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THE 
 
 ROMANCE OF NATURE. 
 

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TH E 
 
 OMANCE OF NATURE 
 
 OR, 
 
 Cijc dTlolucv^^ca^Son^ SJlluiitvatctJ. 
 
 By Mrs. CHARLES MEREDITH, 
 
 LATE 
 
 LOUISA ANNE TWAMLEY. 
 
 THE PLATES ENGRAVED AFTER ORIGINAL DRAM'INGvS FROM NATURE 
 BY THE AUTHORESS. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 I sing of brooks, of blossomes, birds, and bowers. 
 
 Of April, Maj', of June and July flowers, 
 
 I sing of youth, of love too, and I write 
 How roses first came red, and lilies white; 
 
 I write of groves and twilight, and I sing 
 
 The court of Mab, and of the Fairie King.— Herrick. 
 
 There’s wit in every flower, if you can gather it.— Shirley. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 CHARLES TILT, FLEET STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXXXTX. 
 
 • ^ 
 
VAUi-T 
 
 Pa/ 
 
 Ulo 
 
 F6 
 
 m6S' 
 
 Cr^ARKE, PRINTERS, SILVER STREET, FALCON SQUARE, LONDON. 
 
TO 
 
 THE POET WORDSWORTH, 
 
 THESE ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE FLOWER-SEASONS 
 
 ARE, BY HIS KIND PERMISSION, 
 
 INSCRIBED BY LOUISA ANNE MEREDITH. 
 
I 
 
L’ ADIEU! 
 
 A THIRD edition of my simple Lays and Legends of 
 Flowers claims a few last words from me ere it goes 
 forth to a kind and approving public, the remembrance 
 of whose praise will ever he dear to me. 
 
 If, from my future home in Australia, I should 
 chance again to address my English friends, I shall 
 hope to find them not less ready to receive my efforts 
 with kind good-will:—if my brief, but most gratifying 
 literary career he already ended, I have but once more 
 to offer my heartfelt thanks to those who, by their 
 encouraging approval and still increasing cordiality of 
 praise, have rendered the three or four years in which 
 I have been an “authoress,” the happiest I have yet 
 known; and with true gratitude I now bid them 
 Farewell. 
 
 LOUISA A. MEREDITH. 
 
 London, May 21, 1839. 
 
P EE F A C E. 
 
 My own love for Flowers, and the intense pleasure 
 they afford me, are my best as well as my true reasons 
 for writing and publishing this volume; for I believed 
 (and surely the feeling was pardonable, even if somewhat 
 self-laudatory) that a record of the thoughts, fancies, 
 and associations which combine to render Flowers and 
 Flower Seasons so precious to me might, if communi¬ 
 cated, enhance the pleasure which others derive from 
 the same sweet sources. 
 
 I aim not at conveying scientific information; firstly, 
 because the design of my work is purely poetical; 
 and secondly, because my own knowledge of botany is 
 too limited to allow of my offering any instruction to 
 others. 
 
 I love Flowers as forming one of the sweetest lines 
 in the God-written Poetry of Nature: as one of the 
 universal blessings accessible to all nations, climes and 
 classes; blessings in their own loveliness alone, and in 
 the pleasure ever derivable from the contemplation of 
 
IX 
 
 loveliness; but trebly blessing us in the bimiliar and 
 beautiful power they possess of awakening in our hearts 
 feelings of wonder, admiration, gratitude, and devotion; 
 teaching us to look from Earth to Him who called it 
 into existence, and to feel how worthy of our unceas¬ 
 ing thankful adoration must be that Being, the meanest 
 of whose creations is so wonderfully, so beautifully 
 adapted to its appointed position in the vast whole. 
 Flowers seem to form the easiest and pleasantest path¬ 
 way to further love and knowledge of Nature’s glories. 
 They are indigenous to every soil, and familiar to every 
 eye; a universal language of love, beauty, poetry, and 
 wisdom, if we read them aright. 
 
 But, in thus prefacing my present volume I am, 
 perhaps, wrong, as in the following pages I have 
 sought only to express the beauty, poetry, and Ro¬ 
 mance of Nature which appear in the forms and 
 characters of Flowers. I have called in the aid of 
 fiction to vary the strain for the ears of those unac¬ 
 customed to songs of simple truth; and I have, in 
 one or two instances, ventured a half-fable, the better 
 to illustrate my meaning. 
 
