dark foliage, with which its fruit, looking like drops of blood, stands
in harsh contrast, excite in us a sort of aversion. Persons who sleep
under a Yew tree are liable to be seized with dizziness, heaviness, and
violent headache. Its juice is poisonous, and the tree exhausts the soil
which supports it, and destroys all other plants which spring up beneath
it. The Yew was planted in old English burying-grounds, and its wood was
commonly employed for making bows and arrows before the introduction of
fire-arms. The Greeks, impressed with the melancholy aspect of this
tree, invented the fable of the unhappy Smilax; who, seeing that her
love was rejected by young Crocus, was transformed into a Yew.
* * * * *
Who that hath ever been,
Could bear to be no more?
Yet who would tread again the scene
He trod through life before?
_Montgomery._
* * * * *
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;
Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prest
With more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown,
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
And sorrowing friends stood round the bed
Whereon a form was lying:
’Twas Ellen;--there the suffering saint,
Without a murmur or complaint,
In peace and hope was dying.
A silence deep as death was there
When her true soul departed;
And grace and mercy crowned her end
Who lived the broken-hearted.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping
O’er the chords of the youthful heart,
And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping,
Sees the visions of fancy depart;
When the bloom of young feeling is dying,
And the heart throbs with passion’s fierce strife
When our sad days are wasted in sighing,
Who then can find sweetness in life?
_Mrs. Embury._
* * * * *
He is dead. Those words toll on the ear,
The knell of hopes, and fears, and fleshy aims.
The spirit light has cast a farewell beam--
Has shaken off its way-worn gear, and winged
To heaven. Sorrow will demand her tears,
For he was lovely, and leaves a hollow
In our near-drawn sphere which none may upclose.
But thoughts of heaven, through tears, will light us,
Making that refresh which seemed to blast!
_C. Watson._
DEAD LEAVES.... _Death_.
A more appropriate emblem of death than the remains of the forest’s
refreshing verdure could not be selected. Withered by the chill breath
of ruthless Winter, the leaves strew the earth; and, in time, mingle
with the dust, like ourselves. The eye cannot help watching how the
winds pursue, scatter, whirl, and drive these remnants of departed life.
* * * * *
No longer mourn for me when I am dead.
Then you shall hear the surly, sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking of me then should work you wo!
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Now shall my verse, which thou in life didst grace,
Not leave thee in the grave, that ugly place,
That few regard, or have respect unto:
Where all attendance and observance ends;
Where all the sunshine of our favour sets;
Where what was ill no countenance defends,
And what was good the unthankful world forgets.
_Daniel._
* * * * *
Hence, profane grim man! nor dare
To approach so neere my faire.
Marble vaults, and gloomy caves,
Church-yards, charnell-houses, graves,
Where the living loath to be,
Heaven hath designed to thee.
But if needs ’mongst us thou’lt rage,
Let thy fury feed on age.
_Habington._
* * * * *
So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand
I’ the instant we withdraw the moving hand,
But some short time retains a faint, weak course,
By virtue of the first impulsive force;
And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile
Thy crown of bays, oh let it crack awhile,
And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes
Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes.
_Carew._
* * * * *
Ah! thou hast left to live; and in the time
When scarce thou blossom’dst in thy pleasant prime:
So falls by northern blast a virgin rose,
At half that doth her bashful bosom close;
So a sweet flower languishing decays,
That late did blush when kissed by Phœbus’ rays;
So Phœbus mounting the meridian’s height,
Choked by pale Phœbe faints unto our sight;
Astonished Nature sullen stands to see
The life of all this all so changed to be;
In gloomy gowns the stars this loss deplore,
The sea with murmuring mountains beats the shore.
_Drummond._
* * * * *
Death is the crown of life:
Were death denied, poor men would live in vain;
Were death denied, to live would not be life:
Were death denied, even fools would wish to die.
_Young._
* * * * *
Death is the sea, and we like rivers flow
To lose our selves in the insatiate maine,
Whence rivers may, she ne’er returne againe.
Nor grieve this christall streame so soone did fall
Into the ocean; since shee perfumed all
The banks she past, so that each neighbour field
Did sweete flowers cherish by her watring, yeeld,
Which now adorne her herse.
_Habington._
* * * * *
We bore him to the grave while yet ’twas morn,
The winter sunlight shining on his coffin:
The weight of grief was heavy to be borne,
And the salt tears rose in our eyelids often.
We slowly walked in mutely sad procession;
The pitying people freely made us way;
And the blest child, yet guiltless of transgression,
We softly placed between the walls of clay.
We sang a hymn--we bowed our heads to pray;
And GOD, who had our bitter grief appointed,
Sent also strengthening grace by lips anointed.
