VIII.

=The Garland.=

Among the pieces in the following group will be found some old verses of Gawain Douglas, bishop of Dunkeld. This ancient Scottish poet and Church dignitary was a son of the famous Archibald, earl of Argus, surnamed Bell-the-Cat, from his share in one of the peculiar conspiracies of that strange period—a conspiracy which resulted in hanging a number of the royal favorites of James III., chiefly architects and musicians, ennobled by that prince. James was in this respect too liberal in his tastes to please the fierce old barons surrounding his throne, though doubtless his favor was often weakly lavished upon those in whose society he took pleasure. But one would hardly have expected to find the leader of such a conspiracy the father of a distinguished poet; such, however, was the fact. Bishop Gawain was a great clerk in his day. He wrote a metrical version of the Æneid in the Scottish dialect, and many lesser poetical works, admitted to possess

great merit. Sir Walter Scott has introduced both father and son in Marmion. He makes old Bell-the-Cat appear in his true character:

“A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed! Did ever knight so foul a deed! At first in heart it liked me ill, When the king praised his clerkly skill. Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, Save Gawain, ne’er could pen a line; So swore I, and I swear it still— Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.” _Canto VI._

And in another passage we have the poet-bishop himself:

“Amid that dim and smoky light, Checkering the silver moonshine bright— A bishop by the altar stood, A noble lord of Douglas’ blood. With mitre sheen, and rocquet white. Yet show’d his meek and thoughtful eye, But little pride of prelacy; More pleased that in a barbarous age He gave rude Scotland Virgil’s page, Than that beneath his rule he held The bishopric of fair Dunkeld.” _Canto VI._

Bishop Gawain was compelled by the troubles in Scotland to flee from his native country, and to take refuge at the court of Henry VIII., where he lived for years an honored exile, dying in 1522, at London, of the plague. He was born in 1474. Each canto of his translation of Virgil was preceded by an original prologue; the address to Spring—whence the extract on flowers is taken—is one of the most pleasing of these, and forms his introduction to the 12th Canto of the Æneid. Far from regretting the Scotticisms of his style, the bishop only mourned that his verses were still so English in their aspect: a defect which will not be likely to strike the modern reader. But in spite of the obsolete words and rugged style, the touch of a poetical spirit, and something of the freshness of the natural blossoms still lingers about Bishop Gawain’s Spring chaplet.

FLOWERS.

Through their beauty, and variety of coloure, and exquisite forme, they do bringe to a liberal and gentle minde the remembrance of honestie, comelinesse, and all kinds of virtues; for it would be an unseemly thing (as a certain wise man saith) for him that doth look upon and handle faire and beautiful things, and who frequenteth and is conversant in faire and beautiful places, to have his minde not faire also.

JOHN GERARDE, 1545–1607.

SPRING-FLOWERS.

And blissful blossoms in the bloomed sward, Submit their heads in the young sun’s safeguard; Ivy-leaves rank o’erspread the barkmekyn wall; The bloomed hawthorn clad his pykis all Forth of fresh burgeons; the wine-grapis ying, Endlong the twistis did on trestles hing. The locked buttons on the gummed trees, O’erspreadant leaves of nature’s tapestries; Soft, grassy verdure, after balmy showers, On curland stalkis smiland to their flowers, Beholdant them so maine devirs hue: Some pers, some pale, some burnet, and some blue; Some gray, some gules, some purpure, some sanguene, Blanchet, or brown, fauch-colour many one— Some heavenly-coloured in celestial gré, Some watery-hued, as the haw-waly sea; And some depeint in freckles red and white; Some bright as gold, with aureate levis lite. The daisie did unbraid her crownal small, And every flower unlapped in the dale. The flower-de-luce forth spread out his heavenly hue, Flower-damas, and columbo black and blue, Sere downis smale on dandelion sprung, The young green-bloomed strawberry leaves among; Gimp gilliflowers their own leaves unshet Fresh primrose, and the purpure violet. The rose-knobbis tetand forth their heads. Gen chip and kyth their vernal lippis red, Crisp scarlet leaves sheddant baith at aines, Cast fragrant smell amid from golden grains. Heavenly lilies with lockerand toppis white Opened, and shew their crestis redemite, The balmy vapour from their silver croppis Distilland wholesome sugared honey-droppis, So that ilke burgeon, scion, herb, or flower Wose all embalmed of the sweet liquore And bathed did in dulce humoures flete Whereof the beeis wrought their honey sweet. GAWAIN DOUGLAS, _Bishop of Dunkeld_.

