allusion to the long spur-like nectary, which has been whimsically
supposed to represent these things, and many more. The Latin name,
_Delphinium_, is from the Greek, Dolphin, because the nectary was
thought like that fish. The French call it _Dauphinelle_, _pied
d’alouette_, _l’épéron de chevalier_, (knight’s spur;) and the Italian,
_speronella_, (little spur,) _sperone di cavaliere_, (knight’s spur,)
and _fior regio_, (king-flower.) These names give quite a chivalric
importance to the gentle flower, and furnish abundant subject for
thought and fancy. Our own rural names give us a picture of the
sky-lark; that “musical cherub,” soaring far and high into the blue
summer heaven, above the lonely mountain-top, or over the busy town, and
we can recall the delight of listening to his sweet melody.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
For never yet was bosom found
So dull of sense to music’s sound,
As not to linger on the way,
And list to his ascending lay,
And upward gaze with straining sight,
And see him melting into light;
Till the eye fail its part to bear
In concert with the hearing ear;
And naught remain but what may seem
Imagination’s fairy dream,
Or the sweet strain, if such there were,
Of Prospero’s spirit in the air.
Oh, for that strength of voice and wing
To sing and soar, to soar and sing;
With all his joyousness of heart
From earth’s encumbrances apart;
And with heaven’s denizens on high
To revel mid the calm clear sky!
_Mant._
* * * * *
Fancy is a fairy, that can hear,
Ever, the melody of nature’s voice,
And see all lovely visions that she will.
_Mrs. Osgood._
* * * * *
All impediments in fancy’s course
Are motives of more fancy.
Shakspeare.
* * * * *
Ever let the fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home;
Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thoughts still spread beyond her:
Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose,
Every thing is spoilt by use.
_Kent._
DYER’S WEED.... _Relief_.
Dyer’s Weed is like a very large upright plant of Mignonette, to which
sweet exotic it is nearly related, both being members of the _reseda_
family. The _Reseda odorata_, or Mignonette, is a native of Egypt, and
was introduced into England in 1752. The word _reseda_ is from _resedo_,
to calm, to appease. The plants were thought useful applications to
external bruises, to ease pain. There are two species growing wild in
England. _Reseda lutea_, or Base-rocket, likes a chalky soil, but _R.
luteola_, the Dyer’s Weed, is often found on waste ground everywhere. It
is much used by dyers, particularly in France. It affords a most
beautiful yellow dye, for cotton, woollen, mohair, silk, and linen. Blue
cloths dipped in a decoction of it become green. The entire plant, when
about to flower, is pulled up, and employed both fresh and dried. Like
the Coltsfoot, this plant is among the first which spring from the
rubbish thrown out of coal-pits. Linnæus observed, that the nodding
spike of flowers always follows the sun, even on a cloudy day, pointing
eastward in a morning, southward at noon, westward in the afternoon, and
northward at night. If this be true, it may supplant the sunflower in
the favour of sentimental florists, for the inconstancy of that has long
been proved. Good old Gerarde, who evidently did his best to believe all
things, says, that he has seen four sunflowers on one stem, pointing to
the four cardinal points. I am wandering from my subject, but must
remind you of some sweet lines by that poet of nature--Clare, where he
groups the sunflower so nicely; and you may look at that cottage, where
the children are playing, and see the picture nearly realized:
Where rustic taste at leisure trimly weaves
The rose and straggling woodbine to the eaves,
And on the crowded spot that pales enclose
The white and scarlet daisy rears in rows,
Training the trailing peas in clusters neat,
Perfuming evening with a luscious sweet,
And sun-flowers planting for their gilded show,
That scale the window’s lattice ere they blow,
And, sweet to habitants within the sheds,
Peep through the crystal panes their golden heads.
* * * * *
A gentle peace, like evening winds
In summer from the ocean’s breast,
Moved o’er my sighing, sinking soul,
And soothed my murmuring griefs to rest;
And through the weary night of pain,
When it were manliness to weep,
My soul was comforted by this--
“He giveth his beloved sleep.”
_MacKellar._
NASTURTION.... _Patriotism_.
The Nasturtion is a native of Europe and the East. The flowers are of a
very brilliant golden yellow, and present a beautiful appearance. The
plant is said to emit flashes of light in the morning before sunrise,
and also at twilight. Its pure, glowing hue recalls that ardent feeling,
so clear of self, which leads men to lay down their lives and fortunes
for their country’s safety and glory.
* * * * *
Land of the forest and the rock,
Of dark blue lake and mighty river--
Of mountain reared aloft to mock
The storm’s career and lightning’s shock,
My own green land forever!