 Need I say that the Wild Flowers of my own fair 
 Land are dearer to me than any others? If it be 
 requisite to tell this to my readers at the commencement 
 of these sketches, they will certainly need no repeti¬ 
 tion of the intelligence; for, on glancing over my illus- 
 
 b 
 
X 
 
 trative drawings, I find portraits of thirty natives among 
 the comparatively few subjects which a work like the 
 present could include. Many far more magnificent 
 might have been selected; but it is the poetiy of our 
 own meadows, and lanes, and dingles, and “ little 
 running brooks,” that I wished to point out to my 
 readers. Had I only made acquaintance with Flowers 
 in the costly conservatory, or the trimly laid-out 
 garden (though I dearly love a garden), I should not 
 feel their beauty and blessings half so deeply as I now 
 do. Wild Flowers seem the true philanthropists of their 
 race. Their generous and cheerful faces ever give a 
 kindly greeting to the troops of merry village children 
 who revel in their blossomy wealth ; and right welcome 
 are they, gladdening the eyes of the poor town me¬ 
 chanic, when he breathes the pure, fresh country 
 air on Sunday, and gathers a handful of Cowslips, 
 or Daffodils, or prouder Foxgloves, to carry home and 
 set in the dim window of his pent-up dwelling. So 
 dear and beautiful are Wild Flowers, that one would 
 think every body must love them; to many persons, 
 however, much of the delight they bring to me would 
 seem out of place, extravagant—unintelligible; but I 
 hope to conciliate even these dissenters from my creed, 
 by the extracts I have introduced from our great old 
 Poets. And it may be well here to mention, that 
 my first intention was to admit passages from our 
 
XI 
 
 ancient Bards alone; but, as I went on, familiar lines 
 from a favourite author of later date recurred to my 
 memory, which were so beautiful and appropriate, 
 that I found myself almost compelled to make an ex¬ 
 ception in favour of Shelley. Some few of my extract 
 gleanings are necessarily familiar ones; but I believe 
 a far greater number are not generally known. 
 
 Among my own metrical illustrations are one or two 
 short poems from a volume published by Mr. Tilt a 
 few months ago.* I trust to be forgiven for their 
 insertion here, they having been originally written for 
 the present work, which I have had in contemplation 
 several years. My first drawings and selections of poetry 
 were made for it some time before the appearance of 
 any of the now numerous publications on like subjects; 
 though I have no doubt that some recent works will 
 be supposed to have suggested the plan of this vo¬ 
 lume. I can, however, honestly say, that such an 
 opinion, if formed, will be altogether erroneous, as my 
 immediate friends and other persons are well aware; 
 moreover, the entire design and arrangement of the 
 present publication are essentially different from that 
 of any contemporary work on Flowers. 
 
 Of the Plates (on which authors usually compli¬ 
 ment the artists) / can say nothing, but that they 
 
 • Poems, by Louisa Aiuie Twumley, with Illustiations drawn and 
 etched by the Author.—London, Charles Tilt. 
 
 b 2 
 
XU 
 
 have been carefully engraved after my own drawings, 
 which drawings were invariably made from Nature. 
 I have never been guilty of curving a stem on my 
 paper, which I found growing straight in the field, or 
 of magnifying a flower for the sake of gay efiect. My 
 models always appear to me too perfect in their beauty 
 for me to dream of doing aught but attempt to copy, 
 faithfully as I can, their various forms and colours: 
 invention here must be positive error, and I anxiously 
 strive to avoid that fault, however I may sin against 
 the laws of picturesque efiect or elegant arrangement. 
 
 That much more might be said on a subject so 
 fertile as that implied in the title of my work, I am 
 well aware; that many would have performed my as¬ 
 sumed task far better than I have done, is also most 
 true :—still, I trust to the good feeling of my readers 
 to appreciate my desire to amuse, and, if possible, to 
 benefit them; the evidence of my failure or success 
 remains to be given. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 They tell me, gentle Reader, that I must either 
 write a new Preface, or add to the present one, on 
 this pleasant occasion of “ The Flower-Seasons Illus¬ 
 trated” reaching a second edition. Ill would it be¬ 
 come a favoured writer to be uncourteous to her 
 generous patrons, and I therefore gladly accede to the 
 demand. But the feelings expressed in my former 
 prefatory remarks would inevitably be repeated in a 
 second essay, and they shall therefore remain as be¬ 
 fore:— then what have I to say?—nothing, save the 
 presentation of my own poor thanks for the unmixed 
 kindness with which my volume has been received. 
 To render it in some measure more worthy, I have care¬ 
 fully corrected some typographical and other errors, and 
 in a few places added to the matter. 
 
 I will here remark, in answer to several enquiries 
 on the subject, that the metrical passages interwoven 
 with the prose, are, when not marked otherwise, 
 original. 
 
