Part 6
_Your qualities surpassing your charms, have drawn from me a confession of pure love._]
When set; and music from the broken shrine Breathes, it is said, around whose altar-stone His flower the votary has ceased to twine:--Types of the beauty that, when youth is gone, Breathes from the soul whose brightness mocks decline.
_George Hill._
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Rudely thou wrongest my deare heart’s desire, In finding fault with her too portly pride; The thing which I do most in her admire, Is of the world unworthy most envied. For in those lofty looks is close implied Scorn of base things,--disdain of foul dishonour, Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide That loosely they ne dare to look upon her!
_Spenser._
JASMINE.... _Amiability_.
The Jasmine is a happy emblem of an amiable disposition. In all situations, it suffers the gardener to train its slender branches into any form he chooses: most commonly forming a living tapestry for arbours and garden walls, and everywhere throwing out a profusion of delicate and charming flowers, which perfume the air. The poets have showered their praise upon this plant, and all unite in considering it the emblem of the winsome quality of amiability. After paying a glowing tribute to the beauty and sweetness of the Violet, Thomas Miller, the “basket-maker” poet, thus speaks of the Jasmine:--
Stepping further into summer, comes the star-white Jasmine,--that sweet perfumer of the night, which only throws out its full fragrance when its sister stars are keeping watch in the sky; as if, when the song of the nightingale no longer cheered the darkness, it sent forth its silent aroma upon the listening air. Many a happy home does it garland, and peeps in at many a forbidden lattice, where Love and Beauty repose. Little did the proud courtiers and stately dames of Queen Elizabeth’s day dream that this sweet-scented creeper (a sprig of which seemed to make the haughty haughtier still) would one day become so common as to cluster around and embower thousands of humble English cottages,--a degradation which, could they but have witnessed, would almost have made every plait of their starched ruffs bristle up, like “quills upon the fretful porcupine.” Beautiful are its long, drooping, dark-green shoots, trailing around the trellis-work of a door-way, like a green curtain embroidered with silver flowers; while here and there the queenly Moss-Rose, creeping in and out like the threads of a fanciful tapestry, its crimson face amid the embowered green,--a beautiful lady peeping through a leaf-clad casement.
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A lover on the Indian Sea, Sighing for her left far behind, Inhaled the scented Jasmine tree, As it perfumed the evening wind: Shoreward he steered at dawn of day, And saw the coast all round embowered, And brought a starry sprig away, For her by whose green cot it flowered.
And oft when from that scorching shore, In after years those odours came, He pictured his green cottage door, The shady porch, and window-frame, Far, far away, across the foam: The very Jasmine-flower that crept Round the thatched roof about his home, Where she he loved then safely slept.
_Miller._
WOODBINE, OR HONEYSUCKLE.... _Affection_.
This elegant, climbing shrub at once delights the eye and gratifies the smell, by the exquisite fragrance of its blossoms; while it confers on those humble dwellings in the rural districts of England and America, a character of cheerfulness unknown in other countries. It begins to flower in May, and puts forth its blossoms until the end of summer. It is chosen as the emblem of affection, from its clinging to trees and lattices with all the ardour and constancy of a weak, confiding woman, clinging to one of the stronger, sterner sex, in prosperity and in adversity.
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Copious of flowers, the woodbine pale and wan, But well compensating her sickly looks With never-cloying odours, early and late.
_Cowper._
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Sister, sister, what dost thou twine? I am weaving a wreath of the wild Woodbine; I have streaked it without like the sunset hue, And silvered it white with the morning dew: And there is not a perfume which on the breeze blows From the lips of the Pink or the mouth of the Rose, That’s sweeter than mine--that’s sweeter than mine: I have mingled them all in my wild Woodbine.
_Miller._
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A Honeysuckle, on the sunny side, Hung round the lattices its fragrant trumpets.
_Miss Landon._
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Ah! could you look into my heart, And watch your image there! You would own the sunny loveliness Affection makes it wear.
_Mrs. Osgood._
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The pensive soul with ardent thirsting turns To heaven and earth to seek its fill of love.
_MacKellar._
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Oh! there is one affection which no stain Of earth can ever darken;--when two find, The softer and the manlier, that a chain Of kindred taste has fastened mind to mind. ’Tis an attraction from all sense refined; The good can only know it; ’tis not blind, As love is unto baseness; its desire Is but with hands entwined to lift our being higher.