[Illustration: [Pastoral Scene]]

_Barmekyn_, barbican; _pers_, light blue; _burnet_, brownish; _gules_, scarlet; _fauch-colour_, fawn; _celestial gre_, sky-blue; _haw-waly_, dark-waved; _lite_, little; _flower-damas_, damask rose; _rose-knobbis tetand_, rose-buds peeping; _kyth_, show; _locherand_, curling; _redemite_, crowned; _croppis_, heads.

ARRANGEMENTS OF A BOUQUET.

Here damask roses, white and red, Out of my lap first take I, Which still shall run along the thread My chiefest flower this make I.

Among these roses in a row, Next place I pinks in plenty, These double pansies then for show, And will not this be dainty?

The pretty pansy then I’ll tie Like stones some chain enchasing; And next to them, their near ally, The purple violet placing.

The curious choice clove July flower, Whose kind hight the carnation, For sweetness of most sovereign power, Shall help my wreath to fashion;

Whose sundry colors of one kind, First from one root derived, Them in their several suits I’ll bind: My garland so contrived.

A course of cowslips then I’ll stick, And here and there (so sparely) The pleasant primrose down I’ll prick, Like pearls that will show rarely;

Then with these marigolds I’ll make My garland somewhat swelling, These honeysuckles then I’ll take, Whose sweets shall help their smelling.

The lily and the fleur-de-lis, For color much contending, For that I them do only prize, They are but poor in scenting;

The daffodil most dainty is, To match with these in meetness; The columbine compared to this, All much alike for sweetness.

These in their natures only are Fit to emboss the border, Therefore I’ll take especial care To place them in their order:

Sweet-williams, campions, sops-in-wine, One by another neatly: Thus have I made this wreath of mine, And finished it featly. MICHAEL DRAYTON, 1563–1631.

HEART’S-EASE.

* * * * * * * I saw, Flying between the cold moon and the earth, Cupid all arm’d; a certain aim he took At a fair vestal throned in the west. And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft Quench’d in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon. And the imperial vot’ress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness. The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid, Will make a man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. W. SHAKSPEARE, 1564–1616.

THE GARLAND.

The pride of every grove I chose, The violet sweet, the lily fair, The dappled pink and blushing rose, To deck my charming Chloe’s hair.

At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place Upon her brow the various wreath; The flowers less blooming than her face, The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flowers she wore along the day; And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look’d more gay Than glowing in their native bed.

Undress’d at evening, when she found Their odors lost, their colors past, She changed her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropp’d sense distinct and clear, As any Muse’s tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well, “My love, my life,” said I, “explain This change of humor; pr’ythee tell: That falling tear—what does it mean?”

She sigh’d; she smiled: and to the flowers Pointing, the lovely moralist said— “See, friend, in some few fleeting hours, See yonder, what a change is made!”

Ah me! the blooming pride of May, And that of beauty, are but one: At morn both flourish bright and gay; Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.

At dawn poor Stella danced and sung, The amorous youth around her bow’d: At night her fatal knell was rung; I saw and kiss’d her in her shroud.

Such as she is, who died to-day, Such I, alas! may be to-morrow; Go, Damon, bid the Muse display The justice of thy Chloe’s sorrow. MATTHEW PRIOR, 1664–1721.

