Part 5
Then gather roses for the bride, Twine them in her bright hair, But, ere the wreath be done--oh! let The Columbine be there. For rest ye sure that follies dwell In many a heart that loveth well.
Gather ye laurels for the brow Of every prince of song! For all, to whom philosophy And wisdom do belong. But ne’er forget to intertwine A flower or two of Columbine.
Forget it not;--for even they, The oracles of earth, Mid all their wealth of golden thoughts, Their wisdom and their worth, Sometimes play pranks beneath the sky, Would scarce become e’en such as I!
Weave ye an armful of that plant, Choosing the darkest flowers, With that red, blood-dipped wreath ye bring The devastating powers Of warrior, conqueror, or chief; Oh! twine that full of Folly’s leaf!
And do ye ask me why this flower Is fit for every brow? Tell me but one where Folly ne’er Hath dwelt, nor dwelleth now, And I will then the laurel twine, Unmingled with the Columbine.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
PASSION FLOWER.... _Faith_.
In the Passion Flower, we find a representation of the crown of thorns, the scourge, the cross, the sponge, the nails, and the five wounds of Christ. Hence its name and signification.
* * * * *
One more plant---- Which, consecrate to Salem’s peaceful King, Though fair as any gracing beauty’s bower, Is linked to sorrow like a holy thing, And takes its name from suffering’s fiercest hour. Be this my noblest theme--Imperial Passion Flower! Whatever impulse first conferred that name, Or Fancy’s dream, or Superstition’s art, I freely own its spirit-touching claim, With thoughts and feelings it may well impart.
_Barton._
* * * * *
Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of death, To break the shock blind nature cannot shun, And lands thought smoothly on the further shore.
_Young._
* * * * *
True faith nor biddeth nor abideth form. The bended knee, the eye uplift is all Which man need render; all which God can bear. What to the faith are forms? A passing speck, A crow upon the sky.
_Bailey._
* * * * *
Faith is the subtle chain That binds us to the Infinite: the voice Of a deep life within, that will remain Until we crowd it thence.
_Mrs. E. Oakes Smith._
* * * * *
Naught shall prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
Ah, no! my dying lips shall close, Unaltered love, as faith professing; Nor (praising Him who life bestows) Forget who makes that life a blessing. My last address to Heaven is due;-- My last but one I give to you.
_Lovibond._
PINK.... _Pure Love_.
The primitive Pink is simple red or white, and scented; but cultivation has varied the colour from the darkest purple to the purest white. Under all its diversities, however, it retains its delicious, spicy fragrance, and hence has been made the emblem of woman’s love, which no circumstance can change. Florists designate two principal divisions of these flowers, Pinks and Carnation. The former are marked by a spot resembling an eye, and by a more humble growth. The flower of the Carnation is much larger than that of the Pink, and of a deeper hue. The Carnation was called by some of the old English writers the clove-gilly flower, from its perfume resembling that of cloves.
* * * * *
She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought; And with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat (like Patience on a monument) Smiling at grief.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
It is a fearful thing, To love as I love thee; to feel the world-- The bright, the beautiful, joy giving world-- A blank without thee. Never more to me Can hope, joy, fear, wear different seeming. Now I have no hope that does not dream for thee; I have no joy that is not shared by thee; I have no fear that does not dread for thee.
_L. E. L._
* * * * *
Alas! the love of woman! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And, if ’tis lost, life has no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone.
_Byron._
SENSITIVE PLANT.... _Chastity_.
This singular plant is so named from its motions imitating the sensibility of animal life. It contracts itself in the evening and expands with the morning light, and shrinks from external violence, folding up its leaves at the mere approach of one’s hand. The Violet is the emblem of that retiring modesty which proceeds from reflection, but the Sensitive Plant is a perfect image of innocence and virgin modesty, the result of instinct.
* * * * *
So dear to heaven is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt.
_Milton._
* * * * *
Oh! she is colder than the mountain’s snow. To such a subtile purity she’s wrought, She’s prayed and fasted to a walking thought: She’s an enchanted feast, most fair to sight, And starves the appetite she does invite; Flies from the touch of sense, and if you dare To name but love she vanishes to air.
_Crown._
* * * * *
In thy fair brow there’s such a legend writ Of chastity, as blinds the adulterous eye: Not the mountain ice, Congealed to crystals, is so frosty chaste As thy victorious soul, which conquers man, And man’s proud tyrant-passion.
_Dryden._
* * * * *
Like the Mimosa shrinking from The blight of some familiar finger-- Like flowers which but in secret bloom, Where aye the sheltered shadows linger, And which beneath the hot noon-ray Would fold their leaves and fade away-- The flowers of Love in secret cherished, In loneliness and silence nourished, Shrink backward from the searching eye, Until the stem whereon they flourished, Their shrine, the human heart, has perished, Although themselves may never die.