_Percival._
COWSLIP.... _Pensiveness_.
The solitary Cowslip was known to the old English poets as the “sweet nun of the fields,” and has been immortalized in “Shakspeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.” In America, the Cowslip may be found from Maine to Missouri. Its hues are not gaudy, but winning; and the whole appearance of the flower, as it blooms in some solitary vale, or on some gentle slope, expresses the idea of pensive beauty.
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The rose its blushes need not lend, Nor yet the lily with them blend, To captivate my eyes: Give me a cheek the heart obeys, And, sweetly mutable, displays Its feelings as they rise; Features, where pensive, more than gay, Save when a rising smile doth play, The sober thoughts you see; Eyes that all soft and tender seem, And kind affections round them beam, But most of all on me.
_Frisbie._
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There is a mood, (I sing not to the vacant and the young,) There is a kindly mood of melancholy That wings the soul, and points her to the skies.
_Dyer._
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Oh! fragrant dwellers of the lea, When first the wildwood rings With each sound of vernal minstrelsy, When fresh the green grass springs! What can the blessed spring restore More gladdening than your charms? Bringing the memory once more Of lovely fields and farms! Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers; Of life’s unfolding prime; Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours; Of souls without a crime. Oh! blessed, blessed do ye seem, For, even now, I turned, With soul athirst for wood and stream, From streets that glared and burned. From the hot town, where mortal care His crowded fold doth pen; Where stagnates the polluted air In many a sultry den. And ye are here! and ye are here! Drinking the dew-like wine, Midst living gales and waters clear, And heaven’s unstinted shine. I care not that your little life Will quickly have run through, And the sward, with summer children rife, Keep not a trace of you. For again, again, on dewy plain, I trust to see you rise, When spring renews the wildwood strain, And bluer gleam the skies. Again, again, when many springs Upon my grave shall shine, Here shall you speak of vanished things, To living hearts of mine.
_Mrs. Howitt._
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Blest are the pure and simple hearts, Unconsciously refined, By the free gifts that Heaven imparts Through nature to the mind; Not all the pleasures wealth can buy Equal their happy destiny.
_Mrs. Wells._
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O Nature! a’ thy shows an’ forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the simmer kindly warms, Wi’ life an’ light. Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night!
_Burns._
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Melancholy Sits on me, as a cloud along the sky, Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet Descend in rain, and end; but spreads itself ’Twixt heaven and earth, like envy between man And man--an everlasting mist.
_Byron._
FORGET-ME-NOT.
The name of this flower expresses clearly enough the meaning which is given to it. As a remembrancer it is universally received and eulogized. The name is derived from a German tradition, full of melancholy romance. It is related that a young couple, on the eve of being united, while walking along the banks of the Danube, saw a cluster of these flowers, floating on the stream, which was bearing it away. The affianced bride admired the beauty of the flower, and lamented its fatal destiny. The lover plunged into the water to secure it. No sooner had he caught it than he found himself sinking; but, making a last effort, he threw it on the bank at the feet of his betrothed, and, at the moment of disappearing for ever, exclaimed, “_Vergiss mein nicht!_” Since that event, this flower has been made emblematical of the sentiment, Forget-me-not. Its corollas are of a soft cerulean-blue colour, and it presents an interesting appearance as it grows along the banks of the rivers. The Forget-me-not is found in great perfection on the banks of a small stream near Luxembourg, in France. The stream is called the Fairies’ Bath, and its banks are the favourite resort of festive
## parties.
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That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Hope’s gentle gem--the fair Forget-me-not.
_Coleridge._
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Not on the mountain’s shelving side, Nor in the cultivated ground, Nor in the garden’s painted pride, The flower I seek is found. Where Time on sorrow’s page of gloom Has fixed its envious lot, Or swept the record from the tomb, It says Forget me not. And this is still the loveliest flower, The fairest of the fair, Of all that deck my lady’s bower, Or bind her floating hair.
