Is leaning cheek to cheek?--is meeting noses?
Kissing with inside lip?--stopping the career
Of laughter with a sigh?--(a note infallible
Of breaking honesty:)--horsing foot to foot?--
Skulking in corners?--wishing clocks more swift?--
Hours, minutes?--noon, midnight? and all eyes
Blind with the pin and web, but theirs,--theirs only,
That would unseen be wicked?--is this nothing?
Why, then the world, and all that’s in it, is nothing.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Thou wondrous yellow fiend!
Temper an antidote with antimony,
And ’tis infectious: Mix jealousy with marriage,
It poisons virtue.
_Davenport._
* * * * *
O jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship,
Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms;
How does thy rancour poison all our softness,
And turn our gentle natures into bitterness!
_Rowe._
* * * * *
Ah! poor unconscious rival maid,
How drearily must thou sicken and fade,
’Neath jealousy’s dark Upas shade!
_Tupper._
RED ROSE.... _Beauty and Love_.
According to ancient fable, the red colour of the Rose may be traced to
Venus, whose delicate foot, when she was hastening to the relief of her
beloved Adonis, was pierced by a thorn that drew blood,
Which on the White Rose being shed,
Made it for ever after red.
_Herrick._
Miller, the “basket-maker” and poet, gives the following beautiful
account of the origin of the Red Rose:--
It was drawing toward the decline of a beautiful summer day, when
the red, round sun was bending down a deep, blue, unclouded sky, to
where a vast range of mountains stretched, summit upon summit, and
in the far distance again rose, pile upon pile, until high over all
towered the god-haunted height of cloud-capt Olympus, rising with
its rounded shoulder, like another world, on the uttermost rim of
the horizon. At the foot of this immense world of untrodden
mountains, opened out a wide, immeasurable forest, stretching far
away, league upon league, with its unexplored ocean of trees, which
were bounded somewhere by another range of unknown mountains, that
again overlooked a vast, silent, and unpeopled world. On the edge
of this pathless desert of trees, and nearest the foot of Olympus,
sat the Queen of Beauty and of Love; with her golden tresses
unbound, and her matchless countenance buried within the palms of
her milk-white hands, and sobbing as if her fond, immortal heart
would break. Beside her was laid the dead body of Adonis, his face
half-hidden beneath the floating fall of her hair, as she bent over
him and wept. Beyond them lay the stiffened bulk of the grim and
grisly boar, his hideous jaws flecked with blood and foam, and his
terrible tusks glittering like the heads of pointed spears, as they
stood out, sharp and white, in the unclouded sunset. Not an
immortal comforter was by: for the far-seeing eye of Jove was fixed
listlessly upon the golden nectar-cup, as it passed from hand to
hand, along the rounded circle of the gods, while they were
recounting the deeds of other days, when they waged war against the
Titans. Even the chariot of Venus stood unyoked at the foot of the
mount; the silken traces lay loosely thrown together upon the
ground, and the white doves were idly hovering round in the air;
for the weeping goddess was so overwhelmed with sorrow, that she
had forgotten to waft her light-winged whisper to the Mount of
Olympus; nor had they received any summons from the charioteer
Love, who lay sleeping upon a bed of Roses, with his bow and arrows
by his side.
In the glade of this vast forest of the old primeval world, whose
echoes had never been startled by the blows of a descending axe,
nor a branch rent from their majestic boles, saving by the dreaded
bolts of the Thunderer, or some earth-shaking storm, which, in his
anger, he had blown abroad, the Goddess of Beauty still continued
to sit, as if unconscious of the savage solitude which surrounded
her; nor did she notice the back-kneed Satyrs, that peered upon her
unrobed loveliness with burning eyes, from many a shadowy recess in
the thick-leaved underwood. Upon the trunks of the mighty and
storm-tortured trees, the sunset here and there flashed down in
rays of molten gold, making their gnarled and twisted stems look as
if they had just issued red-hot from the jaws of some cavern-like
furnace, whose glare the fancy might still trace in a blackened
avenue of trees, up which the red ranks of the consuming lightning
had ages agone marched. Every way, where the lengthened shadows of
evening began to fall in deeper masses, the forest assumed a more
savage look, which was heightened by the noise of some
deadly-tusked boar, as he went snorting and thundering through the
thicket; the growl of the tiger was also heard at intervals, as he
retreated farther into the deepening darkness of the dingles,
mistaking the blazing sunset for some devouring fire. But the eyes
of Venus saw only the pale face of her lover,--she felt only his
chilly and stiffened hand sink colder and deeper into the warm
heart on which she pressed it, and over which her tears fell,
slower or faster, just as the mournful gusts of her sorrow arose or
subsided, and sent the blinding rain from the blue-veined lids that
overhung her clouded eyes; for never had her immortal heart before
been swollen by such an overflowing torrent of grief. But the
warmth of her kisses, which would almost have awakened life in a
statue of marble, fell upon lips now cold as a wintry grave; and
her sighs, which came sweeter than the morning air when it first
arises from its sleep among the Roses, stirred not one of the
clotted ringlets which softened into the yielding whiteness of her
heavenly bosom,--
“She looked upon his lips, and they are pale;
She took him by the hand, and that was cold;
She whispered in his ear a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woful words she told.”
