwood is the bitterest of plants; and absence, according to La Fontaine, is the worst of evils. Those in whose anxious breasts the “flame divine” is burning, will agree with the French author in his assertion. To be absent from one we love is to carry a vacant chamber in the heart, which naught else can fill.
When thou shalt yield to memory’s power, And let her fondly lead thee o’er The scenes that thou hast past before, To absent friends and days gone by,-- Then should these meet thy pensive eye, A true memento may they be Of one whose bosom owes to thee So many hours enjoyed in gladness, That else perhaps had passed in sadness, And many a golden dream of joy, Untarnished and without alloy. Oh, still my fervent prayer will be, “Heaven’s choicest blessings rest on thee.”
_Miss Gould._
* * * * *
How can the glintin sun shine bright? How can the wimplin burnie glide? Or flowers adorn the ingle side? Or birdies deign The woods, and streams, and vales to chide? Eliza’s gane!
_J. W. H._
* * * * *
If she be gone, the world, in my esteem, Is all bare walls; nothing remains in it But dust and feathers.
_John Crown._
* * * * *
Thus absence dies, and dying proves No absence can subsist with loves That do partake of fair perfection; Since, in the darkest night, they may, By love’s quick motion, find a way To see each other in reflection.
_Suckling._
VIOLET.... _Modest Worth_.
The Violet has always been a favourite theme of admiration among visitors of Parnassus. Its quiet beauty and love of retired spots have ever made it the emblem of true worth that shrinks from parade. It is one of the first children of spring, and awakens pleasing emotions in the breast of the lover of the beautiful, as he strolls through the meadows in the season of joy. Ion, the Greek name of this flower, is traced by some etymologists to Ia, the daughter of Midas, who was betrothed to Atys, and changed by Diana into a Violet, to hide her from Apollo.
* * * * *
A woman’s love, deep in the heart, Is like the Violet flower, That lifts its modest head apart In some sequestered bower.
_Anon._
* * * * *
The maid whose manners are retired, Who, patient, waits to be admired, Though overlooked, perhaps, a while Her modest worth, her modest smile,-- Oh, she will find, or soon, or late, A noble, fond, and faithful mate, Who, when the spring of life is gone, And all its blooming flowers are flown, Will bless old Time, who left behind The graces of a virtuous mind.
_Paulding._
* * * * *
Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there’s a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are Violets, They will have a place in story: There’s a flower that shall be mine, ’Tis the little Celandine. Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout! I’m as great as they, I trow, Since the day I found thee out, Little flower!--I’ll make a stir, Like a great astronomer. Modest, yet withal an elf, Bold, and lavish of thyself, Since we needs must first have met I have seen thee, high and low, Thirty years or more, and yet ’Twas a face I did not know: Thou hast now, go where I may, Fifty greetings in a day. Ere a leaf is on the bush, In the time before the thrush Has a thought about its nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless prodigal; Telling tales about the sun, When there’s little warmth or none.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
Shakspeare regarded the Violet as the emblem of constancy, as the following occurs in one of his sonnets:--
Violet is for faithfulness, Which in me shall abide; Hoping, likewise, that from your heart You will not let it slide.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
The Violet in her greenwood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazles mingle, May boast herself the fairest flower, In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
_Scott._
* * * * *
Under the hedge all safe and warm, Sheltered from boisterous wind and storm, We Violets lie: With each small eye Closely shut while the cold goes by. You look at the bank, mid the biting frost, And you sigh, and say that we’re dead and lost; But, Lady stay For a sunny day, And you’ll find us again, alive and gay. On mossy banks, under forest trees, You’ll find us crowding, in days like these; Purple and blue, And white ones too, Peep at the sun, and wait for you. By maids and matrons, by old and young, By rich and poor, our praise is sung; And the blind man sighs When his sightless eyes He turns to the spot where our perfumes rise. There is not a garden, the country through, Where they plant not Violets, white and blue; By princely hall, And cottage small-- For we’re sought, and cherished, and culled by all. Yet grand parterres and stiff trimmed beds But ill become our modest heads; We’d rather run, In shadow and sun, O’er the banks where our merry lives first begun. There, where the Birken bough’s silvery shine Gleams over the hawthorn and frail woodbine, Moss, deep and green, Lies thick, between The plots where we Violet-flowers are seen. And the small gay Celandine’s stars of gold Rise sparkling beside our purple’s fold:-- Such a regal show Is rare, I trow, Save on the banks where Violets grow.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
I know where bloom some Violets in a bed Half hidden in the grass; and crowds go by And see them not, unless some curious eye Unto their hiding-place by chance is led. I often pass that way, and look on them, And love them more and more. I know not why My heart doth love such humble things; but I Esteem them more than robe or diadem Of haughty kings. A babe, or bird, or flower Hath o’er the soul a most despotic power. The tearful eye of infancy oppressed-- A flower down-trodden by the foot of spite-- Awaken sighs of sorrow in the breast, Or nerve the arm to vindicate their right.