XIV 
 
 I said I had nothing but thanks to offer, — I was 
 wrong:—paradoxical as the term may appear, I have 
 to congratulate my readers on the more than antici¬ 
 pated success of my work. I do heartily congratulate 
 them on the proof they have given, by their approba¬ 
 tion of these simple pages, that love of the great Book 
 of Nature dwells in their hearts, and leads them to 
 regard with gratification even the eflforts of so humble 
 a votress as myself, in advancing, however feebly, the 
 great and elevating feelings which its rightly-directed 
 study cannot hut create. 
 
LIST OF PLATES 
 
 ORNAMENTAL TITLE PAGE. 
 
 
 PLATE III. 
 
 COMMON NAME. 
 
 BOTANICAL NAME 
 
 Snowdrop 
 
 . . . . Galanthus 7nvalis. 
 
 Crocus . 
 
 . . _ . . Crocus. 
 
 PLATE IV. 
 
 .lapan Pear . . . . ' . • • Pyrus Japonica. 
 
 PLATE V. 
 
 Narcissus . Narcissus pneticus. 
 
 PLATE VI. 
 
 Violet . Viola odorata. 
 
 PLATE VII. 
 
 Gorse, Furze, or Whin . . . Ulex Eurupaus. 
 
 PLATE VIII. 
 
 Lily of the Valley .... Convallaria majalis. 
 Anemone ... . • Anemone. 
 
XVI 
 
 
 PLATE IX, 
 
 Pansies . 
 
 , Fiola tricolor. 
 
 
 PLATE X. 
 
 Hose 
 
 . . . . Rosa. 
 
 
 PLATE XL 
 
 White Jasmine 
 
 . . . . Jasminum officinale. 
 
 Large Yellow Jasmine 
 
 i . . . Jasyninum revolutum. 
 
 
 PLATE XH. 
 
 Scarlet Pimpernel 
 
 . . . . Anagallis arvensis. 
 
 Blue Pimpernel 
 
 . . . . Anagallis coerulea. 
 
 Wild Wallflower 
 
 . . . Cheiranthics cheiri. 
 
 
 PLATE XHI. 
 
 White Water Lily 
 
 . . . . Nymphcea alha. 
 
 
 PLATE XIV. 
 
 Geraniums 
 
 . . . . Pelargoniuyn. 
 
 
 PLATE XV. 
 
 Water Scorpion Grass, or 
 
 Forget-me-not. Myosotis palitstris. 
 
 
 PLATE XVI. 
 
 Common Purple Heather 
 
 . Erica cinerea. 
 
 Cornish Heath . 
 
 . . . . Erica vagayis. 
 
 
 C Erica Irbyayia. 
 
 Exotic Heaths. 
 
 . . . < Erica Ampiillacea. 
 
 
 Erica Pilosa. 
 
 
 PLATE XVH. 
 
 Commeline 
 
 . . . . Comyyielina ccelestis. 
 
 Little Bindweed 
 
 Convolvulus arvensis. 
 
XVll 
 
 Passion Flowers 
 
 PLATE XVIir. 
 
 I 
 
 Passiflora carulea raceinosa. 
 Passiflora Buonaparlia. 
 Passiflora Colvillii. 
 
 PLATE XIX. 
 
 Ivy-leaved Blue Bell .... Campanula hederacea. 
 Mallows ...... Lavatera arborea. 
 
 PLATE XX. 
 
 Carnation and Clove Pink . . . Dianthus caryophiUus. 
 
 Chinese Pink ..... Dianthus Chinensis. 
 
 PLATE XXL 
 
 Blue Harebell. Campanula rotundifolia. 
 
 Foxglove 
 
 Fern 
 
 PLATE XXII. 
 
 . . . Digitalis purpurea. 
 
 . . . Polypodium Filix mas. 
 
 Mignonette . 
 Major Convolvulus 
 White Bind Weed 
 
 PLATE XXIII. 
 
 . . . Reseda odorata, 
 
 . . . Ipomcea purpurea. 
 
 . . . Convolvulus arvensis. 
 
 PLATE XXIV. 
 
 Holy Thistle ..... Carduus benedictus. 
 Creeping Cinque Foil . . . . Potentilla reptans. 
 
 PLATE XXV. 
 
 Cardinal Flower, or Lobelia . . . Lobelia fulgens. 
 
 Blue Lobelia ..... Lobelia erinoides. 
 
XVlll 
 
 
 PLATE 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Autumn or Saffron Crocus . 
 
 . Colckicum Autumnale. 
 
 Tiger Lily . 
 
 . 
 
 . Lilium Tigrinum. 
 
 
 PLATE 
 
 XXVH. 
 
 Strawberry Tree . 
 
 
 . Arbutus unedo. 
 
 
 PLATE 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Blackberries 
 
 
 . Ruhus fructicosus. 
 
 Haws . 
 
 • • • 
 
 . CratcEgus oxyacantha. 
 
 Hips 
 
 
 . Rosa canina. 
 