TO PRIMROSES

FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teem’d her refreshing dew! Alas! ye have not known that shower That mars a flower; Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years; Or warp’d as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no; this sorrow shown, By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read: That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth. ROBERT HERRICK, 1591.

TO THE NARCISSUS.

Arise, and speak thy sorrows, Echo, rise; Here, by this fountain, where thy love did pine, Whose memory lives fresh to vulgar fame, Shrined in this yellow flower, that bears his name.

ECHO.

His name revives, and lifts me up from earth; See, see the mourning fount, whose springs weep yet Th’ untimely fate of that too beauteous boy, That trophy of self-love, and spoil of nature, Who (now transform’d into this drooping flower) Hangs the repentant head back from the stream; As if it wish’d—would I had never look’d In such a flattering mirror! O, Narcissus! Thou that wast once (and yet art) my Narcissus, Had Echo but been private with thy thoughts, She would have dropped away herself in tears Till she had all turn’d waste, that in her (As in a true glass) thou might’st have gazed, And seen thy beauties by more kind reflection. But self-love never yet could look on truth But with blear’d beams; slick flattery and she Are twin-born sisters, and do mix their eyes, As if you sever one, the other dies. Why did the gods give thee a heavenly form, And earthly thoughts to make thee proud of it? Why do I ask? ’Tis now the known disease That beauty hath, to bear too deep a sense Of her own self-conceived excellence. O hadst thou known the worth of Heaven’s rich gift, Thou wouldst have turn’d it to a truer use, And not (with starved and covetous ignorance) Pined in continual eyeing that bright gem, The glance whereof to others had been more Than to thy famish’d mind the wide world’s store. BEN JONSON, 1574–1637.

THE ROSE.

Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that’s young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; And teach the maid That goodness Time’s rude hand defies; That virtue lives when beauty dies. EDMUND WALLER, 1605–1687.

ANCIENT SERVIAN SONG.

O my fountain, so fresh and cool, O my rose, so rosy red! Why art thou blown out so early? None have I to pluck thee for! If I plucked thee for my mother— Ah, poor girl, I have no mother. If I plucked thee for my sister— Gone is my sister with her husband.

If I plucked thee for my brother— To the war my brother’s gone. If I plucked thee for my lover— Gone 's my lover far away! Far away, o’er three green mountains, Far away, o’er three cool fountains! _Translated by_ TALVI.

TO BLOSSOMS.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile, To blush and gently smile, And go at last.

What were ye born to be, An hour or half’s delight, And so to bid good-night? ’Twas pity nature brought ye forth, Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne’er so brave; And after they have shown their pride, Like you awhile they glide, Into the grave. ROBERT HERRICK, 1591.

CHILDREN’S POSIES.

FROM “JOURNAL OF A NATURALIST.”

The amusements and fancies of children, when connected with flowers, are always pleasing, being generally the conceptions of innocent minds unbiased by artifice or pretense; and their love of them seems to spring from a genuine feeling and admiration—a kind of sympathy with objects as fair as their own untainted minds; and I think it is early flowers which constitute their first natural playthings; though summer presents a greater number and variety, they are not so fondly selected. We have our daisies strung and wreathed about our dress; our coronals of orchises and primroses, our cowslip balls, etc.; and one

application of flowers at this season I have noticed, which, though perhaps it is local, yet it has a remarkably pretty effect, forming, for the time, one of the gayest little shrubs that can be seen. A small branch or long spray of the whitethorn, with all its spines uninjured, is selected; and on these, its alternate thorns, a white and blue violet, plucked from their stalks, are stuck upright in succession, until the thorns are covered, and when placed in a flower-pot of moss, it has perfectly the appearance of a beautiful vernal flowering dwarf shrub, and as long as it remains fresh is an object of surprise and delight.

J. L. KNAPP.

LOVE’S WREATH.

