And marshes soft and wet,
Come troops of poor hill-children
The ripened fruit to get.
The bushes all in water grow,
In those small pools, that lie
In scores among the turfy knolls
On mountains broad and high.
And there the peasant children come
To pull the Cranberries red,
Where bold and booted sporting squires
Would scarcely dare to tread.
_They_ only shoot the poor wild birds,
And chase the timid hare,
For their diversion; _they_ can live
In luxury, without care.
But these poor peasant-children’s lot
Is full of human wo,
And hungry, thinly clad, and cold,
They o’er the mountains go;
With feet, that shoes have never known,
And legs all blue and bare,
And yet, so light are they of heart,
You’ll hear them laughing there.
Such laughter makes my very heart
Leap up with joy to hear,
It tells that even poverty
Is not entirely drear.
It telleth--what I ever think,
That GOD is good indeed;
And that he suiteth, in us all,
Our spirit to our need.
Think ye--if these poor peasants were
All discontent and sour--
If they in frowns and murmurings
Spent every wretched hour:--
Like many a cherished, pampered child,
Whom wealth and fondness cloy,
Till e’en the knowledge of a want
Would be a novel joy:--
Think, if these peasants pined like him
For pleasures they have not,
How manifold would then have been
The sorrows of their lot!
But they, unshod, bareheaded too,
Fed sparsely with coarse food,
Go laughing on their gleesome way,
As GOD’S bright creatures should.
They are like flowers, springing up
In some unkindly place,
Yet full of all their colours rare,
Their sweetness and their grace.
They _are_ bright flowers, that spring to cheer
E’en penury’s wilderness,
And often with a swelling heart,
Those human flowers I bless.
Kind blessings on their bold, clear eyes,
And elvish, unbound hair;--
And blessings on their laughter wild,
Mid crags and moorlands bare!
In autumn mornings forth they go
With baskets to the wold,
Some of wicker, some of rush,
Some new, and many old.
And over mountain, over glen,
The merry creatures bound,
On to the wide and boggy heaths,
Where a thousand streamlets sound.
The small bare legs all splash about,
Heeding not cold nor wet,
So long as busy eyes can see,
And hands the treasure get.
“_And after all this toil and moil,
What profit win they thence?_”--
Perhaps a long day’s work may bring
A few poor sordid pence.
But more than hundreds to the rich
Are pennies to the poor,
And thankfully they seek and sell
The Cranberries on the moor.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
The heart of kindness seldom sours or curdles;
The cream of love is in it pure and sweet:
With every charm that human nature girdles,
And every grace of gentleness replete,
The man who has a kindly heart is most
In pattern like his LORD; for where the law
Of kindness rules the heart, the virtues draw
Together in companionship, and post
Themselves around that citadel of love.
The kindly man doth always kindly prove:
He has a word of sweetness for the child--
Of pity for the poor--of sympathy
For all who mourn; and truly glad is he
When through his generous care some sorrowing face has smiled.
There’s music ever in the kindly soul,
For every deed of goodness done is like
A chord set in the heart, and joy doth strike
Upon it oft as memory doth unroll
The immortal page whereon good deeds are writ;
And Heaven gives nothing sweeter to the mind
Than memories of the acts that bless our human kind.
_MacKellar._
IVY.... _Constancy._
In Greece the altar of Hymen was enwreathed with Ivy, and a branch of it
was presented to the new-married couple, as a symbol of the indissoluble
knot. It was sacred to Bacchus, who is represented crowned with Ivy
leaves, as well as those of the vine. It formed the crown of the Greek
and Roman poets; and, in modern times, has been made the poet’s frequent
image of constancy. The Ivy is attached to the earth by its own roots,
and derives no nourishment from the substances to which it clings. The
protector of ruins, it adorns the dilapidated walls which it holds
together; it will not accept every kind of support, but its attachment
ends only with its life.
* * * * *
When all things have their trial, you shall find
Nothing is constant but a virtuous mind.
_Shirley._
* * * * *
The mountain rill
Seeks with no surer flow the far, bright sea,
Than my unchanged affections flow to thee.
_Park Benjamin._
* * * * *
I am constant as the northern star;
Of whose true, fixed, and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Make my breast
Transparent as pure crystal, that the world,
Jealous of me, may see the foulest thought
My heart does hold. Where shall a woman turn
Her eyes to find out constancy?