 Berries of the Woody Nightshade 
 
 Solanum dulcatnara. 
 
INDEX TO ORIGINAL POEMS. 
 
 FAGK 
 
 Flowers—introductory.1 
 
 Song of the Flowers ........ 7 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Spring and Spring Flowers. 
 
 13 
 
 Friends in Winter ....... 
 
 15 
 
 The Fairy-Fire. 
 
 18 
 
 To a Narcissus, in January ..... 
 
 20 
 
 The Christmas Violet ....... 
 
 22 
 
 The May-Morn Bouquet. 
 
 25 
 
 Lovers and Lilies. 
 
 30 
 
 Pansies ......... 
 
 32 
 
 Spring Memories and Musings ..... 
 
 35 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 A Summer Evening ....... 
 
 83 
 
 The Ladye’s Chaplet. 
 
 88 
 
 The Jasmine Tree ....... 
 
 91 
 
 f 
 
XX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Country Maid and Pimpernel-flower.95 
 
 White Water Lily, the Queen of Flowers.98 
 
 Courtiers ........... 101 
 
 The Complaint of the Forget-me-not.102 
 
 On a Friend’s Birth-day.106 
 
 Feuds among the Heather ........ 108 
 
 The Flower and the Fairy.11‘1 
 
 Passion Flowers . . . . . . • . . .119 
 
 The Flower of the Fountain.122 
 
 Sonnet.124 
 
 Summer and Summer Flowers . . . . . . .125 
 
 s 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 The Three Sweet Seasons—a dirge for the departed ones, and a 
 
 merry greeting to Autumn.. • 
 
 Cavaliers and Carnations. 
 
 The Chime of the Harebells. 
 
 Fox-gloves and Fern. 
 
 Convolvuli and Mignonette. 
 
 Love and the Thistle. 
 
 Flower Fantasies. 
 
 The Ladye, the Lover, and the Crocus. 
 
 The Arbutus. 
 
 A November Stroll ......... 
 
 Autumn Scenes and Flowers. 
 
 The Ice-King. 
 
 167 
 
 174 
 
 186 
 
 190 
 
 193 
 
 195 
 
 197 
 
 205 
 
 214 
 
 217 
 
 223 
 
 \ 
 
 251 
 
THE ROMANCE OF NATURE. 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 Ye are the stars of earth—ye glorious things! 
 
 And as your sldey kindred gem the night, 
 
 So ye, with hues like rainbows, yet more bright. 
 
 Gladden the day; and, as each sunburst flings 
 More ivide your nectared leaves, where lab’ring sings 
 The honey-seeking bee, or in gay flight 
 Hovers the dainty butterfly, we might 
 Deem ye, too, insects—birds without their wings. 
 
 Ye are the stars of earth—and dear to me 
 Is each small twinkling bud that wanders free 
 ’Mid glade or woodland, or by mmm’ring stream. 
 
 For ye to me are more than sweet or fair— 
 
 I love ye for the mem’ries that ye bear 
 Of by-gone horn's, whose bliss was but a dream. 
 
 From “Poems, by L. A. Twamley.” 
 
 And are they not the stars of earth ? Doth not 
 Our memory of their bright and varied forms 
 Wind hack to childhood’s days of guileless sjiort. 
 
 When these familiar friends of later years 
 “ A beauty and a mystery ” remained ? 
 
 And were they not to infant eyes more dear 
 E ’en than their starry kindred ? For one glance 
 Of wondering love we lifted to the vault 
 Of the o’er-orhM sky, have we not bent 
 Full many a gaze of pleased affection down 
 To the gi'een field, staiTed over with its hosts 
 Of daisies, countless as the blades of grass, 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 ’Midst which they seemed to look and laugh at us ? 
 Oh! I can now recall th’ unthrift delight 
 That filled my basket and my tiny hands 
 With buttercups, that shone in binmished gold, 
 
 And daisies, with their rose-tipped silvery rays 
 Spreading around the yellow boss within — 
 
 And some, most prized, that had not yet displayed 
 Their fairy circle, but emerging new 
 From their green hermitage, seemed as they blushed 
 Beneath the ardent smi’s admiring gaze: — 
 
 And then, the treasiu’e housed, with what proud cai’e 
 The simple buds were ranged in vase or cup,— 
 Nothing to us too costly for their use,— 
 
 And set in sunny window with strict care 
 That none molest our wealth. 
 
 Aye, we w'ere rich 
 
 In those young, innocent days—rich in our love 
 Of the not unveiled world—rich in our faith 
 That all was as it seemed — that life was ti’uth. 
 
 Rich in its ignorance is infancy. 
 
 And every added year bnt makes more poor. 
 
 By added knowledge, childhood’s guileless wealth— 
 
 The wealth of an unblighted, unchilled soul. 
 