We looked again on George as low he lay
Deep in the earth; and when we homeward went,
We felt his home was better ’yond the firmament.
_MacKellar._
MISTLETOE.... _I climb to greatness_.
The Mistletoe is a creeping plant which grows on the tops of the tallest
trees. The proud oak is its slave, and nourishes it with his own
substance. The Druids paid a kind of adoration to it, as the emblem of a
weakness that was superior to strength: they regarded the tyrant of the
oak as equally formidable to men and gods.
* * * * *
’Tis a common proof,
That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder,
Whereto the climber upwards turns his face:
But when he once attains the upmost round,
He then unto the ladder turns his back,
Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees
By which he did ascend.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head,
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.
_Byron._
* * * * *
Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
On the summit see,
The seals of office glitter in his eyes;
He climbs,--he pants,--he grasps them. At his heels,
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,
And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.
_Cowper._
* * * * *
If any man must fall for me to rise,
Then seek I not to rise. Another’s pain
I choose not for my good. A golden chain--
A robe of honour is too poor a prize
To tempt my hasty hand to do a wrong
Unto a fellow man. This life hath wo
Sufficient, wrought by man’s satanic foe;
And who that hath a heart would dare prolong
Or add unto the sorrows of a soul
That seeks some healing balm to make it whole?
My bosom owns the brotherhood of man;
From GOD and truth a renegade is he
Who scorns a poor man in his poverty,
Or on his fellow lays a supercilious ban.
_MacKellar._
ASH TREE.... _Grandeur_.
* * * * *
It is sure,
Stamped by the seal of nature, that the well
Of mind, where all its waters gather pure,
Shall with unquestioned spell all hearts allure.
Wisdom enshrined in beauty--Oh! how high
The order of that loveliness.
_Percival._
* * * * *
The sky is changed!--and such a change! O night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
And this is in the night:--most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,--
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again ’tis black,--and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,
As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.
_Byron._
* * * * *
I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendour of mine own.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
But lo! the dome--the vast and wondrous dome,
To which Diana’s marvel was a cell--
Christ’s mighty shrine above his martyr’s tomb!
I have beheld the Ephesian’s miracle--
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell
The hyæna and the jackal in their shade;
I have beheld Sophia’s bright roofs swell
Their glittering mass i’ the sun, and have surveyed
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem prayed;
But thou, of temples old, or altars new,
Standest alone--with nothing like to thee--
Worthiest of GOD, the holy and the true.
Since Zion’s desolation, when that He
Forsook his former city, what could be,
Of earthly structures in his honour piled,
Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty,
Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled.
Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not;
And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind,
Expanded by the genius of the spot,
Has grown colossal, and can only find
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined
Thy hopes of immortality; and thou
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined,
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.
_Byron._
* * * * *
What peremptory, eagle-sighted eye
Dares look upon the heaven of her brow,
That is not blinded by her majesty?
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
The glorious sun
Stays in his course, and plays the alchymist,
Turning, with splendour of his precious eye,
The meagre, cloddy earth to glittering gold.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
No! I shall never lose the trace,
Of what I’ve felt in this bright place;
And should my spirit’s hope grow weak,--
Should I, O God! forget thy power,
This mighty scene again I’ll seek,
At the same calm and glowing hour;
And here at the sublimest shrine
That nature ever reared to thee,
Rekindle all that hope divine,
And feel my immortality!
_Moore._
CHAMOMILE.... _Energy in Adversity_.
Italy!
Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rents
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny,
And hath denied, to every other sky,
Spirits which soar from ruin:--thy decay
Is still impregnate with divinity.
Which gilds it with revivifying ray.
_Byron._
* * * * *
I said to Penury’s meagre train,
Come on--your threats I brave;
My last poor life-drop you may drain,
And crush me to the grave;
Yet still the spirit that endures,
Shall mock your force the while,
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours
With bitter smile.
I said to cold Neglect and Scorn,
Pass on--I heed you not;
Ye may pursue me till my form
And being are forgot;
Yet still, the spirit which you see
Undaunted by your wiles,
Draws from its own nobility
Its high-born smiles.
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
When a great mind falls,
The noble nature of man’s generous heart
Doth bear him up against the shame of ruin,
With gentle censure, using but his faults
As modest means to introduce his praise;
For pity, like a dewy twilight, comes
To close th’ oppressive splendour of his day,
And they who but admired him in his height
His altered state lament, and love him fallen.
_Joanna Baillie._
* * * * *
Oh, more or less than man--in high or low,
Battling with nations, flying from the field;
Now making monarchs’ necks thy footstool, now
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield;
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,
However deeply in men’s spirits skilled,
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war,
Nor learn that tempted fate will leave the loftiest star.
Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide
With that untaught innate philosophy,
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled
With a sedate and all-enduring eye;--
When fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child,
He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.