_Buckingham._
* * * * *
No, never from this hour to part,
We’ll live and love so true,
The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin’s too.
_Goldsmith._
* * * * *
The Ivy round some lofty pile
Its twining tendril flings;
Though fled from thence be pleasure’s smile,
It yet the fonder clings;
As lonelier still becomes the place,
The warmer is its fond embrace,
More firm its verdant rings;
As if it loved its shade to rear
O’er one devoted to despair.
Thus shall my bosom cling to thine,
Unchanged by gliding years;
Through Fortune’s rise, or her decline,
In sunshine, or in tears;
And though between us oceans roll,
And rocks divide us, still my soul
Shall feel no jealous fears:
Confiding in a heart like thine,
Love’s uncontaminated shrine.
_Mrs. Hale._
HOLLY.... _Foresight_.
The Holly, with its scarlet berries, is the most beautiful of the
evergreens that have been used for ages to adorn the churches of old
England, during the Christmas season. It is an ornament to the woods,
stripped bare by the rude breath of winter; its berries serve for food
for the little birds that never leave us, and its foliage affords them
an hospitable shelter during the cold season. Nature, by a seeming
forethought, has been careful to preserve the verdure of this handsome
tree all the year round, and to arm it with thorns, that it may furnish
both food and protection to the innocent creatures which resort to it
for shelter. It may be added, however, that from the bark of the common
Holly, when fermented and washed from the woody fibres, is made the
bird-lime which is used for catching small birds.
* * * * *
With Holly and ivy,
So green and so gay,
We deck up our houses
As fresh as the day;
With bays and rosemary,
And laurel complete,
And every one now
Is a king in conceit.
_Poor Robin’s Almanac, 1695._
* * * * *
THE HOLLY TREE.
O Reader! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly tree?
The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves,
Ordered by an intelligence so wise
As might confound the atheist’s sophistries.
Below, a circling fence its leaves are seen,
Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle, through their prickly round
Can reach to wound;
But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.
I love to view these things with curious eyes
And moralize;
And in this wisdom of the Holly tree
Can emblems see,
Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.
Thus, though abroad, perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere,
To those who on my leisure would intrude
Reserved and rude,
Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be,
Like the high leaves upon the Holly tree.
And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,
Some harshness show,
All vain asperities I day by day
Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly tree.
And as when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,
The Holly leaves a sober hue display,
Less bright than they;
But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly tree?
So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng,
So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they,
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly tree.
_Southey._
* * * * *
To know the road ere on’t we trust the foot,
And where it leads, and what, while journeying,
We may meet, is Wisdom’s eager wish.
_Peerbold._
* * * * *
Walk
Boldly and wisely in that light thou hast;
There is a hand above will help thee on.
_Bailey._
MEADOW SAFFRON.... _My best days are past_.
The Meadow Saffron, or Colchicum Autumnale, springs up about the time
the leaves begin to fall from the trees, and may, therefore, be said to
proclaim to all nature, that the bright days of summer are past.
According to Ovid, this autumnal flower owes its origin to some drops of
the magic liquor prepared by Medea, to restore the aged Æson to the
bloom and vigour of youth, which were spilled in the fields. As a
medicine, the Colchicum is powerful, but dangerous, and must be used
with caution. The poisonous quality of the plant seems to be known, as
if by instinct, to all kinds of cattle. They all shun it, and in many
pastures this alone will be found standing, when all other herbage has
been consumed.
* * * * *
Why grieve that time has brought so soon
The sober age of manhood on?
As idly should I weep at noon
To see the blush of morning gone.
True, time will sear and blanch my brow:
Well--I shall sit with aged men,
And my good glass will tell me how
A grisly beard becomes me then.
And should no foul dishonour lie
Upon my head when I am gray,
Love yet may search my fading eye,
And smooth the path of my decay.
_Bryant._
[Illustration: SWEET PEA PANSY
_I depart. Think on me._]
* * * * *
Oh! thou who dry’st the mourner’s tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to thee!
The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone:
But thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of wo.
_Moore._
* * * * *
Then bright from earth, amid the troubled sky,
Ascends fair Colchicum, with radiant eye,
Warms the cold bosom of the hoary year,
And lights with beauty’s blaze the dusky sphere.
_Darwin._
* * * * *
The world around me groweth gray and old:
My friends are dropping one by one away;
Some live in distant lands--some in the clay
Rest quietly, their mortal moments told.