_Göthe._
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Together they sate by a river’s side, A knight and a lady gay, And they watched the deep and eddying tide Round a flowery islet stray. And, “Oh! for that flower of brilliant hue,” Said then the lady fair, “To grace my neck with the blossoms blue And braid my nut-brown hair!” The knight has plunged in the whirling wave All for his lady’s smile: And he swims the stream with courage brave, And he gains yon flowery isle. And his fingers have cropped the blossoms blue, And the prize they backward bear; To deck his love with the brilliant hue And braid her nut-brown hair. But the way is long, and the current strong, And alas for that gallant knight! For the waves prevail, and his stout arms fail, Though cheered by his lady’s sight. Then the blossoms blue to the bank he threw, Ere he sank in the eddying tide; And “Lady, I’m gone, thine own knight true, Forget me not,” he cried. This farewell pledge the lady caught; And hence, as legends say, The flower is a sign to awaken thought In friends who are far away. For the lady fair of her knight so true, Still remembered the hapless lot: And she cherished the flower of brilliant hue, And she braided her hair with the blossoms blue And then called it “Forget-me-not!”
_Mant._
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To flourish in my favourite bower, To blossom round my cot, I cultivate the little flower They call Forget-me-not. This pretty little floweret’s dye Of soft cerulean blue, Appears as if from Ellen’s eye It had received its hue. Though oceans now betwixt us roar, Though distant be our lot, Ellen! though we should meet no more, Sweet maid, Forget me not!
_Anon._
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Forget thee, love?--no, not while heaven Spans its starred vault across the sky; Oh, may I never be forgiven, If e’er I cause that heart a sigh! Sooner shall the Forget-me-not Shun the fringed brook by which it grows, And pine for some sequestered spot, Where not a silver ripple flows. By the blue heaven that bends above me, Dearly and fondly do I love thee! They fabled not in days of old That Love neglected soon will perish,-- Throughout all time the truth doth hold That what we love we ever cherish, For when the Sun neglects the Flower, And the sweet pearly dews forsake it, It hangs its head, and from that hour, Prays only unto Death to take it. So may I droop, by all above me, If once this heart doth cease to love thee! The turtle-dove that’s lost its mate, Hides in some gloomy greenwood shade, And there alone mourns o’er its fate, With plumes for ever disarrayed: Alone! alone! it there sits cooing:-- Deem’st thou, my love, what it doth seek? ’Tis Death the mournful bird is wooing, In murmurs through its plaintive beak. So will I mourn, by all above me, If in this world I cease to love thee!
_Miller._
ROSEMARY.... _Remembrance_.
The Rosemary is so often mentioned by our early writers, both in prose, poetry, and our oldest dramas, that a long article, possessing great interest to such as love old-fashioned things, might be written upon it. The Rosemary was used both at their feasts and their funerals,--the christening-cup was stirred with it, and it was worn at their marriage ceremonies. Shakspeare has chosen it for the emblem of Remembrance, and who would attempt to change the meaning of a flower which his genius has hallowed, or disturb a leaf over which he has breathed his holy “superstition?”--in memory of him we use the latter word in all reverence. A few years ago it was customary, in many parts of England, to plant slips of Rosemary over the dead; nor has the practice yet fallen altogether into disuse--rural cemeteries will revive these ancient customs. Shakspeare chose the Rosemary as the emblem of affectionate remembrance, for its flowering in winter,--a very poetic and touching allusion. The sweet maniac, Ophelia, says,
There’s Rosemary, “That for remembrance, I pray you love, remember.”
I loved thee, and must love thee still, In memory of the past Amid whate’er of earthly ill My future lot is cast! E’er in my boyhood’s sunny prime, When brightly from the urn of Time Life’s golden moments fell, Thou wert a peri to my eyes, Sent from Love’s own sweet paradise, In my young heart to dwell.
_New York Mirror._
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Remember me, I pray; but not In Flora’s gay and blooming hour, When every brake hath found its note, And sunshine smiles in every flower; But when the falling leaf is sere, And withers sadly from the tree, And o’er the ruins of the year Cold autumn weeps,--remember me.