 Flowers never lose their charm. When older gi'own. 
 See a child working in his little plot 
 Of garden gi'oundj and, if you chance to stand. 
 
3 
 
 As I have often done, high in the love 
 Of the young tyro of the spade and rake. 
 
 Look at the eager joyousness and pride 
 
 With which the choicest of the little store 
 
 Are plucked and offered you. The reddest rose — 
 
 The tallest pink — and, treasure beyond all. 
 
 The matron daisy and her circling brood, 
 
 “ The hen and chickens.” How I love the glance 
 Of exultation that conies with the gift! 
 
 And wish, aye, from my very soul, that each 
 Young school-immured being could so learn 
 From Nature’s glorious book her marv’lous works— 
 Pedants might lose their slaves, but worlds win men. 
 
 And ai'e not Flowers the eaidiest gift of loveF 
 Do they not, mutely eloquent, oft speak 
 For absent or for trembling hearts, and bear 
 Kisses and sighs on their perfumed lips — 
 
 And worlds of thought and fancy in their leaves. 
 Touched by the rainbow’s dyes? Have ye ne’er prized 
 Some token-flower — an early rose — a bunch 
 Of young Spring’s first and sweetest violets, culled 
 And given into yours by hands so dear. 
 
 That all Flowers seemed grown holier from that time ? 
 Have you ne’er hoarded such a simple gift— 
 
 Aye, through long years—e’en when each shrunken leaf 
 Bore not a semblance to the thing it was. 
 
 And the soft fragrance that had once been there 
 
 B 2 
 
4 
 
 Had changed from sweet to noisome — and, e’en then. 
 For very fondness could not fling away 
 Those dim and faded records of the past. 
 
 But laid the frail things m their wonted place. 
 
 To gaze—and dream—and weep upon again? 
 
 ‘ What slowly-pacing band is gliding ’neath 
 Yon aisle-like avenue of stately elms 
 Tow’rds the grey village church P ’ ‘A fun’ral train; 
 And she they mourn far fairer was than all 
 Her maiden friends, who oft have gaily met 
 Her bounding fonn amid the rustic dance. 
 
 And now assemble round her early gi’ave — 
 
 The very tree from whence the wreath was plucked 
 That crowned her Lady of the May, has given 
 A chaplet of its flowers, the wan white rose. 
 
 To lay upon her pall.’— 
 
 ******** 
 
 And have not Flowers, 
 
 E’en from the earliest time, been banquet guests ? 
 Have they not wreathed alike the brow and bowl ? 
 Biight’ning and chastening, at once, the scenes 
 Of revelry to which they gave a gi-ace, 
 
 A simple luxury, and a chann beyond 
 What any aid of human art could bring ? — 
 
Beautiful, even in its error, seems 
 The Pagan offering of Flowers as gifts 
 To the Almighty Power; for what so fair— 
 
 So pure, so holy as their fragile fonns? 
 
 Earth’s loveliest offspring, whom the mighty sun 
 Looks on with smiles—and whom the careful sky 
 Nourishes with soft rain—and whom the dew 
 Delights to deck with her enclustered gems. 
 
 Which each, reflecting the soft tint it lights. 
 
 Gains, while it gives, new beauty. 
 
 Oh ! — they’re fair ! 
 
 Most wonderful and lovely ai'e they all,— 
 
 From our own daisy, “ crimson-tipped,” that greets 
 Our English childhood with its lowly look. 
 
 To the proud giants of the Western world. 
 
 And gorgeous denizens of either Ind, 
 
 Towering in Nature’s majesty and might, 
 
 And lifting up their radiant heads to hail 
 The sun — their monarch—as he burns above. 
 
 Who does not love them ? Reader, if thine heart 
 
 Be one unblessed by such affection, turn 
 
 F'ar from these lays thy cold and careless eye. 
 
 For less than dull to thee the page will seem. 
 
 And if e’en Nature glads thee not, then Art, 
 With Natiue for her model, will but tire: 
 
 But ye; Creation’s readers, oh! he mine. 
 
6 
 
 If ye do love that glorious book, whose leaves, 
 Interminably spread before our eye's. 
 
 Challenge our onward progress in its lore,— 
 
 Small though our utmost grasp of it may be — 
 
 Then will ye listen to the simple lyre. 
 
 That now, with changeful tone, or gi’ave, or gay. 
 Wakes its wild music to a gentle theme,— 
 
 Gentle and sweet, — ’Tis The Romance of Flowers. 
 
7 
 
 SONG OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 See, we come dancing in sunshine and showers, 
 Like fairies or butterflies—bright young Flowers; 
 O'er vale and o’er mountain, though ever so steep. 
 Go wander — we’ll still on your rambles peep. 
 