And when my children gather at my knee
To worship GOD and sing our morning psalm,
Their rising stature whispers unto me
My life is waning towards its evening calm.
_MacKellar._
CHINA ASTER.... _Variety_.
The China Aster begins to blow when other flowers are scarce. It is like
an afterthought of Flora’s, who smiles at leaving us. The China Aster
was introduced into Europe by Father d’Insarville, a Jesuit missionary;
who, about the year 1730, sent seeds of it to the royal gardens of
Paris. As, by cultivation, many varieties of the Aster have been
obtained, the flower has been made the emblem of variety.
* * * * *
The sleepless streams move onward
Through beds of idling lilies,
Chiding the foolish flowers
That watch their mirrored beauty;
So live the thoughtless many,
Who throng the halls of fashion.
_Dawes._
* * * * *
I love the ever-varying hue
Upon the face of heaven;
I would not have it always blue,
But oft with lightning riven.
I would not have wide oceans spread
A mirror e’er to see;
But lashed to many a cresty head
By scowling tempests free!
_C. Watson._
* * * * *
Play every string in love’s sweet lyre--
Set all its music flowing;
Be air, and dew, and light, and fire,
To keep the soul-flower growing.
_Mrs. Osgood._
* * * * *
The rapid and the deep--the fall, the gulf,
Have likenesses in feeling and in life.
And life, so varied, hath more loveliness
In one day than a creeping century
Of sameness.
_Bailey._
* * * * *
Youth loves and lives on change,
Till the soul sighs for sameness; which at last
Becomes variety; and takes its place.
_Bailey._
* * * * *
Variety’s the source of joy below,
From which still fresh revolving pleasures flow;
In books and love the mind one end pursues,
And only change the expiring flame renews.
_Gay._
* * * * *
Wherefore did nature pour her bounties forth
With such a full and unwithdrawing hand,
Covering the earth with odours, fruits, and flocks,
Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable,
But all to please and sate a curious taste?
_Milton._
AMERICAN STARWORT.... _Welcome_.
The Starwort is another late-blooming flower. It is exclusively
indigenous to North America and the Cape of Good Hope. The flowers are
of every variety of hue, and present a very attractive appearance.
* * * * *
Stranger, new flowers in our vales are seen,
With a dazzling eye, and a lovely green.--
They scent the breath of the dewy morn:
They feed no worm, and they hide no thorn,
But revel and grow in our balmy air;
They are flowers which Freedom hath planted there.
This bud of welcome to thee we give,--
Bid its unborn sweets in thy bosom live;
It shall charm thee from all a stranger’s pain,
Reserve, suspicion, and dark disdain:
A race in its freshness and bloom are we;
Bring no cares from a worn-out world with thee.
_Mrs. Sigourney._
JUNIPER.... _Protection_.
The Juniper has been the favourite of Superstition. The ancients
consecrated the shrub to the Furies. The smoke of its green roots was
the incense which they offered in preference to the infernal gods; and
they burned its berries during funerals to ban malign influences. In
some parts of Europe, the peasant still believes that the perfume of
Juniper berries purifies the air, and drives evil spirits from his
humble cot. The Juniper is made to signify protection, on account of the
defensive qualities ascribed to it by superstition, and the shelter its
drooping branches afford to small animals which are hard pressed by the
hunters.
* * * * *
I have found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
But let me that plunder forbear,
She will say, ’twas a barbarous deed.
“For he ne’er could be true,” she averred,
“Who could rob a poor bird of its young;”
And I loved her the more, when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
_Shenstone._
HAZEL.... _Peace--Reconciliation_.
Fable gives the following account of the origin of the signification of
the Hazel. There was a time when men were at constant war with each
other, and could not be restrained from cruelty and revenge by any tie
of kin. The gods at length took pity on them. Apollo and Mercury made
presents to each other, and descended to the earth. The god of harmony
received from the son of Maia the shell of a tortoise, out of which he
had constructed a lyre, and gave him in exchange a Hazel stick, which
had the power of imparting a love of virtue and of reconciling hearts
divided by envy and hate. By the power thus given him, Mercury taught
men the love of peace, and of home and country, and made commerce the
bond of nations. Adorned with two light wings, and entwined with
serpents, the Hazel rod given to the god of eloquence by the god of
harmony is still, by the name of caduceus, the emblem of peace,
commerce, and reconciliation.
