“Here they are! blowing, growing, all alive!” This was an old London cry
by little flower gardeners, who brought the products of their grounds to
the metropolis, and wheeled them through the streets in a barrow,
“blowing, growing, all alive!” to tempt purchasers in the humble streets
and alleys of working neighbourhoods. Acts of Parliament have put down
the flower-pots, which were accustomed to “topple on the _walkers’_
heads,” from the windows of houses, wherein flower-fanciers dwelt.
_Flower Garden._
Fairhanded Spring unbosoms every grace,
Throws out the snowdrop and the crocus first,
The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue.
And polyanthus of unnumbered dyes;
The yellow wallflower, stained with iron brown,
The lavish stock that scents the garden round.
From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed
Anemonies, auriculas, enriched
With shining meal o’er all their velvet leaves,
And full ranunculus of glowing red.
Then comes the tulip race, where beauty plays
Her idle freaks, from family diffused
To family, as flies the father dust,
The varied colours run; and while they break
On the charmed eye, the exulting florist marks,
With secret pride, the wonders of his hand.
No gradual bloom is wanting, from the bud,
First born of Spring, to Summer’s musky tribes--
Nor hyacinths of purest virgin white,
Low bent and blushing inwards--nor jonquils
Of potent fragrance--nor Narcissus fair,
As o’er the fabled mountain hanging still--
Nor broad carnations, nor gay spotted pinks,
Nor showered from every bush the damask rose.
_Thomson._
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