_Byron._
CITRON.... _Estrangement_.
Ev’n as one heat another heat expels,
Or as one nail by strength drives out another;
So the remembrance of my former love
Is by a newer object quite forgotten.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Few years have passed since thou and I
Were firmest friends, at least in name,
And childhood’s gay sincerity
Preserved our feelings long the same.
But now, like me, too well thou know’st
What trifles oft the heart recall;
And those who once have loved the most
Too soon forget they loved at all.
And such the change the heart displays,
So frail is early friendship’s reign,
A month’s brief lapse, perhaps a day’s,
Will view thy mind estranged again.
If so, it never shall be mine
To mourn the loss of such a heart;
The fault was Nature’s fault, not thine,
Which made thee fickle as thou art.
As rolls the ocean’s changing tide,
So human feelings ebb and flow;
And who would in a breast confide
Where stormy passions ever glow?
_Byron._
* * * * *
Tis otherwise decreed, and I submit!
Alone I guide my bark adown the stream;
Dark is the voyage, around the night-birds flit,
The waves are tinged by no sweet-smiling beam.
And now I breathe the parting word--Farewell!
And now, the cords which fondly bind, I sever!
Break from the scenes I once had loved so well,--
And tear thine image from my heart for ever!
_J. W. Hanson._
* * * * *
Farewell, Theresa! that cloud which over
Yon moon this moment gathering we see,
Shall scarce from her pure path have passed, ere thy lover
Swift o’er the wide wave shall wander from thee.
Long, like that dim cloud, I’ve hung around thee,
Darkening thy prospects, saddening thy brow;
With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found thee;
Oh! think how changed, love, how changed art thou now!
But here I free thee: like one awaking
From fearful slumber, this dream thou’lt tell;
The bright moon her spell too is breaking,
Past are the dark clouds; Theresa, farewell!
_Moore._
DRAGON PLANT.... _You are near a snare_.
He secretly
Puts pirate’s colours out at both our sterns,
That we might fight each other in mistake,
That he should share the ruin of us both!
_Crown._
His tongue was soft as velvet leaf,
His poison-fangs concealing;
But where he stung, the festering wound
Was past the art of healing.
“Beware of him whose speech is smooth,”
The mother spake her daughter;
“The deepest depths are ever found
Where flows the smoothest water.”
“His heart is like an angel’s heart,”
The daughter spake her mother;
“He seeks to be to thee and me
A loving son and brother.”
She listened to his guileful tale,
Nor heeded words of warning;
Ah! bitterly did future pain
Repay her present scorning.
For Robin laid his cunning game
With art so deep and skilful,
That gentle Ellen’s mind was turned
To disobedience wilful.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
Is there no way to save thee? minutes fly,
And thou art lost! _thou!_ my sole benefactor,
The only being who was constant to me
Through every change. Yet, make me not a traitor!
Let me save thee--but spare my honour!
_Byron._
* * * * *
Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose
What ne’er was meant for other ears?
Why thus destroy thine own repose,
And dig the source of future tears?
Oh! thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,
While lurking, envious foes will smile,
For all the follies thou hast said,
Of those who spoke but to beguile.
_Byron._
* * * * *
Again, I tell thee, ask not; but by all
Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven--by all
The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope
To emulate them, and to leave behind
Descendants worthy both of them and thee--
By all thou hast of blest in hope or memory--
By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter--
By all the good deeds thou hast done to me,
Good I would now repay with greater good,
Remain within--trust to thy household gods
And to my word for safety, if thou dost
As I now counsel--but if not, thou art lost!
_Byron._
REED.... _Single Blessedness_.
But earlier is the rose distilled,
Than that which withering on the virgin thorn
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Love not, love not; the thing you love may change;
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you,
The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange,
The heart still warmly beat, and not for you.
_Mrs. Norton._
* * * * *
Alone! alone! how drear it is always to be alone!
In such a depth of wilderness, the only thinking one!
The waters in their path rejoice, the trees together sleep--
But I have not one silver voice upon my ear to creep!
_Willis._
* * * * *
Do any thing but love; or, if thou lovest,
And art a woman, hide thy love from him
Whom thou dost worship. Never let him know
How dear he is; flit like a bird before him;
Lead him from tree to tree, from flower to flower;
But be not won; or thou wilt, like that bird,
When caught and caged, be left to pine neglected,
And perish in forgetfulness.
_Miss Landon._
* * * * *
O many a summer’s morning glow
Has lent the rose its ray,
And many a winter’s drifting snow
Has swept its bloom away;
But she has kept the faithless pledge
To this, her winter hour,
And keeps it still, herself alone,
And wasted like the flower.