She would have given her immortality but to have heard those lips
murmur and complain, as they had done a few hours before--to have
seen those eyes again burning with disdain, as they flashed back
indignantly the warm advances of her love. She pictured him as he
had that very morning stood, in all the pride of youthful manliness
and beauty, when he looked down, blushing and abashed, as he held
his boar-spear in his hand, when she threw the studded bridle over
her own rounded and naked arm, and the proud courser pricked up his
ears with delight, and shook his braided mane, while his long tail
streamed out like a banner, and his proud eye dilated, and his
broad nostrils expanded, as he went trampling haughtily on, proud
to be led by the Queen of Beauty and of Love. She pictured the
Primrose bank on which he lay twined reluctantly in her arms, how
he tried to conceal his face, this way, and that way, among the
flowers, whenever she attempted to press his lips,--
“While on each cheek appeared a pretty dimple:
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple.”
She recalled his attitude as he untwined himself from her embrace,
and hurried off in pursuit of his steed, which had snapped the rein
that secured it to the branch of a neighbouring oak, and started at
full speed down one of the wild avenues of the forest. In fancy she
again saw him, as he sat panting upon the ground, weary with the
fruitless pursuit; and how, kneeling down, she then
“Took him gently by the hand,
A lily prisoned in a jail of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster band:
So white a friend engirt so white a foe;
A beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
Showed like two silver doves that sat a-billing.”
And as she looked upon him, she imagined that his lips moved again,
as when they said, “Give me my hand, why dost thou feel it?” she
fancied she again felt his face upon her cheek--his kisses upon her
lips, as when she fell down and feigned herself dead; the while he
bent her fingers, and felt her pulse, and endeavoured by a hundred
endearments and tender expressions, to restore her. And how, when
she pretended to recover, she paid him back again with unnumbered
kisses, whilst he, wearied with opposing her, no longer offered any
resistance; and how, at last, he broke from her fair arms, and,
darting down the “dark lawn,” left her seated alone upon the
ground.
As picture after picture rose before her of what had been, and
every close pressure of the cold, inanimate, but still dearly-loved
form, told her what the hand of death had done, and that those
very “hopes and fears which are akin to love” were now for ever
darkened and extinguished; she burst forth into such a loud,
wailing lamentation, that the sound found its way unto Olympus, and
fell upon the ever-open ear of Jove, who, in a moment, dashed the
golden nectar-cup upon the ground, which he was about uplifting to
his lips, and sprang upon his feet. There was a sound of hurrying
to and fro over the mountain-summits, which sloped down to the edge
of the forest--of gods and goddesses passing through the air--of
golden chariots, that went whistling along like the wind, as they
cleft their rapid way--and the flapping of dark, immortal wings,
between which many a beautiful divinity was seated. The golden
clouds of sunset gathered red and ominously about the rounded
summit of Olympus, and a blood-red light glared upon such parts of
the forest as were not darkened by the deepening shadows of the
approaching twilight,--for the Thunderer had stamped his immortal
foot, and jarred the mighty mountain to its very base. And now, in
that forest glade, which but a few moments before was so wild and
desolate,--where only the forms of the grisly boar, the dead
Adonis, and the weeping Goddess of Beauty broke the level lines of
the angry sunset, were assembled the stern Gods, and the weeping
Graces, and the fluttering Loves that ever hover around the chariot
of Venus. With bleeding feet and drooping head,--wan, and cold, and
speechless,--was the Goddess of Beauty lifted into her golden
chariot, and, with the dead body of Adonis, wafted by her silver
and silent-winged doves to Mount Olympus. And then a deep darkness
settled down upon the forest. When the next morning’s sun arose
and gilded those silent glades, the Roses, on which the blood of
the Goddess of Beauty had fallen, and which were ever before white,
were changed into a delicate crimson; and wherever a tear had
fallen, there had sprung up a flower which the earth had never
before borne, and that was the Lily of the Valley; and wherever a
ruddy drop had fallen from the death-wound of Adonis sprang up the
red flower which still beareth his name. Even the white
apple-blossoms, which he clutched in his agony, ever after wore the
ruddy stain which they caught from his folded fingers; and the
drowsy Poppy grew up everywhere around the spot, as if to denote
that the only consolation which can be found for sorrow is the
long, unbroken sleep of death. Thus the Rose, which was before
white, became red, and was ever after dedicated to Beauty and Love.