_Edward Everett._
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The north wind howls; but, sheltered safe, and warm, Howl as it may, we feel secure from danger: The fire burns blue, “betokening a storm”-- A brand falls down, “precursor of a stranger.” My thoughtful mind runs o’er the track of years, When, tongs in hand, at our old hearth I sat, And poked the embers, till my mother’s fears Broke in upon the usual social chat, “You’ll fire the chimney, son!” The sparks would fly, Like little lumps of lightning up the flue, And snap and crackle as they soared on high, As if they felt some pleasure in it too! That fire is out--that hearth is cold--and they Who felt its pleasant warmth have mostly passed away.
_MacKellar._
ANEMONE.... _Forsaken_.
Anemone was a nymph, beloved by Zephyr. Flora, jealous of her, banished her from her court and transformed her into a flower, that blows before the return of spring. Zephyr has abandoned this unhappy beauty to the rude caresses of Boreas, who, unable to gain her love, harshly shakes her, half opens her blossoms, and causes her immediately to fade. An Anemone, with these words, _Brevis est usus_--“Her reign is short”--is touchingly expressive of the transitory nature of beauty.
In spring the green woods of merry England are covered with the flowers of the Anemone. Turn the eye whichever way you will, there it greets you like “a pleasant thought;” it forms a bed of flowers around the foot of the mighty oak, and below the tangling brambles, which you may peep between, but cannot pass,--there, also, are its pearly blossoms bending. The Greeks named it the flower of the Wind, and so plentiful is it in our country that we might fancy the breeze had blown it everywhere. The gaudy Anemone of the garden, the emblem of forsaken love, is known to all; but our favourites are the uncultivated offspring of the windy woods, which come long before the broad green leaves hang overhead to shelter them.
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All flowers will droop in absence of the sun That waked their sweets.
_Dryden._
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Farewell! I’ve loved thee much!--I feel That my idolatry was deep; I know my heart can never heal, Till in the grave my passions sleep. Yet I upbraid thee not, my love; ’Twas all I had to offer thee, Love in its own simplicity. How could I deem thou wouldst approve? How hope to draw an angel from above?
_Willis._
ACACIA.... _Friendship_.
The Acacia is a native of North America, from Canada to the Carolinas, and was consecrated by the Indians to the goddess of chaste love. Their bows were made of the incorruptible wood of this tree, and their arrows were pointed with its thorns. About a century ago, this tree was introduced into France by Robin, the botanist. It is a large, handsome tree, of quick growth, elegant foliage, and beautiful, rose-coloured blossoms.
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Celestial happiness! Whene’er she stoops To visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds, And one alone, to make her sweet amends For absent heaven--the bosom of a friend, Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft, Each other’s pillow to repose divine.
_Young._
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The friend Who smiles when smoothing down the lonely couch, And does kind deeds, which any one can do Who has a feeling spirit,--such a friend Heals with a searching balsam.
_Percival._
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Lay this into your breast: Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.
_Webster._
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O summer friendship, Whose flattering leaves, that shadowed us in Our prosperity, with the least gust drop off In the autumn of adversity!
_Massinger._
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When thou art near, The sweetest joys still sweeter seem, The brightest hopes more bright appear, And life is all one happy dream, When thou art near.
_Robert Sweney._
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That friendship’s raised on sand, Which every sudden gust of discontent, Or flowing of our passions, can change As if it ne’er had been.
_Massinger._
MOSS.... _Maternal Love_.
Moss is selected to be the emblem of maternal love, because, like that love, it glads the heart when the winter of adversity overtakes us, and when summer friends have deserted us. Rousseau, so long the prey of his own passions, and tormented by those of other men, soothed the latter years of his life by the study of nature. The Mosses, in particular, attracted his attention. It is these, he would say, that give a look of youth and freshness to the fields, at the moment when the flowers have gone to their graves. In winter the Mosses offer to the eye of the lover of nature their carpet of emerald green, their secret nuptials, and the charming mysteries of the urns and amphoræ which enclose their posterity. It is asserted that without the Mosses, part of our globe would be uninhabitable. At the northern extremity of the earth, the Laplanders cover their subterranean abodes with Moss, and thus defy the longest and most terrible winters. Their numerous herds of reindeer have no other food, yet they supply their owners with delicious milk, nutritious flesh, and warm clothing; thus combining for the poor Laplander all the advantages that we derive from the horse, cow, and sheep.
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There is none In all this cold and hollow world, no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mother’s heart.
_Mrs. Hemans._
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