_MacKellar._
LAVENDER.... _Distrust_.
It was anciently believed that the asp, a dangerous species of viper, made Lavender its habitual place of abode, for which reason that plant was approached with extreme caution. The Romans used it largely in their baths, from whence its name is derived.
* * * * *
Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win, By fearing to attempt.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Who never doubted never half believed, Where doubt there truth is--’tis her shadow.
_Bailey._
* * * * *
When first, with all a lover’s pride, I wooed and won thee for my bride, I little thought that thou couldst be Estranged as now thou art from me!
_Anon._
* * * * *
Thy confidence is held from me, In fear my love but shows, Like one, art thou, who fears the bee May sting thee, through the rose.
_Anon._
PANSY.... _Think of me_.
The Pansy, or Heart’s-ease, is a beautiful variety of the Violet, differing from it in the diversity of its colours. In fragrance it is inferior to the Violet. Pansy is an old English corruption of the French Pensée.
* * * * *
“And there are Pansies, that’s for thoughts.”
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
CHILDHOOD.
Sister, arise, the sun shines bright, The bee is humming in the air, The stream is singing in the light, The May-buds never looked more fair; Blue is the sky, no rain to-day: Get up, it has been light for hours, And we have not begun to play, Nor have we gathered any flowers. Time, who looked on, each accent caught, And said, “He is too young for thought.”
YOUTH.
To-night, beside the garden-gate? Oh, what a while the night is coming! I never saw the sun so late, No heard the bee at this time humming! I thought the flowers an hour ago Had closed their bells and sunk to rest: How slowly flies that hooded crow! How light it is along the west! Said Time, “He yet hath to be taught That I oft move too quick for thought.”
MANHOOD.
What thoughts wouldst thou in me awaken? Not love? for that brings only tears-- Nor friendship? no, I was forsaken! Pleasure I have not known for years: The future I would not foresee, I know too much from what is past, No happiness is there for me, And troubles ever come too fast. Said Time, “No comfort have I brought, The past to him’s one painful thought.”
OLD AGE.
Somehow the flowers seem different now, The Daisies dimmer than of old; There’s fewer blossoms on the bough, The Hawthorn buds look gray and cold; The Pansies wore another dye When I was young--when I was young! There’s not that blue about the sky Which every way in those days hung. There’s nothing now looks as it “ought.” Said Time, “The change is in thy thought.”
_Miller._
* * * * *
I think of thee at morn, when glisten The tearful dew-drops on the grass; I think of thee at eve, and listen, When the low, whispering breezes pass.
_E. R. H._
* * * * *
And thou, so rich in gentle names, appealing To hearts that own our nature’s common lot; Thou, styled by sportive Fancy’s better feeling A Thought, the Heart’s-Ease, and Forget-me-not.
_Barton._
DAISY.... _Innocence_.
Shakspeare speaks of the Daisy as the flower
Whose white investments figure innocence;
and succeeding poets have generally used it as the image of that pure quality. Fable informs us that the Daisy owes its origin to Belides, one of the Dryads, who were supposed to preside over meadows and pastures. While dancing on the turf with Ephigeus, whose suit she encouraged, she attracted the admiration of Vertumnus, the deity who presided over orchards; and, to escape from him, she was transformed into the humble flower, the Latin name of which is Bellis. The ancient English name of the flower was Day’s Eye, of which Daisy is a corruption. In Ossian’s poems, the Daisy is called the flower of the new-born--most expressive of innocence.