When Love was a child, and went idling round Among flowers the whole summer’s day, One morn in the valley a bower he found, So sweet, it allured him to stay.

O’erhead from the trees hung a garland fair, A fountain ran darkly beneath; ’Twas Pleasure that hung the bright flowers up there, Love knew it and jump’d at the wreath.

But Love did not know—and at his weak years, What urchin was likely to know?— That sorrow had made of her own salt tears, That fountain which murmur’d below.

He caught at the wreath, but with too much haste, As boys when impatient will do; It fell in those waters of briny taste, And the flowers were all wet through.

Yet this is the wreath he wears night and day; And though it all sunny appears With Pleasure’s own luster, each leaf, they say, Still tastes of the fountain of tears. THOMAS MOORE.

TO DAFFODILS.

Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet, the early-rising sun Has not attain’d its noon.

Stay, stay, Until the hastening day Has run But to the even song; And having pray’d together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer’s rain, Or as the pearls of morning’s dew, Ne’er to be found again. ROBERT HERRICK, 1591.

THE LILY.

The stream with languid murmur creeps In Lumin’s flow’ry vale: Beneath the dew the lily weeps, Slow waving to the gale.

“Cease, restless gale!” it seems to say, “Nor wake me with thy sighing; The honors of my vernal day On rapid wings are flying.

“To-morrow shall the traveler come Who late beheld me blooming; His searching eye shall vainly roam The dreary vale of Lumin.” SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

WILD FLOWERS.

I stood tiptoe upon a little hill; The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Fell droopingly in slanting curve aside, Their scanty-leaved and finely tapering stems Had not yet lost their starry diadems,

Caught from the early sobbings of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn. And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; For not the faintest motion could be seen Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green. There was wide wandering for the greediest eye, To peer about upon variety; Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim, And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; To picture out the quaint and curious bending Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending: Or by the bowery clefts and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free As though the fanning wings of Mercury Had play’d upon my heels: I was light-hearted, And many pleasures to my vision started; So I straightway began to pluck a posy Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy. A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them; Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them; And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. A filbert-edge with wild-brier overtwined, And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind Upon their summer thrones; there too should be The frequent checker of a youngling tree, That with a score of bright-green brethren shoots From the quaint mossiness of aged roots: Round which is heard a spring head of clear waters. Prattling so wildly of its lovely daughters, The spreading blue-bells: it may haply mourn That such fair clusters should be rudely torn From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly By infant hands left on the path to die. Open afresh your round of starry folds, Ye ardent marigolds! Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, For great Apollo bids That in these days your praises should be sung

On many harps, which he has lately strung; And when again your dewiness he kisses, Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses: So haply when I rove in some far vale, His mighty voice may come upon the gale. Here are sweet-peas, on tiptoe for a flight, With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings. What next? a turf of evening primroses, O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes; O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that ’tis ever startled by the leap Of buds into ripe flowers. JOHN KEATS.

TO THE SWEET-BRIER.

Our sweet autumnal western-scented wind Robs of its odor none so sweet a flower, In all the blooming waste it left behind, As that sweet-brier yields it; and the shower Wets not a rose that buds in beauty’s bower One half so lovely; yet it grows along The poor girl’s pathway; by the poor man’s door. Such are the simple folks it dwells among; And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.

I love it, for it takes its untouch’d stand Not in the vase that sculptors decorate; Its sweetness all is of my native land; And e’en its fragrant leaf has not its mate Among the perfumes which the rich and great Bring from the odors of the spicy East. You love your flowers and plants, and will you hate The little four-leaved rose that I love best, That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest? J. G. C. BRAINARD.

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE.