* * * * *
Oh then that wisdom may we know,
Which leads a life of peace below!
_Sprague._
* * * * *
Peace, sweet peace is ever found
In her eternal home on holy ground.
_Mrs. Embury._
* * * * *
And see,
As yet unclothed, the Hazel tree
Prepares his early tufts to lend
The coppice first-fruits; and depend
In russet drops, whose clustered rows,
Still closed in part, in part disclose,
Yet fenced beneath their scaly shed,
The pendent anther’s yellow head.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
I trust the frown thy features wear,
Ere long into a smile will turn;
I would not that a face as fair
As thine, beloved, should look so stern.
The chain of ice that winter binds,
Holds not for aye the sparkling rill;
It melts away when summer shines,
And leaves the waters sparkling still:
Thus let thy cheek resume the smile
That shed such sunny light before;
And though I left thee for a while,
I’ll vow to leave thee, love, no more.
_Wm. Leggett._
* * * * *
Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing,
Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die--
Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing,
Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky.
Life is but shadows, save a promise given,
Which lights up sorrow with a fadeless ray.
Oh, touch the sceptre!--with a hope in heaven,
Come, turn thy spirit from the world away.
_Anon._
OAK.... _Nobility_.
The form of the Oak tree, when grown fairly and naturally, is a perfect
emblem of its qualities, so firm set, so massive, and strong. You may
always know it instantly, whether as a wintry skeleton form, bare, and
gnarled, and angular, or in its summer garb of rich and finely massed
foliage, always the monarch of the woods.
* * * * *
True is, that whilome that good poet said,
The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known,
For man by nothing is so well bewrayed
As by his manners, in which plain is shown
Of what degree and what race he is grown.
_Spenser._
* * * * *
How vain are all hereditary honours,
Those poor possessions from another’s deeds,
Unless our own just virtues form our title,
And give a sanction to our fond assumption!
_Shirley._
* * * * *
Whoe’er amidst the sons
Of reason, valour, liberty, and virtue,
Displays distinguished merit, is a noble
Of nature’s own creating. Such have risen,
Sprung from the dust; or where had been our honours?
_Thomson._
* * * * *
LIFE OF AN OAK TREE.
Long centuries have come and passed
Since, in a stormy wind,
An acorn fell one autumn day,
Like thousands of his kind.
The wild swine fed in the forests then,
And hungry beasts were they;
They crunched the mast where’er it fell,
And they feasted well that day.
But as they trampled all about
With heavy hoofs, they trod
That acorn--perchance hundreds more--
Deep in the yielding sod.
Years came and went.--The acorn grew
And became a young Oak tree;
With a slender, straight, and flexile stem,
Dressed in rich greenery.
Time passeth on.--The young tree rose
A bold and noble thing;
Each summer showed a leafier crest,
And a longer shoot each spring.
There came into the ancient wood
Some stern official men;
They marked the fairest, loftiest trees,
And they were doomèd then.
They glanced upon the tall young Oak,
And quickly passed it by,
And laughing harshly, said ’twould do
By the next century.
Soon through the forest’s solemn glades
There rang that deathful sound,
The woodman’s axe;--and crashing fell
Trunks, branches, all around.
Craftsmen of many kinds there came
For that oak timber good,
And carried it in loads away
From its old native wood.
Some floated far o’er ocean’s waves
Mid stormy winds and squalls,
Both merchant-ships, and men-of-war,
“Old England’s Wooden Walls.”
Some, raised on high, with rare device
The royal roof support,
And look down in the banquet-hall
On king, and queen, and court.
Some, quaintly carved, and polished fair,
May shrine a pictured face,
Of Dolci’s gentle loveliness,
Or Raphael’s angel grace.
And many a toilet mirror owes,
Its flowered and gilded frame
To the good trees of which I sing:--
Well have they won their fame!
And massive tables, that have once
Groaned ’neath baronial fare,
If they could talk of that Oak wood,
Might tell of dwelling there.--
The young Oak tree yet statelier grew,
And broader spread its shade,
And the dappled deer lay sheltered ’neath
The canopy it made.
Years came and went.--The Oak tree stood
In full-grown prime and pride,
And lords of various mind and mood
Possessed those woodlands wide.
The first, a reckless forester,
Loved horse, and hawk, and hound,
And he chased all o’er his wide domains,
Wellnigh the whole year round.