_Whittier._
* * * * *
Clime of the daring, thy sheltering banner
Unfurls its stars o’er the land and the sea;
While tyrants are warring, and freemen love honour,
That banner shall be the light of the free.
_C. Watson._
* * * * *
Our country first, their glory and their pride,
Land of their hopes, land where their fathers died,
When in the right, they’ll keep thy honour bright,
When in the wrong, they’ll die to set it right.
_James T. Fields._
* * * * *
Pride in the gift of country and of name
Speaks in the eye and step--
He treads his native land!
_Halleck._
* * * * *
The patriot! go, to Fame’s proud mount repair,
The tardy pile, slow rising there,
With tongueless eloquence shall tell
Of them who for their country fell.
_Sprague._
* * * * *
’Tis home-felt pleasure prompts the patriot’s sigh,
This makes him wish to live, and dare to die.
_Campbell._
* * * * *
Land where he learned to lisp a mother’s name,
The first beloved in life, the last forgot,
Land of his frolic youth,
Land of his bridal eve,
Land of his children--vain your column’s strength,
Invaders! vain your battles’ steel and fire!
Choose ye the morrow’s doom--
A prison or a grave!
_Halleck._
* * * * *
My country is my Holy Land. I love her!
The purest, brightest skies are spread above her.
And heavenliest verdure covers vale and hill.
The clearest waters fish did ever swim in
Are hers. And oh, what words can praise her virtuous women?
_MacKellar._
NIGHTSHADE, OR BITTER-SWEET.... _Truth_.
According to the belief of the ancients, Truth was the mother of Virtue,
the daughter of Time, and queen of the world. It is a frequent saying,
that Truth lies at the bottom of a well, and that she always mingles
some bitterness with her sweet blessings; and we have chosen for her
emblem a plant which, like her, delights in the shade, and is evergreen.
The Nightshade is the only plant in England which loses and reproduces
its leaves twice a year.
* * * * *
Truth, crushed to earth will rise again,
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among her worshippers.
_Bryant._
* * * * *
The pure deep sky above may figure Truth;
Though mists and clouds may long obscure its face,
Gaze with patience, and ere long they’ll pass.
_Peerbold._
* * * * *
’Tis not enough your counsel shall be true;
Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do.
Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
And things unknown proposed as things forgot.
Without good breeding, truth is disapproved;
That only makes superior sense beloved.
_Pope._
* * * * *
Truth needs no flowers of speech.
_Pope._
* * * * *
When fiction rises pleasing to the eye,
Men will believe, because they love the lie;
But truth herself, if clouded with a frown,
Must have some solemn proofs to pass her down.
_Churchill._
* * * * *
All truth is precious, if not all divine,
And what dilates the powers must needs refine.
_Cowper._
* * * * *
Verily there is nothing so false, that a sparkle of truth is not in it.
_Tupper._
* * * * *
This above all, to thine own self be true;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
What is truth?--a staff rejected.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
It is a weary and a bitter task
Back from the lip the burning word to keep,
And to shut out heaven’s air with falsehood’s mask,
And in the dark urn of the soul to heap
Indignant feelings--making e’en of thought
A buried treasure.
_Mrs. Hemans._
THE SWEET FLAG--ACORUS CALAMUS.... _Grace_.
One autumn eve I sat alone
Beside my study fire;
I’d written long, and eyes and head
And fingers ’gan to tire.
I rose to shut my desk, and go--
Quite weary--half asleep--
A book fell open as I moved;
E’en sleepy eyes must peep;
And, pictured on its page, I saw
The portrait of a friend,
Whose smiling face bade my dull thoughts
To happy memories wend.
It was the tall, sweet-scented Flag,
Lay pictured there so true,
I could have deemed some fairy hand
The faithful image drew.
The falchion-leaves, all long and sharp;
The stem, like a tall leaf too,
Except where, halfway up its side,
A cone-shaped flower-spike grew,
Like a lady’s finger, taper, long,
From end to end arrayed
In close scale-armour, that was all
Of starry flowers made.
If you could fancy fairy folk
Would mimic works of ours,
You’d think their dainty fingers here
Had wrought mosaic flowers.
The tiny petals, neatly formed,
With geometric skill,
Are each one so exactly shaped,
Its proper place to fill.
And stamens, like fine golden dust,
Spangle the flowerets green;
Aught more compact and beautiful,
Mine eyes have never seen!
How well I know when first I met
The Sweet Flag’s graceful form;
’Twas on a glowing summer’s day,
Mid hearts as bright and warm.
