Part 3
If spirits, pure as those who kneel Around the throne of light above, The power of beauty’s spell could feel, And lose a heaven for woman’s love,-- What marvel that a heart like mine Enraptured by thy charms should be! Forget to bend at glory’s shrine, And lose itself--ay, heaven--for thee!
_Memorial._
* * * * *
Fain would I speak the thoughts I bear to thee, But they do choke and flutter in my throat, And make me like a child.
_Joanna Baillie._
CYPRESS.... _Mourning_.
The ancients consecrated the Cypress to the Fates, the Furies and Pluto. They placed it near tombs. The people of the East retain the same custom in the decoration of their cemeteries. The Turks plant the Cypress at the head and at the foot of the graves. According to Ovid, the Cypress derived its name from Cyparissos, an especial friend of Apollo’s, who, in grief at having inadvertently killed a favourite stag of his, prayed the gods that his mourning might be made perpetual, and was changed into a Cypress tree, the branches of which were thenceforward used at funerals.
* * * * *
Lady dear! this history Is thy fated lot, Ever such thy watching For what cometh not, Till with anxious waiting dull, Round thee fades the beautiful; Still thou seekest on, though weary, Seeking still in vain.
_Miss Landon._
* * * * *
Thou art lost to me for ever,--I have lost thee, Isadore, Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more. Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine, Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine. Thou art dead and gone, loving wife,--thy heart is still and cold,-- And I at one stride have become most comfortless and old; Of our whole world of love and song, thou wast the only light, A star, whose setting left behind, ah! me, how dark a night! Thou art lost to me, for ever, Isadore.
_Albert Pike._
* * * * *
The Cypress is the emblem of mourning.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Alas, for earthly joy, and hope, and love, Thus stricken down, e’en in their holiest hour! What deep, heart-wringing anguish must they prove, Who live to weep the blasted tree or flower! Oh, wo, deep wo to earthly love’s fond trust, When all it once has worshipped lies in dust!
_Mrs. Embury._
WALL-FLOWER.... _Fidelity in Adversity_.
This flower derives its name from the circumstance of its growing upon old walls, the casements and battlements of ancient castles, and among the ruins of abbeys. The troubadors were accustomed to wearing a bouquet of Wall-flowers, as the emblem of an affection which is proof against time and the frowns of fortune.
* * * * *
_Adah._--Alas! thou sinnest now, my Cain; thy words Sound impious in mine ears.
_Cain._--Then leave me!
_Adah._--Never, Though thy God left thee!
_Byron._
* * * * *
An emblem true thou art Of love’s enduring lustre given To cheer a lonely heart.
_Barton._
* * * * *
Flower of the solitary place! Gray Ruin’s golden crown, That lendest melancholy grace To haunts of old renown; Thou mantlest o’er the battlements By strife or storm decayed; And fillest up each envious rent Time’s canker-tooth hath made.
_Moir._
* * * * *
Though human, thou didst not deceive me; Though woman, thou didst not forsake; Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me; Though slandered, thou never couldst shake; Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me; Though parted, it was not to fly; Though watchful, ’twas not to defame me; Nor, mute, that the world might belie.
_Byron._
* * * * *
Yes, love! my breast, at sorrow’s call, Shall tremble like thine own; If from those eyes the tear-drops fall, They shall not fall alone. Our souls, like heaven’s aerial bow, Blend every light within their glow, Of joy or sorrow known; And grief, divided with thy heart, Were sweeter far than joy apart.
_Anon._
HAWTHORN.... _Hope_.
Various significations have been given to the Hawthorn. Among the Turks, a branch of it expresses the wish of a lover to receive a kiss from the object of his affection. Among the ancient Greeks, the Hawthorn was a symbol of conjugal union; its blossomed boughs were carried about at their wedding festivities, and the newly-married couple were even lighted to their bridal chamber with torches made of its wood. In England, the Hawthorn is used in the sports of May-days, and is, therefore, frequently called May. There is a proverb among the rural inhabitants of that country, that a “store of haws portend cold winters.” Though the Hawthorn is quoted as the emblem of Hope, it must be considered more particularly as the lover’s hope.
* * * * *
HOW MAY WAS FIRST MADE.