 Far from the city and smoke live we, 
 
 With our neighbour, the rugged old forest-tree. 
 Who, wrapped in his mantle of ivy gi’een. 
 
 Looks gay,—for his wrinkles are never seen. 
 
 With the zephyrs we dance, 
 
 ’Neath the bright wann sun; 
 
 But the moon’s pale glance 
 Bids our sport be done,— 
 
 Then we close our petals, nor, winking, peep 
 Till the morning breaks our perfumed sleep. 
 
 Oh! are we not beautiful, bright young Flowers, 
 
 In stately garden or wild-wood bowers ? 
 
 To us doth the lover his love compare; 
 
 Then, think ye, can aught be more sweet or fair ? 
 Her brow is the lily, her cheek the rose. 
 
 Her kiss is the woodbine (more sweet than those); 
 Her eye in the half-shut violet beams. 
 
 When a bright dew-drop on its lustre gleams; 
 
8 
 
 We are wreathed in her hair 
 By the hands loved best, 
 
 Or clustered with care 
 On her gentle breast: 
 
 And oh ! what geyns can so well adorn 
 The fair-haired girl on her bridal morn ! 
 
 Blooming in sunshine, and glowing in showers. 
 Dancing in breezes — we gay young Flowers! 
 How oft doth an emhlem-hud silently tell 
 What language could never speak half so well! 
 E’en sister flow’rs envy the favoured lot 
 Of that blue-eyed darling. Forget-me-not. 
 
 Hei: name is now grown a charmed word, 
 
 By whose echo the holiest ‘thoughts are stirred.” 
 Come forth in the Spring, 
 
 And our wild haunts seek. 
 
 When the wood-birds sing. 
 
 And the blue skies break: 
 
 Come forth to the hill—the wood—the vale — 
 Where we metrily dance in the sportive gale ! 
 
 Oh! come to the river’s rim, come to us there. 
 For the white water-lily is wondrous fair, 
 
 With her large broad leaves on the stream afloat 
 (Each one a capacious fairy-boat). 
 
 The sioan among Flowers ! how stately ride 
 Her snow-white leaves on the rippling tide; 
 
9 
 
 And the dragon-fly gallantly stays to sip 
 A kiss of dew from her goblet’s lips: 
 
 Oh! come in the glow 
 
 Of the long summer’s day. 
 
 When the cool waves flow, 
 
 And the zephyr’s play; 
 
 Oh! dwell not in cities, ’nrid cark and care. 
 But come to the river’s rinr, come to us there. 
 
 c 
 
I 
 
 
SPKING. 
 
 The Spring— 
 
 When proud-pied April dressed in all his trim, 
 
 Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Winter’s wrath begins to quell, 
 
 And pleasaunt spring appeareth: 
 
 The grasse now ginnes to be refresht. 
 
 The swallowe peepes out of her nest. 
 
 And clowdie welkin cleareth. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 C 
 
 9 
 
13 
 
 SPRING, AND SPRING FLOWERS. 
 
 -April with his showres sole, 
 
 The droughte of March hath pierced to the rote, 
 
 And bathed every veine in swiche licour, 
 
 Of whiche vertue engendred is the flour; 
 
 Whan Zephirus eke with his sote hrethe 
 Enspired hath in every holt and hethe 
 The tendre croppes, and the yonge Sonne 
 Hath in the Ram his halfe course yronne, 
 
 And smale foules maken melodic 
 That slepen alle night with open eye. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 Appear, appear! 
 
 And you, soft winds, so clear, 
 
 That dance upon the leaves, and make them sing 
 Gentle love-lays to the Spring, 
 
 Gilding all the vales below 
 With your verdure as ye blow; 
 
 Raise these forms from under ground, 
 
 With a soft and happy sound. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 Come, thou beautiful blossoming Spring, 
 
 And to me tby loveliest flow’rets bring; — 
 
 Come! let their bright leaves encircle thy brow. 
 And wave ’midst tby glittering tresses now; 
 
 Oh, linger no more ’neath the fleecy veil 
 Flung o’er thee by Winter’s congealing gale. 
 
 But gently breathe on the snowy shroud, 
 
 And ’twill vanish in tears like a summer cloud. 
 As grieved to see thee its whiteness excel 
 In the virgin hue of the snowdrop’s bell. 
 
 Then gaze upon earth with thine azure eyes. 
 And bid their emblem, the violet, rise 
 
14 
 
 On the green-wood bank, where the primrose pale 
 Looks up, to welcome the nightingale; 
 
 And the regal crocus, in purple and gold. 
 
 Bursts into life from its leafy fold. 
 