His lady fair, as dames were wont,
In those long bygone days,
Loved hawking too; and gallant trains
She led through forest ways.
’Twas a merry and a winsome thing,
When lord, and squire, and knight
Rode forth, mid bugles ringing shrill,
With dainty ladies bright,
To sweep along by vale and hill,
Or through the forest glade,
Where the echoes of their laughter light
A merry music made.
And oft they reined their palfreys in
Beneath the young Oak tree,
And oft foretold how grand a thing
In after-time ’twould be.
These jocund sports passed all away;
For direful civil war
Spread its fell curse throughout the land,
Wasting it near and far.
And the next lord these broad lands had,
A warrior stern was he,
He dwelt with camps and cannon more
Than sylvan glade and tree.
He died in battle; and his lands
By craft and deeds unfair,
His brother claimed and won, although
His infant son was heir.
This hard, bad man was miserly,
And loved no thing save gold;
He soon marked out the stately tree,
To be cut down and sold.
What was its beauty unto him?--
The grand and noble thing!
His dull eyes only measured well
What moneys it would bring.
But while he doomed the lordly oak,
His wicked life ebbed low,
And suddenly, death summoned him
From his ill-got hoards to go.
The grand estate--the ancient hall,
The woods, and wealth untold,
Came then unto that warrior’s child,
A boy of ten years old.
He was a thoughtful, quiet boy,
For though yet young in years,
His mother’s sorrows and his own
Had made him old in tears.
And with a calm and gentle joy
Came home that youthful heir,
For his chief source of gladness was,
To bring his mother there:--
To watch her sadly smile to see
Again each well-known spot,
Where days of happiness had passed,
That ne’er could be forgot:--
To have her former state restored,
Maidens, and serving-men;
And garments, richer than of old,
He bade them bring her then.
The gardens, that the miser had
Left all untrimmed and bare,
Were planted, pruned, and decked anew,
And stored with all things rare.
But chiefly did the lady love
One glade within the wood,
The shady glade, where broad and high,
The noble Oak tree stood.
Sad memories, yet sweet ones too,
For her that lone spot bore:
’Twas there she parted from her lord
To meet on earth no more!
’Twas there, beneath that tree, he spoke
His last, _last_ fond farewell!
From thence she watched him ride away
The eve before he fell:--
No marvel that sad lady loved
The silent spot so well!
And there they oft together came,
The lady and the boy,
For he to her was all on earth,
Her one sole living joy.
And long years after, when she slept
Her warrior’s tomb beside,
When the boy had grown an aged man,
With grandsons by his side:--
That ancient wood he reverenced;
And peasants, when they spoke
Of the old tree within the glade,
Called it--the Lady’s Oak.
I know the spot--though strangely time
Hath altered all around,
Where once the forest’s stillness lay,
Now whirling wheels resound.
A large and busy peopled town
E’en on that spot we see,
Where dappled deer and timid birds
Dwelt fearlessly and free.
But I remember when a child,
One old and mouldering shell
Of a most ancient, huge Oak tree
Stood near the public well.
I’ve sat within it many a time,
In childish sport and play,
And much I mourned to see at last
The trunk quite cleared away.
Soon they built there a fine new street,
And noisy coaches sweep
With roar and riot,--even where
That lady came to weep!
Each passing year we note a change
In ancient things and new;
And if we see so much in one,
What may not hundreds do?
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
There’s no power
In ancestry, to make the foolish wise,
The ignorant learned, the cowardly and base
Deserving our respect as brave and good.
All men feel this: nor dares the despot say
His fiat can endow with truth the soul,
Or, like a pension, on the heart bestow
The virtues current in the realms above.
Hence man’s best riches must be gained--not given;
His noblest name deserved, and not derived.
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
Some men are born to endure the toil and strife
And heavy burdens of the earth. They are
The pillars in the temple of this life,
Its strength and ornament; or, hidden far
Beneath, they form its firm foundation-stone.
In nobleness they stand distinct and lone,
Yet other men upon them lean, and fain
(Such selfishness in human bosoms swells)
Would lay on them the weight of their own pain.
Where greatness is, a patient spirit dwells;
They least repine who bear and suffer most:
In still and stern endurance they sustain
The ills whereof all weaker minds complain;
And in their blessed lot they stand, without a sigh or boast.
_MacKellar._
YEW.... _Sorrow_.