As Spring upon a silver cloud Lay looking on the world below, Watching the breezes as they bowed The buds and blossoms to and fro, She saw the fields with Hawthorns walled: Said Spring, “New buds I will create.” She to a Flower-Spirit called, Who on the month of May did wait, And bade her fetch a Hawthorn-spray, That she might make the buds of May. Said Spring, “The grass looks green and bright, The Hawthorn-hedges too are green, I’ll sprinkle them with flowers of light, Such stars as earth has never seen; And all through England’s girded vales, Her steep hill-sides and haunted streams, Where woodlands dip into the dales, Where’er the Hawthorn stands and dreams, Where thick-leaved trees make dark the day, I’ll light each nook with flowers of May. Like pearly dew-drops, white and round, The shut-up buds shall first appear. And in them be such fragrance found, As breeze before did never bear; Such as in Eden only dwelt, When angels hovered round its bowers, And long-haired Eve at morning knelt In innocence amid the flowers: While the whole air was, every way, Filled with a perfume sweet as May. And oft shall groups of children come, Threading their way through shady places, From many a peaceful English home, The sunshine falling on their faces; Starting with merry voice the thrush, As through green lanes they wander singing, To gather the sweet Hawthorn bush; Which, homeward in the evening bringing With smiling faces, they shall say, ‘There’s nothing half so sweet as May.’ And many a poet yet unborn Shall link its name with some sweet lay, And lovers oft at early morn Shall gather blossoms of the May; With eyes bright as the silver dews, Which on the rounded May-buds sleep, And lips, whose parted smiles diffuse A sunshine o’er the watch they keep, Shall open all their white array Of pearls, ranged like the buds of May.” Spring shook the cloud on which she lay, And silvered o’er the Hawthorn spray, Then showered down the buds of May.
_Miller._
* * * * *
With hope all pleases, nothing comes amiss.
_Rogers._
* * * * *
And Hawthorn’s early blooms appear, Like youthful hope upon life’s year.
_Drayton._
* * * * *
Gay was the love of paradise he drew And pictured in his fancy; he did dwell Upon it till it had a life; he threw A tint of heaven athwart it--who can tell The yearnings of his heart, the charm, the spell, That bound him to that vision?
_Percival._
LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING.... _Deserted Love_.
This beautiful emblem of love, wounded and bereaved by fate, is a species of Amaranthus. The flower is of a reddish-purple hue, which circumstance suggests its name.
* * * * *
A single rose is shedding Its lovely lustre meek and pale: It looks as planted by despair-- So white, so faint--the slightest gale Might whirl the leaves on high.
_Byron._
* * * * *
And on with many a step of pain, Our weary race is sadly run; And still, as on we plod our way, We find, as life’s gay dreams depart, To close our being’s troubled day, Naught left us but a broken heart.
_Percival._
* * * * *
Nor would I change my buried love For any heart of living mould, No--for I am a hero’s child-- I’ll hunt my quarry in the wild; And still my home this mansion make, Of all unheeded and unheeding, And cherish, for my warrior’s sake, The flower of Love-lies-bleeding.
_Campbell._
* * * * *
Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye, As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
_Byron._
MYRTLE.... _Love_.
The Myrtle has ever been consecrated to Venus. At Rome, the temple of the goddess was surrounded by a grove of Myrtles; and in Greece, she was adorned under the name of Myrtilla. It was observed by the ancients, that, wherever the Myrtle grew, it excluded all other plants. So love, wherever it is permitted to grow, excludes all other feelings. The ladies of modern Rome retain a strong affection for this plant, preferring its odour to that of the most fragrant essences.
* * * * *
Our love came as the early dew Comes unto drooping flowers; Dropping its first sweet freshness on Our life’s dull, lonely hours.
_Mrs. R. S. Nichols._
* * * * *
Love is a celestial harmony Of likely hearts, composed of stars’ consent, Which join together in sweet sympathy, To work each other’s joy and true content, Which they have harboured since their first descent, Out of their heavenly bowers, where they did see And know each other here beloved to be.
_Spenser._
* * * * *
I have done penance for contemning love; Whose high imperious thoughts have punished me With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
The Myrtle on thy breast or brow Would lively hope and love avow.
_J. H. Wiffen._
* * * * *
Comfort cannot soothe The heart whose life is centred in the thought Of happy loves, once known, and still in hope, Living with a consuming energy.
_Percival._
* * * * *
As in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all.
_Shakspeare._
LILY OF THE VALLEY.... _Modesty_.
The beautiful Lily of the Valley is the fit emblem of the union of beauty, simplicity, and love of retirement. It adds an indescribable charm to the spots where it blooms. Its snowy hues and general delicacy of appearance excite emotions of a kindred nature to those we experience in the company of one whose heart is free from guile, and whose manners are gentle and unpretending.
* * * * *
Lilacs then, and daffodillies, And the nice-leaved, lesser Lilies, Shading, like detected light, Their little green-tipt lamps of white.
_Hunt._
* * * * *
I had found out a sweet green spot, Where a Lily was blooming fair; The din of the city disturbed it not, But the spirit that shades the quiet cot With its wings of love was there. I found that Lily’s bloom, When the day was dark and chill; It smiled like a star in a misty gloom, And it sent abroad a soft perfume, Which is floating around me still.
_Percival._
* * * * *
The Lily, in whose snow-white bells Simplicity delights and dwells.