 Come — we are weary of wind and stonn ; 
 
 Gladden our hearts with thy fairy form; — 
 
 Paint the first daisy’s “ wee crimson tip,” 
 
 Like the roseate hue of a maiden’s lip : 
 
 And blest childhood’s darling, the buttercup. 
 
 With bright rays gild, as its flowers glance up; 
 
 Let the hyacinth wave in the scented breeze. 
 
 And the May-buds peep on the hawthorn trees. 
 
 And the orchards dress in their gayest gear,— 
 
 Tis the holiday-time of the circling year: 
 
 And bid the birds sing on each branch and spray. 
 While the gay flowers dance in the genial ray. 
 
 Meiry and glad will the bright earth be 
 When Winter retreats, and thou art free. 
 
 Floating around us on fragrant wing. 
 
 And gemmed with soft dew-drops—thou fair young Spring 
 
15 
 
 FRIENDS IN WINTER. 
 
 THE SNOW-DKOP, CROCUS, AND ROBIN RED-BREAST. 
 
 Hark, hark! with what a pretty throat 
 Poor Robin Red-Breast tunes his note. 
 
 John Lylie, 1553. 
 
 Cold blew the wintry wind, as if it swept 
 O’er frozen worlds, and caught their iciness: — 
 
 The small birds, hopping ’mong the leafless twigs. 
 Chirped cheerily as I around me flung 
 Their wonted portion of my morning’s meal; 
 
 And, leader of them all, the Robin, tame 
 And free, came warbling and hopping on. 
 
 Nearer and nearer yet; his bright black eye 
 Looking askance upon the scattered food. 
 
 And his tail frisking, as he skipped about. 
 
 Singing his glad good-moiTow. 
 
 I do love 
 
 That learless bird — all the long winter through, 
 ’Midst snow, and frost, and bitter cold he came. 
 Greeting me daily with his rich, sweet voice. 
 Nor e’er went unremembered. 
 
 E’en before 
 
 The poet’s Nightingale, the Red-breast holds 
 A place in my esteem,—for she seems coy. 
 Distant, capricious—and commands you forth 
 
16 
 
 To listen and admire her. in her pride 
 Of conscious excellence; like beauty, vain, 
 
 And claiming such our homage as her right: — 
 While my own merry Robin comes to cheer 
 Our gloojny winter with his lively song ; 
 
 He comes to us, and, perched on twig or gate. 
 Or on the chimney top, or window sill. 
 
 Sits warbling sweetly on his welcome lay. 
 
 The rose is for the nightingale. 
 
 The heather for the lark; 
 
 But the holly greets the red-breast 
 
 ’Mid winter drear and dark; n 
 
 And the snow-drop, wakened by his song, 
 Peeps tremblingly forth. 
 
 From her bed of cold still slumber. 
 
 To gaze upon the earth. 
 
 For the merry voice above her 
 Seemed a herald of the Spring, 
 
 As o’er the sleeping flowers 
 Blithe Robin came to sing — 
 
 “ Up, up ! my lady snow-drop, 
 
 No longer lie in bed. 
 
 But dance unto my melody 
 And wave your graceful head.” 
 
 The bulbul wooes the red, red rose, 
 
 The lark the heathery dell; 
 
 But the Robin has the holly tree 
 And the snow-drop’s virgin bell. 
 
17 
 
 The snow-di’op timidly looked out, 
 
 But all was dim and drear. 
 
 Save robin’s meny song, that sought 
 Her loneliness to cheer. 
 
 And presently the crocus heard 
 Their greeting, and awoke. 
 
 And donned with care her golden robe 
 And em’rald-coloured cloak; 
 
 And, springing from her russet shroud. 
 
 Stepped forth to meet the sun. 
 
 Who broke the clouds with one bright glance. 
 And his jocund race begun. 
 
 The crocus brought her sisters too. 
 
 The purple, pied, and white; 
 
 And the red-breast warbled merrily 
 Above the flowerets bright. 
 
 Oh ! the nightingale may love the rose. 
 
 The lark the summer’s heather; 
 
 But the robin’s consort-flow’rs come 
 And brave the wintry weather. 
 
 D 
 
18 
 
 PYRUS JAPONICA. 
 
 THE fairies’ fire. 
 
 Tlie flowers, which cold in prison kept, 
 
 Now laugh the frost to scorn. 
 
 Richard Edwards, 1523. 
 
 See, where the first pale sunbeams of the year 
 Fall faintly, fearfully, upon the snow. 
 
 That rests in wreathed flakes on every twig, 
 
 Trained w'ith neat care aroimd the window-frame. 
 
 So ic}'^ cold is every thing around, 
 
 That even sunshine trembles to alight, 
 
 Lest it be frozen too. 
 
 Hal are they out ? 
 
 My summer friends, the fairies ? Siu'ely not; 
 
 Yet who but they have lit these tiny fires. 
 