Its beautiful tint is traced to another source by a modern poet:
As erst in Eden’s blissful bowers,
Young Eve surveyed her countless flowers,
An opening Rose of purest white
She marked with eye that beamed delight,
Its leaves she kissed, and straight it drew
From beauty’s lip the vermeil hue.
_Carey._
The poets have not exaggerated the beauty of the red-hued Rose. She
would be crowned Queen of the Flowers by the most unpoetical. The
emblem of all ages, the interpreter of all our feelings, the Rose
mingles with our festivities, our joys, and our griefs. Its fragrance is
as delightful as its hues; and no truer emblem of love and beauty could
have been chosen.
I have cherished
A love for one whose beauty would have charmed
In Athens. And I know what ’tis to love
A spiritual beauty, and behind the foil
Of an unblemished loveliness, still find
Charms of a higher order, and a power
Deeper and more resistless. Had I found
Such thoughts and feelings, such a clear deep stream
Of mind in one whom vulgar men had thrown
As a dull pebble from them, I had loved
Not with a love less fond, nor with a flame
Of less devotion.
_Percival._
* * * * *
There’s no miniature
In her face, but is a copious theme,
Which would, discoursed at large of, make a volume.
What clear arched brows! what sparkling eyes! the lilies
Contending with the roses in her cheeks,
Who shall most set them off. What ruby lips!--
Or unto what can I compare her neck,
But to a rock of crystal? Every limb
Proportioned to love’s wish, and in their neatness
Add lustre to the richness of her habit,
Not borrowed from it.
_Massinger._
PEONY.... _Anger_.
The Peony is chosen as the emblem of Anger from its red and fiery hues.
It is a large double flower, and presents a superb appearance; but is
almost destitute of scent.
I am burned up with inflaming wrath;
A rage, whose heat hath this condition,
That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,
The blood, and dearest valued blood, of France.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
The wildest ills that darken life
Are rapture to the bosom’s strife;
The tempest, in its blackest form,
Is beauty to the bosom’s storm;
The ocean, lashed to fury loud,
Its high wave mingling with the cloud,
Is peaceful, sweet serenity,
To anger’s dark and stormy sea.
_J. W. Eastburne._
* * * * *
Oh, that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth!
Then with a passion would I shake the world.
_Shakspeare._
NETTLES.... _Cruelty_.
Nettles may be considered the appropriate emblem of cruelty. How often,
while in search of flowers, have we felt the sting of these unrelenting
plants! We call that punishment cruel which visits us without our doing
an injury which deserves it; and, as we never wished to be in the
vicinity of the Nettles, nor, therefore, to injure them, our boyish
fancy looked upon them as cruel.
* * * * *
Spare not the babe,
Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy;
Think it a bastard, whom the oracle
Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut,
And mince it sans remorse.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Do not insult calamity;
It is a barbarous grossness to lay on
The weight of scorn, where heavy misery
Too much already weighs men’s fortunes down.
_Daniel._
* * * * *
Oh, he’s accurst from all that’s good,
Who never knew Love’s healing power;
Such sinner on his sins must brood,
And wait alone his hour.
If stranger to earth’s beauty--human love,
There is no rest below, nor hope above.
_Dana._
COLUMBINE.... _Desertion_.
Bring Lilies for a maiden’s grave,
Roses to deck the bride,
Tulips for all who love through life
In brave attire to ride:
Bring each for each, in bower and hall,
But cull the Columbine for all.
“The Columbine? full many a flower
Hath hues more clear and bright,
Although she doth in purple go,
In crimson, pink, and white.
Why, when so many fairer shine,
Why choose the homely Columbine?”
Examine well each floweret’s form,--
Read ye not something more
Than curl of petal--depth of tint?
Saw ye ne’er aught before
That claims a fancied semblance there.
Amid those modelled leaves so fair?
Know ye the cap which Folly wears
In ancient masques and plays?
Does not the Columbine recall
That toy of olden days?
And is not folly reigning now
O’er many a wisdom-written brow?
’Tis Folly’s flower, that homely one;
That universal guest
Makes every garden but a type
Of every human breast;
For though ye tend both mind and bower,
There’s still a nook for Folly’s flower.
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._
* * * * *