Mid hearts as warm as sunny gleams,
And eyes as kind and bright,
And spirits that, like sunshine too,
Are cheering, loved, and light.
We gathered there the Acorus
From Claremont’s quiet lake;
And home with me, full many a mile,
I did the pale flower take.
’Twas new to me, but yet is not
So very scarce and rare,
As many a river knoweth well;
None better than the Yare!
For by its banks abundantly
The fragrant tall leaves grow;
Singing with reedy rustling voice,
Whene’er soft breezes blow.
The Mayor of Norwich holds in June
His annual feast and show;
And to the grand cathedral church
Processions with him go.
And then the gray and solemn aisles,
And all the ancient floor,
Are with the aromatic leaves
Bestrewèd thickly o’er.
In by-gone days the costly fumes
Of incense here were shed;
But sweeter far the fragrant gush
That greets each passing tread.
In the sordid streets are bowers built,
Of these same reeds as well,
Plaited and wrought like basket-work,
All full of spicy smell.
And many a queer and quaint device
Are round about them made,
Of the gold and red ranunculus,
In varied shape and shade.
Oh! many a young and guileless heart
Is blithe as blithe can be,
To walk through Norwich streets that morn,
The decked out bowers to see.
In far gone times, ere folks had grown
So mighty nice and clever--
When carpets were unheard-of things,
And druggets dreamed of never--
When wide bare floors of good hard mud
Or stone, not over even,
Were all that unto knightly strides,
Or dames’ light steps, were given--
When common rushes strewed the halls
Where royal banquets were--
How precious must these reeds have been
Beside the banks of Yare!
I can fancy high and dainty dames
Sending stout serving-men
To gather store of these sweet Flags,
From river, pool, and fen.
Perhaps to strew a lady’s bower,
Perhaps the castle hall,
Where warlike lords and knights should meet
At stately festival.
How often in the chapel too,
The fresh-thrown reeds might lie;
While the tears and smiles of a bridal band
Went softly passing by!
And they were there when sorrow deep
Wept the untimely doom
Of young, and bright, and beautiful,
Borne to the ancestral tomb.
In sooth it is an ancient thing,
This new-found friend of mine,
And many a scene of joy and wo
Hath it known in days lang syne.
I love it for them all right well,
But yet I love it more
For the fairy scene that lay around
Its home on that lakeless shore:
Beside the bank the stately trees
Waved gently to and fro,
And flitting specks of sunlight fell
The leafy branches thro’,
And danced among the tall keen reeds,
And on the water fell,
Where the merry fish were glancing swift;
And the water snake, as well,
Came, gliding in a graceful curl
All silently and still,
Like a lord in his own dominions there,
Swimming about at will.
Now toward the margin where we stood
We saw him steering on,--
Then under groups of lily leaves
The happy thing was gone.
And wild-fowl, water-rats, and all,
Lived in that little lake;
Oh, what a pleasant picture now
My thoughts of it awake!
Its margent of smooth lawny turf
Was mossy, soft, and deep,
Where the shadows broad of the beech and oak
Seemed quietly to sleep.
The rhododendrons, purple yet
With many a massive wreath,
Had seedling plants, a countless host,
Crowding the turf beneath.
I dearly love small relics brought
From spots where I have been,
That seem to certify the facts
Of memory’s pictured scene;
But seeds and roots of flowers are
The pleasantest of all;--
I’ve Broom-seeds from a heathy glen,
And ferns from an old stone wall.
Of wall-flower slips and roots I’ve got
So many, that I’m fain,
Dear as they are to me, to turn
Many adrift again.
My ivy-plant from Tintern’s braved
Four winters’ stormy weather;
I’ve scraps, too, from proud Kenilworth,
And here they grow together.
The feathery seeds of clematis
In Goodrich I have caught;
Hartstongue from Ragland’s lofty keep,
With maiden-hair, I brought.
And so at Claremont, where the crowd
Of rhododendrons grew,
My whims were humoured, and I now
Am rearing one or two.
And e’en those little things can bring
Before me, passing well,
The very nook where the scented leaves
Of the graceful calamus dwell.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
BROOM.... _Humility_.