_J. G. Whittier._
THYME.... _Activity_.
Among the ancient Greeks, Thyme denoted the graceful elegance of the Attic style; because it covered Mount Hymettus, and gave an aromatic flavour to the honey made there. Those writers who had mastered the Attic style were said “to smell of Thyme.” Flies of all shapes, beetles of all hues, bright butterflies, and vigilant bees for ever surround the flower tufts of Thyme, and they thus seem to teem with life. Activity is a warlike virtue, and is ever associated with true courage. On this notion, the ladies of the days of chivalry embroidered on the scarfs which they presented to their knights the figure of a bee hovering about a sprig of Thyme.
* * * * *
I am not old,--though years have cast Their shadows on my way; I am not old,--though youth has passed, On rapid wings away. For in my heart a fountain flows, And round it pleasant thoughts repose; And sympathies, and feelings high, Spring like stars on evening’s sky.
_Park Benjamin._
* * * * *
The thrifty Thyme a home can find, Where smiles the sun, and breathes the wind.
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
Take the instant way; For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons, That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or edge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an entered tide, they all rush by, And leave you hindmost.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
The keen spirit Seizes the prompt occasion,--makes the thought Start into instant action, and at once Plans and performs, resolves and executes.
_Hannah More._
* * * * *
Come, I have learned, that fearful commenting Is laden servitor to dull delay; Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary. Then fiery expedition be my wing, Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king! Go, muster men: my counsel is my shield: We must be brief, when traitors brave the field.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Rouse thee! wake thy soul from sadness; Fail not in the eager strife! See around the bright earth’s gladness,-- All activity and life!
_Peerbold._
HOLLYHOCK.... _Ambition_.
We have few flowers that contribute more to the ornamenting of large gardens than the Hollyhock, which, from its towering height and seeming love of display, is the emblem of ambition. The flowers are of all hues, from a blackish-purple to a faint white, and, though very beautiful, are without fragrance. They give gayety to the shrubbery until a late season of the year, throwing out a succession of flowers till the arrival of frost.
* * * * *
Yet, press on! For it shall make you mighty among men; And, from the eyrie of your eagle thought, Ye shall look down on monarchs. Oh! press on! For the high ones and powerful shall come To do you reverence; and the beautiful Will know the purer language of your soul, And read it like a talisman of love. Press on! for it is godlike to unloose The spirit, and forget yourself in thought.
_Willis._
* * * * *
To the expanded and aspiring soul, To be but still the thing it long has been, Is misery, e’en though enthroned it were Under the cope of high imperial state.
_Joanna Baillie._
* * * * *
Ay,--father!--I have had those earthly visions And noble aspirations in my youth, To make my own the mind of other men, The enlightener of nations: and to rise I knew not whither--it might be to fall; But fall, even as the mountain cataract, Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, Lies low but mighty still.--But this is past, My thoughts mistook themselves.
_Byron._
* * * * *
I loved to hear the war-horn cry, And panted at the drum’s deep roll; And held my breath, when--flaming high-- I saw our starry banners fly, As, challenging the haughty sky, They went like battle o’er my soul; For I was so ambitious then, I burned to be the slave--of men.
_John Neal._
* * * * *
Know thou ambition is a restless flame, Which ever strives to reach the high-placed stars!
_Peerbold._
* * * * *
Ambition takes a thousand shapes among Our race of Time’s most valued toys, and yet In court, in camp, in school, and mid the buzz Of eager trade her spirit is the same.
_C. Watson._
LAUREL.... _Glory_.
Among the ancient Greeks and Romans, the Laurel was consecrated to every species of glory. The beautiful shrub grows abundantly at Delphi, on the banks of the river Peneus. There its aromatic and evergreen branches shoot up to the height of the loftiest trees; and it is alleged that, by means of some secret virtue, they avert lightning from the spots which they adorn.
According to ancient fable, Daphne was the daughter of the river Peneus. Apollo fell in love with her, but she, preferring virtue to the love of the most eloquent of the gods, fled, in order to avoid the seducing magic of his words. Apollo pursued, and was on the point of overtaking her, when the nymph invoked her father, and was changed into a Laurel. The god, finding that he clasped an insensible tree in his arms, kissed its bright leaves. “Since thou canst not be my spouse,” said he, “thou shalt, at least, be my tree.” Thence-forward the Laurel was sacred to Apollo.
* * * * *
Ambition! ambition! I’ve laughed to scorn Thy robe and thy gleaming sword; I would follow sooner a woman’s eye, Or the spell of a gentle word. But come with the glory of human mind, And the light of the scholar’s brow, And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness, And alone at thy altar bow.