* * * * *
When smitten by the morning ray, I see thee rise alert and gay, Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness: And when, at dark, by dews opprest, Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
She dwells amid the world’s dark ways, Pure as in childhood’s hours; And all her thoughts are poetry, And all her words are flowers.
_Mrs. M. E. Hewitt._
* * * * *
’Twas when the world was in its prime, When meadows green and woodlands wild Were strewn with flowers, in sweet spring-time, And everywhere the Daisies smiled. When undisturbed the ring-doves cooed, While lovers sang each other’s praises, As in embowered lanes they wooed, Or on some bank white o’er with Daisies: While Love went by with muffled feet, Singing, “The Daisies they are sweet.” Unfettered then he roamed abroad, And as he willed it past the hours-- Now lingering idly by the road, Now loitering by the wayside flowers; For what cared he about the morrow? Too young to sigh, too old to fear-- No time had he to think of sorrow, Who found the Daisies everywhere; Still sang he, through each green retreat, “The Daisies they are very sweet.” With many a maiden did he dally, Like a glad brook that turns away-- Here in, there out, across the valley, With every pebble stops to play; Taking no note of space nor time, Through flowers, the banks adorning, Still rolling on, with silver chime, In star-clad night and golden morning. So went Love on, through cold and heat, Singing, “The Daisy’s ever sweet.” ’Twas then the flowers were haunted With fairy forms and lovely things, Whose beauty elder bards have chanted, And how they lived in crystal springs, And swang upon the honied bells; In meadows danced round dark green mazes, Strewed flowers around the holy wells, But never trampled on the Daisies. They spared the star that lit their feet, The Daisy was so very sweet.
_Miller._
* * * * *
When soothed awhile by milder airs, Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few gray hairs; Spring cannot shun thee; Whole summer fields are thine by right, And autumn, melancholy wight, Doth in thy crimson head delight, When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet’st the traveller in the lane; If welcomed once thou count’st it gain, Thou art not daunted; Nor car’st if thou be set at naught: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
I cannot gaze on aught that wears The beauty of the skies, Or aught that in life’s valley bears The hues of paradise; I cannot look upon a star, Or cloud that seems a seraph’s car, Or any form of purity-- Unmingled with a dream of thee.
_P. Benjamin._
* * * * *
The Daisy scattered on each meade and downe, A golden tuft within a silver crown; Faire fell that dainty flower! and may there be No shepherd graced that doth not honour thee.
_Browne._
* * * * *
There is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.
_Montgomery._
* * * * *
Heaven may awhile correct the virtuous, Yet it will wipe their eyes again, and make Their faces whiter with their tears. Innocence Concealed is the stolen pleasure of the gods, Which never ends in shame, as that of men Doth oftentimes do; but like the sun breaks forth, When it hath gratified another world; And to our unexpecting eyes appears More glorious through its late obscurity.
_John Fountain._
PERIWINKLE.... _Tender Recollections_.
In France, the Periwinkle has been adopted as the emblem of the pleasures of memory and sincere friendship, probably in allusion to Rousseau’s recollection of his friend, Madame de Warens, occasioned, after a lapse of thirty years, by the sight of this flower, which they together had admired. This plant is deeply rooted in the soil which it adorns. It throws out its shoots on all sides to clasp the earth, and covers it with flowers, which reflect the hue of heaven. Thus our first affections, warm, pure, and artless, seem to be of heavenly origin.
* * * * *
Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain,--it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me: They may crush, but they shall not contemn; They may torture, but shall not subdue me,-- ’Tis of thee that I think, not of them.
_Byron._
* * * * *
’Tis sweet, and yet ’tis sad, that gentle power, Which throws in winter’s lap the spring-tide flower: I love to dream of days my childhood knew, When, with the sister of my heart, time flew On wings of innocence and hope! dear hours, When joy sprang up about our path, like flowers!
_Mrs. A. M. Wells._
* * * * *
The lesser Periwinkle’s bloom, Like carpet of Damascus’ loom, Pranks with bright blue the tissue wove Of verdant foliage: and above With milk-white flowers, whence soon shall swell Red fruitage, to the taste and smell Pleasant alike, the Strawberry weaves Its coronets of three-fold leaves In mazes through the sloping wood.
_Mant._
* * * * *
Where captivates the sky-blue Periwinkle Under the cottage eaves.
