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:--
* * * * *
The Angel of the Flowers one day,
Beneath a Rose-tree sleeping lay,
That spirit to whose charge is given
To bathe young buds in dews from heaven.
Awaking from his light repose,
The angel whispered to the Rose,
“O fondest object of my care,
Still fairest found where all are fair,
For the sweet shade thou hast given to me,
Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee.”
Then said the Rose, with deepening glow,
“On me another grace bestow.”
The spirit paused in silent thought--
What grace was there that flower had not?
’Twas but a moment--o’er the Rose
A veil of moss the angel throws;
And, robed in nature’s simplest weed,
Could there a flower that Rose exceed?
_Anon._
* * * * *
They gather gems with sunbeams bright,
From floating clouds and falling showers;
They rob Aurora’s locks of light,
To grace their own fair queen of flowers.
Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose
Becomes a _token_ fit to tell
Of things that words can ne’er disclose,
And naught but this reveal so well.
Then take my flower, and let its leaves
Beside thy heart be cherished near,
While that confiding heart receives
The thought it whispers to thine ear.
_Token, 1830._
WHITE WATER-LILY.... _Purity_.
The White Water-Lily is the Queen of the Waves, and reigns sole
sovereign over the streams; and it was a species of Water-Lily which the
old Egyptians and ancient Indians worshipped--the most beautiful object
that was held sacred in their superstitious creed, and one which we
cannot look upon even now without feeling a delight mingled with
reverence. No flower looks more lovely than this “Lady of the Lake,”
resting her crowned head on a green throne of velvet, and looking down
into the depths of her own sky-reflecting realms, watching the dance, as
her attendant water-nymphs keep time to the rocking of the ripples, and
the dreamy swaying of the trailing water streams.
_Miller._
* * * * *
Thine is a face to look upon and pray
That a pure spirit keep thee--I would meet
With one so gentle by the streams away,
Living with nature; keeping thy pure feet
For the unfingered moss, and for the grass
Which leaneth where the gentle waters pass.
The autumn leaves should sigh thee to thy sleep;
And the capricious April, coming on,
Awake thee like a flower; and stars should keep
A vigil o’er thee like Endymion;
And thou for very gentleness shouldst weep
As dews of the night’s quietness come down.
_Willis._
* * * * *
Oh, come to the river’s rim, come with us there,
For the White Water-Lily is wondrous fair,
With her large broad leaves on the stream afloat,
Each one a capacious fairy-boat.
The swan among flowers! How stately ride
Her snow-white leaves on the glittering tide!
And the Dragon-fly gallantly stays to sip
A kiss of dew from her goblet’s lip.
_Anon._
* * * * *
The Lily on the water sleeping,
Enwreathed with pearl, and bossed with gold,
An emblem is, my love, of thee:
But when she like a nymph is peeping,
To watch her sister-buds unfold,
White shouldered on the flowery lea,
Gazing about in sweet amazement,
Thy image, from the vine-clad casement,
Seems looking out, my love, on me.
_Miller._
* * * * *
Little streams have flowers a many,
Beautiful and fair as any;
Typha strong, and green bur reed,
Willow herb with cotton seed,
Arrow head with eye of jet,
And the Water-Violet;
There the flowering Rush you meet,
And the plumy meadow sweet,
And in places deep and stilly
Marble-like, the Water-Lily.
_Mrs. Howitt._
MARIGOLD.... _Grief_.
The Marigold is the conventional emblem of distress of mind. It is
distinguished by many singular properties. It blossoms the whole year,
and on that account, the Romans termed it the flower of the calends, or
of all the months. Its flowers are open only from nine in the morning
till three in the afternoon. They always follow the course of the sun,
by turning from east to west as he proceeds upon his daily journey. In
July and August these flowers emit, during the night, small luminous
sparks. Alone, the Marigold expresses grief; interwoven with other
flowers, the varied events of life; the cloud and sunshine of ill and
good.
* * * * *
And see the flaunting Marigold,
Gay from its marshy bed unfold
Mid minor lights its disks that shine
Like suns for brightness.
_Anon._
* * * * *
Open afresh your round of starry folds,
Ye ardent Marigolds!
Dry up the moisture of your golden lids.
_Keats._
* * * * *
When, with a serious musing, I behold
The grateful and obsequious Marigold,
How duly, every morning, she displays
Her open breast when Phœbus spreads his rays;
How she observes him in his daily walk
Still bending towards him her small slender stalk;
How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns,
Bedewed as ’twere with tears till he returns.
_Withers._
* * * * *
I need not say how, one by one,
Love’s flowers have dropped from off love’s chain,
Enough to say that they are gone,
And that they cannot bloom again.
_Miss Landon._
* * * * *
We sometimes see a shadow swiftly skim
In summer o’er the hills and vales of earth:
So transient shades steal o’er the face of mirth,
And frequent tears the brightest eyes bedim.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
Thine is a grief that wastes the heart,
Like mildew on a tulip’s dyes--
When hope, deferred but to depart,
Loses its smiles but keeps its sighs.
_Miss Landon._
WHITE ROSE.... _I would be single_.
How uneasy is his life
Who is troubled with a wife!
Be she ne’er so fair or comely,
Be she foul or be she homely,
Be she blithe or melancholy,
Have she wit, or have she folly,
Be she prudent, be she squandering,
Be she staid, or be she wandering,
Yet uneasy is his life
Who is married to a wife.
_Cotton._
The White Rose became celebrated in English history as the badge of the
house of York, in the War of the Roses. Among the ancients, who
considered the Rose as the queen of flowers, it was the custom to crown
new-married persons with a chaplet of Red and White Roses; and in the
procession of the Corybantes, the goddess Cybele, the protectress of
cities, was pelted with White Roses.
* * * * *
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._
YELLOW ROSE.... _Jealousy_.
Pfeffel, a German poet, has pleasingly accounted for the origin of the
Yellow Rose, the emblem of envy and jealousy, in the following manner:
Once a White Rose-bud reared her head,
And peevishly to Flora said,
“Look at my sister’s blushing hue--
Pray, mother, let me have it too.”
“Nay, child,” was Flora’s mild reply,
“Be thankful for such gifts as I
Have deemed befitting to dispense--
Thy dower the hue of innocence.”
When did Persuasion’s voice impart
Content and peace to female heart
Where baleful Jealousy bears sway,
And scares each gentler guest away?
The Rose still grumbled and complained,
Her mother’s bounties still disdained.
“Well, then,” said angered Flora--“take”--
She breathed upon her as she spake--
“Henceforth no more in simple vest
Of innocence shalt thou be drest--
Take that which better suits thy mind,
The hue for Jealousy designed!”
The Yellow Rose has from that hour
Borne evidence of Envy’s power.