_Balfour._
HYACINTH.... _Constancy_.
The blue Hyacinth is mentioned by several English writers as the emblem of constancy. There are many varieties found in Europe and America, but the variety known in Scotland as the “Blue Bell” is the most common and the most celebrated.
* * * * *
When daisies blush, and wind-flowers wet with dew, When shady lanes with Hyacinth’s are blue, When the elm blossoms o’er the brooding bird, And, wild and wide, the plover’s wail is heard, Where melts the mist on mountains far away, Till morn is kindled into brightest day.
_Elliott._
* * * * *
Then come the wild weather, come sleet, or come snow, We will stand by each other however it blow. Oppression and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.
_Longfellow._
* * * * *
She loves him yet! The flower the false one gave her When last he came, Is still with her wild tears wet. She’ll ne’er forget, Howe’er his faith may waver, Through grief and shame, Believe it,--she loves him yet!
_Mrs. Osgood._
* * * * *
Over the moorland, over the lea, Dancing airily, there are we: Sometimes, mounted on stems aloft, We wave o’er broom and heather, To meet the kiss of the zephyr soft; Sometimes, close together, Tired of dancing, tired of peeping, Under the whin you’ll find us sleeping. Daintily bend we our honied bells, While the gossipping bee her story tells, And drowsily hums and murmurs on Of the wealth to her waxen storehouse gone; And though she gathers our sweets the while, We welcome her in with a nod and a smile. No rock is too high--no vale too low, For our fragile and tremulous forms to grow. Sometimes we crown The castle’s dizziest tower, and look Laughingly down On the pigmy men in the world below, Wearily wandering to and fro. Sometimes we dwell on the cragged crest Of mountain high, And the ruddy sun, from the blue sea’s breast, Climbing the sky, Looks from his couch of glory up, And lights the dew in the bluebell’s cup. We are crowning the mountain With azure bells, Or decking the fountains In forest dells, Or wreathing the ruin with clusters gray, And nodding and laughing the livelong day; Then chiming our lullaby, tired with play. Are we not beautiful? Oh! are not we The darlings of mountain and moorland and lea? Plunge in the forest--are we not fair? Go to the high-road--we’ll meet ye there. Oh! where is the flower that content may tell, Like the laughing and nodding and dancing bluebell.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
The Hyacinth’s for constancy, Wi’ its unchanging blue.
_Burns._
ORCHIS.... _A Belle_.
The Butterfly Orchis is rather rare except where there is a chalky soil. The Spider Orchis has gained its name from the great resemblance it bears to one of those large, fat-bodied garden spiders, which are often noticed for the singular beauty of the markings on their backs. Another is so very like a fly, that it is named the Fly Orchis; another is like a lizard, or some strange reptile, and the flowers being yellow, green, and purple, and twisted in and about one another in a very odd way, it really looks like some horrible group of queer living creatures. One, from being fancied like a man, is called Man Orchis; another, very gayly spotted, and ornamented with a helmet-like appendage, is the Military Orchis; another is called Bee Orchis. Bishop Mant thus alludes to some of these:
Well boots it the thick-mantled leas To traverse: if boon nature grant, To crop the insect-seeming plant, The vegetable Bee; or nigh Of kin, the long-horned Butterfly, White, or his brother purple pale, Scenting alike the evening gale; The Satyr flower, the pride of Kent, Of Lizard form, and goat-like scent.
* * * * *
No wonder that cheek in its beauty transcendent, Excelleth the beauty of others by far; No wonder that eye is so richly resplendent, For your heart is a rose and your soul is a star.
_Mrs. Osgood._
* * * * *
What right have you, madam, gazing in your shining mirror daily, Getting so by heart your beauty, which all others must adore; While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gayly, You will wed no man that’s only good to God,--and nothing more.
_Miss Barrett._
BOX.... _Stoicism_.