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, Hid in this silent, dull retreat, Untouch’d thy honeyed blossoms blow, Unseen thy little branches greet: No roving foot shall crush thee here, No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature’s self in white array’d, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, And planted here the guardian shade, And sent soft waters murmuring by; Thus quietly thy summer goes, Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms that must decay, I grieve to see your future doom; They died—nor were those flowers more gay The flowers that did in Eden bloom; Unpitying frosts and Autumn’s power Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews At first thy little being came: If nothing once, you nothing lose, Or when you die you are the same; The space between is but an hour— The frail duration of a flower. PHILIP FRENEAU, 1752–1832.

WILD FLOWERS.

I dreamed that, as I wander’d by the way, Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring, And gentle odors led my steps astray, Mix’d with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kiss’d it and then fled, as thou mightest in a dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearl’d Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets Its mother’s face with heaven-collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cowbind and the moonlight-color’d May, And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Was the bright dew yet drain’d not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray, And flowers azure, black, and streak’d with gold; Fairer than any waken’d eyes behold.

And nearer to the river’s trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, And starry river buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues which in their natural bowers Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprison’d children of the hours Within my hand—and then, elate and gay, I hasten’d to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it!—oh, to whom? P. B. SHELLEY.

BEAU AND THE LILY.

“I must tell you a feat of my dog Beau. Walking by the river side, I observed some water-lilies floating at a little distance from the bank. They are a large white flower, with an orange-colored eye, very beautiful. I had a desire to gather one, and, having your long cane in my hand, by the help of it endeavored to bring one of them within my reach. But the attempt proved vain, and I walked forward. Beau had all the while observed me very attentively. Returning soon after toward the same place, I observed him plunge into the river, while I was

about forty yards distant from him; and, when I had nearly reached the spot, he swam to land, with a lily in his mouth, which he came and laid at my feet.”

W. COWPER _to Lady Hesketh, June 27th, 1788_.

FLOWERS.

We are the sweet flowers, Born of sunny showers, (Think, whene’er you see us, what our beauty saith;) Utterance, mute and bright, Of some unknown delight, We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath: All who see us love us— We befit all places: Unto sorrow we give smiles—and unto graces, races

Mark our ways, how noiseless All, and sweetly voiceless, Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage clear; Not a whisper tells Where our small seed dwells, Nor is known the moment green, when our tips appear. We thread the earth in silence, In silence build our bowers— And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers.

The dear lumpish baby, Humming with the May-bee, Hails us with his bright star, stumbling through the grass; The honey-dropping moon, On a night in June, Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass. Age, the wither’d clinger, On us mutely gazes, And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood’s daisies.

See (and scorn all duller Taste) how heav’n loves color; How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green; What sweet thoughts she thinks Of violets and pinks, And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen: See her whitest lilies Chill the silver showers, And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman of her flowers.

Uselessness divinest, Of a use the finest, Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use; Travelers, weary eyed, Bless us, far and wide; Unto sick and prison’d thoughts we give sudden truce: Not a poor town window Loves its sickliest planting, But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian vaunting.

Sagest yet the uses, Mix’d with our sweet juices, Whether man or May-fly, profit of the balm, As fair fingers heal’d Knights from the olden field We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm. Ev’n the terror, poison, Hath its plea for blooming; Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.

And oh! our sweet soul-taker, That thief, the honey maker, What a house hath he, by the thymy glen! In his talking rooms How the feasting fumes, Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men! The butterflies come aping Those fine thieves of ours, And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers.

See those tops, how beauteous! What fair service duteous Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine Elfin court ’twould seem; And taught, perchance, that dream Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights divine. To expound such wonder Human speech avails not; Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not.

Think of all these treasures, Matchless works and pleasures, Every one a marvel, more than thought can say; Then think in what bright showers We thicken fields and bowers, And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May:

Think of the mossy forests By the bee-birds haunted, And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as enchanted.

Trees themselves are ours; Fruits are born of flowers; Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the spring; The lusty bee knows well The news, and comes pell-mell, And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome antheming. Beneath the very burden Of planet-pressing ocean, We wash our smiling cheeks in peace—a thought for meek devotion.