Thomas Miller thus speaks of the “bonny Broom,” in his Romance of
Nature:--
Beautiful art thou, O Broom! waving in all thy rich array of green and
gold, on the breezy bosom of the bee-haunted heath. The sleeping
sunshine, and the silver-footed showers, the clouds that for ever play
about the face of Heaven, the homeless winds, and the crystal-globed
dews, that settle upon thy blossoms like sleep on the veined eyelids of
an infant, are ever beating above and around thee, as if to tell that
they rejoice in thy companionship, and that, although a thousand years
have strided by with silent steps, time hath not abated an atom of their
love. Who can tell the thoughts of Saxon Alfred when, wandering alone,
crownless and sceptreless, he stretched himself on the lonely moor
beneath the shadow of thy golden blossoms, sighing for the fair queen he
had left far behind? When he bowed his kingly head, and, musing on thy
beauty, buried in a solitary wild, thought how even regal dignity would
be enhanced by humility, and that, although thou didst grow there
unmarked and unpruned, not a more princely flower waved in his own
English garden.
* * * * *
Humility, that low, sweet root,
From which all heavenly virtues shoot.
_Moore._
* * * * *
Oh the Broom, the bonny bonny Broom,
The Broom of the Cowden-knowes;
For sure so soft, so sweet a bloom,
Elsewhere there never grows.
_Scottish Song._
* * * * *
Here is a precious jewel I have found
Among the filth and rubbish of the world.
I’ll stoop for it, but when I wear it here,
Set on my forehead like the morning-star,
The world may wonder, but it will not laugh.
_Longfellow._
* * * * *
Their groves of sweet myrtle, let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan,
Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang yellow Broom.
_Burns._
* * * * *
But the publican stood afar off in his grief,
For he felt like a beggar who needed relief;
And he raised not his eyes, and he saw not the scorn
Which the lip of the Pharisee proudly had worn.
But he smote on his bosom, and deeply he sighed;
As a sinner, for mercy, sweet mercy, he cried.
It was all he could utter, but GOD hears a sigh,
And listens, no matter how feeble the cry.
Both unheard and unblest, the proud Pharisee then
Returned to the pomp of his riches again;
While the publican sinner, though loathed and oppressed,
Went joyfully homeward with peace in his breast.
_MacKellar._
ST. JOHN’S WORT.... _Superstition_.
This plant is an appropriate emblem of superstition; for it has always
been regarded with reverence by the peasantry of Europe, on account of
its real and supposed virtues. It was supposed to possess the power of
defending persons from phantoms and spectres, and driving away all evil
spirits. Its large, yellow flower grows close to the earth, and
resembles a small wheel of fireworks.
* * * * *
’Tis a history
Handed from ages down; a nurse’s tale--
Which children, open-eyed and mouthed, devour;
And thus as garrulous ignorance relates,
We learn it and believe.
_Southey._
* * * * *
A fortune-telling host,
As numerous as the stars could boast,
Matrons, who toss the cup, and see
The grounds of fate in grounds of tea.
_Churchill._
* * * * *
Gipsies, who every ill can cure,
Except the ill of being poor,
Who charms ’gainst love and agues sell,
Who can in hen-roost set a spell,
Prepared by arts, to them best known,
To catch all feet except their own,
Who as to fortune can unlock it,
As easily as pick a pocket.
_Churchill._
* * * * *
We may smile, or coldly sneer,
The while such ghostly tales we hear,--
And wonder why they were believed,
And how wise men could be deceived:--
Bathing our renovated sight
In the free gospel’s glorious light,
We marvel it was ever night!
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
This present life seems full of mysteries;
The vulgar mind, to superstition prone,
In nature’s workings fearful omens sees,
And shrinks aghast from terrors of its own
Absurd imagining. Despotic is the power
Of ignorance; and thousands live in fear
And die unnumbered times before the hour
That Heaven has set to end their being here.
The trustful, quiet, mighty thinker seeks
The beautiful and simple orderings
Of the Great Former of created things,
And GOD to him in guiding accents speaks.
Still, in the dealings of the LORD with men,
Some things there are beyond our human ken.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillon brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life an mettle in their heels.
A winnock bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl.--
Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantraip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light,--
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer’s banes in gibbet airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen’d bairns;
A thief, new cutted frae a rape,
Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi’ bluid red-rusted;
Five scimiters, wi’ murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father’s throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o’ life bereft,
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awfu’,
Which ev’n to name wad be unlawfu’.
_Burns._
VERVAIN.... _Enchantment_.
Vervain was employed by the ancients in various kinds of divinations.
They ascribed to it a thousand properties, and, among others, that of
reconciling enemies. Whenever the Romans sent their heralds to offer
peace or war to nations, one of them always carried a sprig of Vervain.
The Druids, both in Gaul and Britain, regarded the Vervain with the same
veneration as the misletoe, and offered sacrifices to the earth before
they cut this plant in spring, which was a ceremony of great pomp.