The common Box, of which our hedge is formed, is indigenous in England, preferring the chalky hills of Surrey and Kent for its residence, but flourishing well on other soils. It is one of the most useful evergreen shrubs we possess, and especially as it will grow under the drip and shadow of other trees, as you know is the case with our hedge. It is found in most European countries, from Britain southwards, also about Mount Caucasus, Persia, China, Cochin China, and America. It was formerly much more common in England than now, having disappeared under the spread of agriculture. Box-hill, in Surrey, is named from this tree, and is a conical elevation covered with a wood of Box-trees, some of large size. Boxley in Kent, and Boxwell in Gloucestershire, are also named from it. The leaf and general appearance of the tree are too familiar to require any description. The scent of the spring blossoms is rather powerful, and to some persons unpleasant. The timber is very valuable, it is sold by weight, and, being very hard and smooth, and not apt to warp, is well adapted for many nice and delicate purposes. In the days of good old Evelyn, it appears to have been as much used as at present, for he says, “It is good for the turner, engraver, carver, mathematical instrument maker, comb and pipe, or flute-maker, and the roots for the inlayer and cabinet-maker. Of box are made wheels, sheaves, pins, pegs for musical instruments, nut-crackers, button-moulds, weavers’ shuttles, hollar-sticks, bump-sticks, and dressers for the shoemaker, rulers, rolling-pins, pestles, mall-balls, beetles, tops, chessmen, tables, screws, bobbins for bone-lace, spoons, knife-handles, but especially combs.” Most of those engravings in books, called wood-cuts, are done upon Box wood, and for that purpose English Box is superior to any other, though a great portion of what is used in this country comes from the Levant. The ancients used combs made of Box-wood, and also instruments to be played on with the mouth. The Romans used to adorn their gardens with it, clipped into form, as we find from mention being made of clipped Box-trees by their writers. It was formerly much cut in this manner here, and was ranked next to the Yew for its capabilities of taking artificial and grotesque forms; but except a few ancient hedges of Box, like our own, and those at Castle Bromwich Hall, where the Yew hedges are also preserved, there are not many vestiges of its former garden-glory remaining. A dwarf kind is used for making a neat and firm edging to flower borders, for which nothing answers so well, or produces so proper an effect.
* * * * *
Though youth be past, and beauty fled, The constant heart its pledge redeems, Like Box, that guards the flowerless bed, And brighter from the contrast seems.
_Mrs. Hale._
NARCISSUS AND DAFFODIL.... _Self-Love_.
There are several species of the Narcissus. The Yellow Narcissus is better known as the Daffodil, and bears much resemblance to the Yellow Lily. The Poetic Narcissus is the largest of the species, and may be distinguished by the crimson border of the very shallow and almost flat cup of the nectary. Shakspeare, in his Winter’s Tale, speaks of
Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and taste The winds of March with beauty.
The ancients attributed the origin of the Narcissus to the metamorphosis of a beautiful youth of that name, who, having slighted the love of the nymph Echo, became enamoured of his own image, which he beheld in a fountain, and pined to death in consequence.
* * * * *
I wandered lonely, as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden Daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of the bay; Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; A poet could not but be gay In such a joyful company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth to me the show had brought. For oft when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude. And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the Daffodils.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
Nature’s laws must be obeyed, And this is one she strictly laid On every soul which she has made, Down from our earliest mother: Be _self_ your first and greatest care, From all reproach the darling spare, And any blame that she should bear, Put off upon another.
_Miss Gould._
* * * * *
The pale Narcissus Still feeds upon itself; but, newly blown, The nymphs will pluck it from its tender stalk, And say, “Go, fool, and to thy image talk.”
_Lord Thurlow._
LILY.... _Majesty_.
The Lily’s height and beauty speak command. The Jews imitated its form in the decorations of their first magnificent temple; and Christ described it as more splendid than King Solomon in his most gorgeous apparel. According to ancient mythology, there was originally but one species of Lily, and that was orange-coloured; and the white was produced by the following circumstance:--Jupiter, wishing to render Hercules immortal, prevailed on Juno to take a deep draught of nectar, which threw the queen into a profound sleep. Jupiter then placed the infant Hercules at her breast, so that the divine milk might ensure immortality. Hercules drew the milk faster than he could swallow it, and some drops fell to the earth, from which immediately sprang the White Lily.
* * * * *
Flowers of the fairest, And gems of the rarest, I find and I gather in country or town; But one is still wanting, Oh! where is it haunting? The bud and the jewel must make up my crown. Thou pearl of the deep sea That flows in my heart free, Thou rock-planted Lily, come hither, or send; Mid flowers of the fairest, And gems of the rarest, I miss thee, I seek thee, my own parted friend!
_M. J. Jewsbury._
* * * * *
Ye well arrayed---- Queen Lilies--and ye painted populace, Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives.
_Young._
* * * * *
The wand-like Lily, which lifted up, As a Mœnad, its radiant-coloured cup, Till the fiery star, which is in its eye, Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky.
_Shelley._
* * * * *
Her glossy hair is clustered o’er a brow Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth; Her eyebrow’s shape is like the aerial bow, Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, Mounting at times to a transparent glow, As if her veins run lightning; she, in sooth, Has a proud air, and grace by no means common, Her stature tall,--I hate a dumpy woman.
_Byron._
* * * * *
Oh, he is all made up of love and charms, Whatever maid could wish or man admire; Delight of every eye! when he appears, A secret pleasure gladdens all that see him; And when he talks, the proudest men will blush To hear his virtues and his glory!
_Addison._
MOSS ROSE.... _Confession of Love_.
The origin of this exquisitely beautiful variety of the Rose is thus fancifully accounted for:--
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