_Willis._
* * * * *
Give me the trumpet tone of fame, The victor’s wreath, the hero’s name; Though bites the steel and clanks the chain, I would a warrior’s glory gain, A nation’s pet and idol be, With slaves to crouch and bend the knee.
_W. H. C._
* * * * *
What is glory? What is fame? The echo of a long-lost name; A breath, an idle hour’s brief talk; The shadow of an arrant naught; A flower that blossoms for a day, Dying next morrow; A stream that hurries on its way, Singing of sorrow.
_Motherwell._
* * * * *
In poet’s lore, and sentimental story, It seems as ’twere this life’s supremest aim For heroes to achieve what men call glory, And die intoxicate with earth’s acclaim. Ah me! how little care the dead for breath Of vain applause that saved them not from death.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
To die, and leave some worthy work to earth, Is but a fine transition. ’Tis to leave A talisman to call the spirit back, Reft of its ground-born tenement.
_C. Watson._
AMARANTH.... _Immortality_.
The Amaranth is unfading; and it has, therefore, been made the emblem of immortality. In Homer’s time, it was customary to wear crowns of Amaranth at the funerals of distinguished personages. Milton, in his Lycidas, classes it among the flowers that “sad embroidery wear.” In the floral games at Toulouse, the principal prize was a golden Amaranth for the best lyric composition. The Amaranthus hypochondriacus, one of the American species, is better known by the name of Prince’s Feather.
* * * * *
There’s a yearning that’s felt in your heart’s deepest cell, And silently, vainly, within doth it swell; And, scorning the hopes of the children of earth, Seeks the bright home of its heavenly birth; And that yearning, unquenched in the heart will lie, Till refreshed by a draught from eternity.
_Miss Larcom._
* * * * *
Oh, listen man! A voice within us speaks that startling word, “Man, thou shalt never die!” Celestial voices Hymn it unto our souls: according harps, By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars Of morning sang together, sound forth still The song of our great immortality.
_Dana._
* * * * *
Immortal Amaranth! a flower which once In paradise, fast by the tree of life Began to bloom; but soon, for man’s offence, To heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows And flowers aloft, shading the tree of life.
_Milton._
* * * * *
There are distinctions that will live in heaven, When time is a forgotten circumstance! The elevated brow of kings will lose The impress of regalia, and the slave Will wear his immortality as free Beside the crystal waters; but the depth Of glory in the attributes of God Will measure the capacities of mind; And, as the angels differ, will the ken Of gifted spirits glorify Him more.
_Willis._
* * * * *
Were death annihilation--were this life A lamp extinguished, ne’er to be relit,-- Then words of deep despondency were fit; Then man perchance might lift his arm in strife Against his LORD. Were blessedness of mind Dependent on the vastness of the heap Of gold and gems the schemers ’mong mankind Could gather--then ’twere virtuous to weep. But ’tis not so. Infinity of time Is yet to be. Beyond our vision lie Eternal realms, ineffably sublime And beautiful.
_MacKellar._
STRAWBERRY.... _Perfection_.
An eminent French author conceived the plan of writing a general history of nature, after the model of the ancients. A Strawberry plant, which, perchance, grew under his window, deterred him from this bold design. He examined the Strawberry, and, in so doing, discovered so many wonders, that he felt convinced the study of a single plant was sufficient to occupy a whole lifetime. He therefore gave up the pompous title which he had meditated for his work, and contented himself with calling it “Studies of Nature.” The flowers of the Strawberry form pretty bouquets; but, as the delicious fruit is preferred to the flower, they are seldom plucked for that purpose. Among the glaciers of the Alps, the plants and flowers of the Strawberry are found in all seasons of the year. The plant seems to possess all the merits of plants, in their greatest perfection. The berries are the favourite accompaniment of the lordly feast and the most exquisite luxury of the rural repast. They vie in freshness and perfume with the buds of the sweetest flowers; delighting the eye, the taste, and smell, at the same time.
* * * * *
Let other bards of angels sing, Bright suns without a spot; But thou art no such perfect thing: Rejoice that thou art not!
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
She’s noble--noble, one to keep Embalmed for dreams of fevered sleep. An eye for nature--taste refined, Perception swift--and balanced mind,-- And, more than all, a gift of thought To such a spirit fineness wrought, That on my ear her language fell As if each word dissolved a spell.
_Willis._
* * * * *
Oh! do not die, for we shall hate All women so when you are gone, That thee I shall not celebrate, When I remember thou wast one. But yet thou canst not die, I know; To leave this world behind is death; But when thou from this world wilt go, The whole world vapours in thy breath.