Tears of Phœbus—missings Of Cytherea’s kissings, Have in us been found, and wise men find them still; Drooping grace unfurls Still Hyacinthus’ curls, And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill: Thy red lip, Adonis, Still is wet with morning; And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy brier adorning.

O! true things are fables, Fit for sagest tables, And the flowers are true things—yet no fables they; Fables were not more Bright, nor loved of yore— Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old pathway: Grossest hand can test us; Fools may prize us never: Yet we rise, and rise, and rise—marvels sweet for ever.

Who shall say, that flowers Dress not heaven’s own bowers? Who its love, without us, can fancy—or sweet floor? Who shall even dare To say, we sprang not there— And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heaven the more? O! pray believe that angels From those blue dominions, Brought us in their white laps down, ’twixt their golden pinions. LEIGH HUNT.

ALPINE FLOWERS.

Meek dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs! With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, Whence are ye? Did some white-winged messenger On mercy’s missions trust your timid germ To the cold cradle of eternal snows? Or, breathing on the callous icicles, Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye? —Tree nor shrub Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand, Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb’d ice, And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him Who bids you bloom unblanch’d amid the waste Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils O’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge Of yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plunge Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, And marks ye in your placid loveliness— Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his still hands, Blesses your pencil’d beauty. 'Mid the pomp Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing’d gale And freer breathes of heaven. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.

Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, Wild bramble of the brake! So, put thou forth thy small white rose; I love it for his sake. Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow O’er all the fragrant bowers, Thou need’st not be ashamed to show Thy satin-threaded flowers; For dull the eye, the heart is dull That can not feel how fair, Amid all beauty, beautiful Thy tender blossoms are!

How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice, when woods are still, And thou sing’st hymns to them! While silent showers are falling slow, And, 'mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough, Lone whispering through the bush! The primrose to the grave is gone; The hawthorn flower is dead; The violet by the moss’d gray stone Hath laid her weary head; But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, In all their beauteous power, The fresh green days of life’s fair spring, And boyhood’s blossomy hour. Scorn’d bramble of the brake! once more Thou bidd’st me be a boy, To rove with thee the woodlands o’er, In freedom and in joy. EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

THE PAINTED CUP.

The fresh savannas of the Sagamon, Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire; The wanderers of the prairie know them well, And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup.

Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not That these bright chalices were tinted thus To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers, And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, Amid this fresh and virgin solitude The faded fancies of an elder world; But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds, To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind O’erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant,

To swell the reddening fruit that even now Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope. But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well— Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers, Lingering amid the blooming waste he loves, Though all his swarthy worshipers are gone— Slender and small his rounded cheek all brown And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, And part with little hands the spiky grass; And touching with his cherry lips the edge Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew. W. C. BRYANT.

THE WREATH OF GRASSES.

The royal rose—the tulip’s glow— The jasmine’s gold are fair to see; But while the graceful grasses grow, Oh, gather them for me!

The pansy’s gold and purple wing, The snowdrop’s smile may light the lea; But while the fragrant grasses spring, My wreath of them shall be! FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

DIVINATION.

When a daffodil I see Hanging down his head toward me, Guess I may what I may be: First, I shall decline my head; Secondly, I shall be dead; Lastly, safely buried. ROBERT HERRICK, 1591.

GRASS.

Is all grass? Make you no distinction? No; all is grass; or if you will have some other name, be it so. Once, this is true, that all flesh is grass; and if that glory which shines so much in your eyes must have a difference, then this is all that it can have—it is but the flower of that same grass; somewhat above the common grass in gayness, a little

comelier and better appareled than it, but partakes of its frail and fading nature. It hath no privilege nor immunity that way; yea, of the two is less durable, and usually shorter lived; at the last it decays with it. “The grass withereth; and the flower thereof fadeth away.”

ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON, 1613–1684.

DAFFODILS.

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 a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company; I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me 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. W. WORDSWORTH.