_Hurdis._
* * * * *
Remember thee? Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmixed with baser matter.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Oh! only those Whose souls have felt this one idolatry Can tell how precious is the slightest thing Affection gives and hallows! A dead flower Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks That made each leaf a treasure.
_Miss Landon._
SWEET-BRIER, OR EGLANTINE.... _Poetry_.
The Eglantine is the poet’s flower. In the floral games, it was the prize for the best composition on the charms of study and eloquence. Though its flowers are most beautiful in hue, their fragrance is their more valuable quality. In like manner, the charms of poetry and eloquence should be considered superior to those of appearance.
* * * * *
And well the poet, at her shrine, May bend and worship while he woos; To him she is a thing divine, The inspiration of his line, His loved one, and his muse. If to his song the echo rings Of fame--’tis woman’s voice he hears; If ever from his lyre’s proud strings Flow sounds, like rush of angel wings, ’Tis that she listens, while he sings, With blended smiles and tears.
_Halleck._
* * * * *
Give me the poet’s lyre! And as the seraph in his orbit sings, Oh, may I strike the heaven-attuned strings, With a seraphic fire! With music fill the mighty dome of mind, And the rapt souls of men in music brightly bind!
_J. W. H._
* * * * *
Trace the young poet’s fate; Fresh from his solitude, the child of dreams, His heart upon his lips he seeks the world, To find him fame and fortune, as if life Were like a fairy tale. His song has led The way before him; flatteries fill his ear, His presence courted, and his words are caught; And he seems happy in so many friends. What marvel if he somewhat overrate His talents and his state? These scenes soon change. The vain, who sought to mix their name with his; The curious, who but live for some new sight; The idle--all these have been gratified, And now neglect stings even more than scorn.
_Miss Landon._
LILAC.... _First Emotions of Love_.
The freshness of the verdure of the Lilac; the flexibility of its branches; the profusion of its flowers; their transitory beauty and their soft hues,--all remind us of those emotions which embellish beauty, and throw such a light around our youthful hours. It is said that Van Spaendonc himself threw down his pencil on viewing a group of Lilacs. Nature seems to have delighted in creating its delicate clusters, which astonish by their beauty and variety. The fragrance of the flowers is even more gratifying than their beauty.
* * * * *
She had grown, In her unstained seclusion, bright and pure As a first opening Lilac, when it spreads Its clear leaves to the sweetest dawn of May.
_Percival._
* * * * *
When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond, My purest, first-born love, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong, as that I felt for thee.
_Mrs. Norton._
* * * * *
I love thee,--and I live! The moon, Who sees me from her calm above, The wind, who weaves her dim, soft tune About me, know how much I love! Naught else, save night, and the lonely hour, E’er heard my passion wild and strong; Even _thou_ yet deem’st not of thy power, Unless thou read’st aright my song!
_Barry Cornwall._
* * * * *
She loves--but knows not whom she loves, Nor what his race, nor whence he came;-- Like one who meets, in Indian groves, Some beauteous bird without a name, Brought by the last ambrosial breeze, From isles in the undiscovered seas, To show his plumage for a day To wondering eyes, and wing away!
_Moore._
TULIP.... _Declaration of Love_.
The Tulip is an extraordinary favourite in many parts of Europe and Asia; and, in Holland and Turkey, the most extravagant prices are paid for fine specimens. On account of the elegance of its form, the beauty of its colours, and its want of fragrance and other useful qualities, this flower has been considered as an appropriate symbol of a female who possesses no recommendation but a beautiful appearance. In the East, the Tulip is employed as the emblem by which a lover makes known his passion to his mistress; as the Tulip expresses the idea that he has a face all fire and a heart all coal.
* * * * *
Not one of Flora’s brilliant race A form more perfect can display: Art could not feign more simple grace, Nor Nature take a line away. Yet, rich as morn, of many a hue, When flushing clouds through darkness strike, The Tulip’s petals shine in dew, All beautiful, but none alike.
_Montgomery._
* * * * *
My heart is sad and lonely, With weariness I pine; Would thou wert here, mine only,-- Would I were wholly thine!
_H. J. H._
[Illustration: DAISY WALL FLOWER AND TULIP.
_Your innocence and fidelity in misfortune Have caused me to declare my love for you_ ]
* * * * *