_O. W. Holmes._
* * * * *
My heart is with its early dream;
It cannot turn away
To seek again the joys of earth,
And mingle with the gay.
The dew-nursed flower that lifts its brow
Beneath the shades of night,
Must wither when the sunbeam sheds
Its too resplendent light.
My heart is with its early dream,
And vainly love’s soft power
Would seek to charm that heart anew,
In some unguarded hour.
I would not that some gentle one
Should hear my frequent sigh;
The deer that bears its death-wound, turns
In loneliness to die.
_Mrs. Embury._
FENNEL.... _Strength_.
Oh, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is,
To suffer and grow strong.
_Longfellow._
* * * * *
As the slow beast with heavy strength indued
In some wide field by troops of boys pursued,
Though round his sides a wooden tempest rain,
Crops the tall harvest, and lays waste the plain;
Thick on his hide the hollow blows resound,
The patient animal maintains his ground,
Scarce from the field with all their efforts chased,
And stirs but slowly when he stirs at last.
On Ajax thus a weight of Trojans hung,
The strokes redoubled on his buckler rung;
Confiding now in bulky strength he stands,
Now turns, and backward bears the yielding bands:
Now stiff recedes, yet hardly seems to fly,
And threats his followers with retorted eye.
Fixed as the bar between two warring powers,
While hissing darts descend in iron showers:
In his broad buckler many a weapon stood,
Its surface bristled with a quivering wood;
And many a javelin, guiltless, on the plain
Marks the dry dust, and thirsts for blood in vain.
_Pope._
* * * * *
Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,
The den expands, and expectation mute
Gapes round the silent circle’s peopled walls.
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
His first attack, wide waving to and fro
His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow.
_Byron._
* * * * *
The lusty strength of youth
Is better far than proud decrepitude.
With mind and might and fortitude endued,
We stand erect and fight for present truth.
We’re in the young delight of new existence;
The ardent blood leaps lively in our veins;
The dim traditions glimmering in the distance
We scorn, for objects worthier manly pains.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
He that of such a height hath built his mind,
And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,
As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame
Of his resolved powers; nor do all the wind
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong
His settled peace, or to disturb the same:
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and weilds of man survey!
_Daniel._
COXCOMB.... _Singularity_.
Go then, and if you can, admire the state
Of beaming diamonds, and reflected plate;
Procure a taste to double the surprise,
And gaze on Parian charms with learned eyes:
Be struck with bright brocade, or Tyrian dye,
Or birth-day nobles’ splendid livery.
_Pope._
* * * * *
He also had a quality uncommon
To early risers after a long chase,
Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon
December’s drowsy day to his dull race,--
A quality agreeable to woman,
When her soft liquid words run on apace,
Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,--
He did not fall asleep just after dinner;
But, light and airy, stood on the alert,
And shone in the best part of dialogue,
By humouring always what they might assert,
And listening to the topics most in vogue;
Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert;
And smiling but in secret--cunning rogue!
He ne’er presumed to make an error clearer;
In short, there never was a better hearer.
_Byron._
GRASS.... _Submission_.
According to the Greek historians, Grass was made the symbol of
submission, because the ancient nations of the West gathered Grass and
presented it to the conqueror, to show that they confessed themselves
overcome. The grass is trodden under foot by imperial man; and, instead
of returning to its former vigour with elastic spring, or punishing its
violator like the nettle, yields to its fate--spiritless submission.
* * * * *
It grieves me to the soul
To see how man submits to man’s control;
How overpowered and shackled minds are led
In vulgar tracks, and to submission bred.
_Crabbe._
* * * * *
You shall be as a father to my youth,
My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear;
And I will stoop and humble my intents
To your well practised, wise directions.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Romans now
Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors;
But, wo the while! our fathers’ minds are dead,
And we are governed with our mother’s spirits;
Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
E’en liberty itself is bartered here.
At gold’s superior charms all freedom flies,
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys;
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves,
And, calmly bent, to servitude conform,
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.
_Goldsmith._
* * * * *
Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride;
From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind
An easy compensation seem to find.
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed,
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade;
Processions formed for piety and love,
A mistress or a saint in every grove.
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled,
The sports of children satisfy the child;
Each nobler aim, repressed by long control,
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;
While low delights, succeeding fast behind,
In happier meanness occupy the mind:
As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore sway,
Defaced by time and tottering in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed;
And, wondering man could want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.
_Goldsmith._
FIR.... _Time_.
What does not fade? the tower, that long had stood
The crush of thunder and the warring winds,
Shook by the slow, but sure destroyer, Time,
Now hangs in doubtful ruins o’er its base,
And flinty pyramids and walls of brass
Descend; the Babylonian spires are sunk;
Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down.
Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones,
And tottering empires crush by their own weight.
_Armstrong._
* * * * *