_Donne._
* * * * *
Were I to give my frolic fancy play, I’d sing of her as some angelic sprite, Who, wandering from her native home of light, Fatigued, had fallen asleep upon the way;-- I’d fear to wake her, lest she’d plume her wings And soar away from me and all sublunar things.
_MacKellar._
SUNFLOWER.... _False Riches_.
The Sunflower has been thus named from the resemblance which its broad golden disk and rays bear to the sun. The first Spaniards who arrived in Peru were amazed at the profuse display of gold among the people, but they were still more astonished when, in May, they beheld whole fields covered with these flowers, which they concluded, at first sight, must be of the same precious metal. From this circumstance, and the observation that gold, however abundant, cannot render a person truly rich, the Sunflower has been made the emblem of false wealth. Many of the English poets have adopted the notion that this flower ever turns its face to the sun. Thomson, Moore, Darwin, and Barton make a very fine use of the idea. But it is not a fact. Those flowers which face the east at the opening of day, never turn to the west at the close of it.
* * * * *
Searcher of gold, whose days and nights All waste away in anxious care, Estranged from all of life’s delights, Unlearned in all that is most fair-- Who sailest not with easy glide, But delvest in the depths of tide, And strugglest in the foam; O! come and view this land of graves, Death’s northern sea of frozen waves, And mark thee out thy home.
_J. O. Rockwell._
* * * * *
Think’st thou the man whose mansions hold The worldling’s pride, the miser’s gold, Obtains a richer prize Than he who in his cot, at rest, Finds heavenly peace a willing guest, And bears the earnest in his breast Of treasure in the skies?
_Mrs. Sigourney._
* * * * *
Is all that heart requires, accomplished when A heap of wealth is gathered at our door? How thirsts the yearning soul for something more, Some good that lies beyond its keenest ken!
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine? Can we dig peace, or wisdom, from the mine? Wisdom to gold prefer: for ’tis much less To make our fortune, than our happiness.
_Young._
* * * * *
It’s no in titles nor in rank; It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank, To purchase peace and rest; It’s no in making muckle mair: It’s no in books: it’s no in lear, To make us truly blest: If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest.
_Burns._
HELIOTROPE.... _Devoted Affection_.
The Heliotrope is a native of Peru. It is often confounded with the Sunflower, though it is of a different genus. The blossoms of the Heliotrope form clusters of very small, delicate, fragrant flowers, generally of a faint purple colour or white, sometimes red, or bluish-white. It is a general favourite of the fair sex, and is considered as the emblem of devoted affection, on account of its face being ever turned to the sun, which it seems to worship. The Heliotrope was introduced into Europe in 1740, by the celebrated Jussieu.
* * * * *
As laurel leaves, that cease not to be green, From parching sonne, nor yet from winter’s threat,-- As hardened oak, that fears no sworde so keen,-- As flint for tool, in twaine that will not fret,-- As fast as rock, or pillar surely set,-- So fast am I to you, and aye have been, Assuredly whom I cannot forget; For joy, for paine, for torment, nor for tene; For loss, for gaine, for frowning, nor for threat; For ever one, yea, both in calm and blast, Your faithful love, and will be to the last!
_Old Poet. 1555._
* * * * *
Yet do not think I doubt thee; I know thy truth remains; I would not live without thee, For all the world contains. Thou art the star that guides me Along life’s troubled sea;-- Whatever fate betides me, This heart still turns to thee.
_G. P. Morris._
* * * * *
He on his side Leaning half-raised, with looks of cordial love Hung over her enamoured, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
_Milton._
* * * * *
Like Ixion, I look on Juno, feel my heart turn to cinders With an invisible fire; and yet, should she Deign to appear clothed in a various cloud, The majesty of the substance is so sacred I durst not clasp the shadow. I behold her With adoration, feast my eye, while all My other senses starve; and, oft frequenting The place which she makes happy with her presence, I never yet had power, with tongue or pen, To move her to compassion, or make known What ’tis I languish for; yet I must gaze still, Though it increase my flame.
_Massinger._
MIGNONETTE.... _Your Qualities surpass your Charms_.
The Mignonette was introduced into Europe from Egypt, in 1750. It flowers from the beginning of spring until the end of autumn. Linnæus, who gave it the name of _Reseda odorata_, compares its perfume with that of ambrosia.
* * * * *
No gorgeous flowers the meek Reseda grace, Yet sip, with eager trunk, yon busy race Her simple cup, nor heed the dazzling gem That beams in Fritillaria’s diadem.
_Evans._
* * * * *
I see her now within my view,-- A spirit, yet a woman too!-- Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which do meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature’s daily food.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
Time has small power O’er features the mind moulds. Roses where They once have bloomed a fragrance leave behind; And harmony will linger on the wind; And suns continue to light up the air,
[Illustration: MIGNIONETTE, PINK, PINK BUD.