Though the Druids and their religion have passed away, the Vervain is
still the plant of spells and enchantment. In the northern provinces of
France, the shepherds gather it with ceremonies and words known only to
themselves, and express its juices under certain phases of the moon.
They insist that this plant enables them to cure their ailments, and to
cast a spell on their daughters and cattle, by which they can make them
conform to their wishes.
* * * * *
I’d wake the spell that sleeps within an herb,
And witch the lady till I know she’s mine.
_Peerbold._
* * * * *
Her overpowering presence made you feel
It would not be idolatry to kneel.
_Byron._
* * * * *
Her sacred beauty hath enchanted heaven,
And, had she lived before the siege of Troy,
Helen, whose beauty summoned Greece to arms,
And drew a thousand ships to Tenedos,
Had not been named in Homer’s Iliad;
Her name had been in every line he wrote.
_Marlowe._
* * * * *
Not all the charms that superstition gave
To plants in lonely forests found,
Could work such magic in Love’s doting slave,
As the voice which his wishes crowned.
_Anon._
* * * * *
A voice of laughter--a voice of glee!
Among the maidens, who happy as she?
By love’s enchantment her thrilling breast
Is wildly, witchingly, over-blest:
And gushing joys, like the sun in May,
Enliven the noon of her bridal-day.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
Mysterious plant! whose golden tresses wave
With a sad beauty in the dying year,
Blooming amid November’s frost severe,
Like a pale corpse-light o’er the recent grave.
If shepherds tell us true, thy wand hath power,
With gracious influence, to avert the harm
Of ominous planets.
_Token, 1831._
CORN.... _Riches_.
Ceres, the goddess of Corn and harvest, was represented with a garland
of ears of Corn on her head. The commemoration of the loss of her
daughter Proserpine, was celebrated about the beginning of harvest; that
of her search after her, at the time of sowing Corn. A whole straw has
been made the emblem of union; and a broken straw, of rupture. The
custom of breaking a straw, to express the rupture of a contract, may be
traced back to an early period of French history, and may be said to
have had a royal origin. When Charles the Simple, of France, was
abandoned by his principal lords, they broke a straw to express that
they would no longer acknowledge him as their king. Corn may be regarded
as an appropriate emblem of wealth; since, wherever it grows, it leads
us to infer plenty and comfort.
* * * * *
Therefore, if at great things thou wouldst arrive,
Get riches first, get wealth.
_Milton._
* * * * *
Then let us get money, like bees lay up honey;
We’ll build us new hives and store each cell;
The sight of our treasure shall yield us great pleasure,
We’ll count it, and chink it, and jingle it well.
_Dr. Franklin._
* * * * *
Much learning shows how little mortals know;
Much wealth, how little worldlings can enjoy:
At best, it babies us with endless toys,
And keeps us children till we drop to dust.
As monkeys at a mirror stand amazed,
They fail to find what they so plainly see;
Thus men, in shining riches, see the face
Of happiness, nor know it as a shade;
But gaze, and touch, and peep, and peep again,
And wish, and wonder it is absent still.
_Young._
* * * * *
Oh, blessed lot
To be possessed of wealth and of a heart
So heavenly made that it refuses not
Of its abundance freely to impart!
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
You are heir
To lordships, mansions, forests, parks, and gems.
You have three mighty manors in Castile;
Two broad estates in Leon; two amidst
The mulberry trees of Murcia, and huge chests
Crammed full of ingots, dug by naked slaves,
Who famished on coarse bread. Besides all these,
There bloom plantations in the East, whose fruits
Are pearls, and spice, and princely diamonds;
And in Brazil, Pactolus floods, ne’er dumb,
Whose waves all talk in gold!
_Barry Cornwall._
CRANBERRY.... _Cure for the Heartache_.
Far away among the hills,
Far from tower and town,
Where wide moors and heaths lie spread,
Desolate and brown.
Where the grouse and plover live
Far from gun and dog,
A delicate and tiny flower
Decks swamp and watery bog.
The Cranberry blossom dwelleth there
Amid the mountains cold,
Seeming like a fairy gift
Left on the dreary wold.
Oh! and ’tis very beautiful,
The flowers are pink and white,
And the small oval polished leaves
Are evergreen and bright.
’Tis such a wee, fair, dainty thing,
You’d think a greenhouse warm
Would be its proper dwelling-place,
Kept close from wind and storm.
But on the moors it dwelleth free,
Like a fearless mountain child;
With a rosy cheek, a lightsome look,
And a spirit strong and wild.