 That gleam and glow amid the wintry scene ? 
 
 > 
 
 Yes, here they are, aweary of the storms. 
 
 And wrecking winds, and pinching frosts, that keep 
 Within their darksome prison-house of earth 
 The gay and spendthrift flowers; here they are. 
 Lighting their ruddy beacons at the sun 
 To melt away the snow. See, how it falls 
 In drops of crystal from the glowing spray. 
 Wreathed with deep crimson buds — the fairy fires. 
 
19 
 
 And now that there is something bright on earth, 
 Tlie clouds are driven from the clear blue sky. 
 And heaven is bright’ning too. Serene and calm. 
 The very air is hushed into repose. 
 
 That not a breath may ruffle the young flowers ! 
 Now gently waking into life -and light. 
 
 n 'z 
 
•20 
 
 TO A NARCISSUS IN JANUARY. 
 
 How beautiful aiJ thou, my Winter Flower! 
 
 Lifting with graceful pride thy stately head. 
 
 Heavy with its rich crown of pearl and gold: — 
 Thou sheddest on the air such soft perfume. 
 
 That I coidd deem ’twas incense, gently flung 
 Before thy beauty’s shrine by some fair sprite 
 Enamoured of thy maiden loveliness. 
 
 The hyacinth and violet entwined 
 Have scarce so sweet an odour. 
 
 Thanks, my Flowei’, 
 
 My gentle, kind companion — for to me 
 Thy silence is most elocpient; — I love 
 Thy quiet steadfast gaze, as, o’er my desk. 
 
 The long day through thou hast seemed watching me 
 And ever and anon, in glancing up, 
 
 I still have met thy calm unchanging look. 
 Reminding me, in silence, of the friend 
 Whose gift thou wert to me. Yet thou wert then 
 A mere unsightly root. Oh! how I watched. 
 
 With almost childish eagerness, thy growth. 
 
 And tended thee with more than common care. 
 
■J . 
 
\ 
 
•21 
 
 How rich is my reward! My gentle Flower, 
 
 I fain would never lose thee; but thou’lt die — 
 Droop — wither—pass away like all fair things — 
 Like all I ever loved. 
 
 But yet, not lost. 
 
 Not lost, my beautiful; thou wilt but hide 
 Thy quiet loveliness while Summer’s sun 
 Calls forth the courtiers of his glittering train 
 To revel in their gay and festal ’tire; 
 
 When Autumn dims them, and when winter chills. 
 Thou wilt lay by thy cloak of russet brown. 
 
 And spring up bright and beautiful once more. 
 
 So when thy fragi’ance breathes its faint perfume. 
 And pallid droop thy petals round the stem, 
 
 I will but think thy life one day has spent. 
 
 And hid thee sweet sleep till we meet again. 
 
09 
 
 TO A VIOLET, 
 
 GATHEREB ON CHRISTMAS BAY. 
 
 Sweet violets, Love’s paradise, that spread 
 Your gracious odours, which you couched beare 
 Within your paly faces. 
 
 Upon the gentle wing of some calm-breathing wind 
 That plays amidst the plain; 
 
 If, by the favour of propitious stars, you gain 
 Such grace as in my lady’s bosom place to find. 
 
 Be proud to touch those places. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
 On old Hyem’s chin and icy crown, 
 
 A fragrant chaplet of sweet summer buds 
 Is, as in mockery, set. 
 
 Siiakspeare. 
 
 Fair child of the Spring, 
 
 Loved gem of the year. 
 
 Why thy fi’agrance fling 
 
 t 
 
 Amid Winter drear ? 
 
 Each kindred flower hath veiled her head. 
 
 E’en the Autumn daisy is closed and dead. 
 
 Dost come because Summer’s bright laughing sky 
 Can no more with thy sapphire radiance vie ? 
 
 Nor when breathing thy scent through the leafless vale, 
 No roses their rival perfumes exhale P 
 And coin’st thou, loved floiier, mine eyes to greet, 
 Because thou art alone, the fair—the sweet P 
 
23 
 
 I know thou art oft 
 Passed carelessly by, 
 
 And the hue so soft 
 Of thine azure eye 
 
 Gleams unseen, unsought, in its leafy bower. 
 While the heartless prefer some statelier flower 
 That they eagerly cull, and, when faded, fling 
 Away with rude hand, as a worthless thing. 
 
 Not such is thy fate: not thy beauty’s gift 
 Alone bids thee from thy bower he reft; 
 
 Not thy half-closing, dewy, and deep blue eye; 
 But the charm that doth not with beauty die. 
 ’Tis thy mild, soft fragi’ance makes thee so dear. 
 Thou loveliest gem of the floral year! 
 
 And with joy, sweet flower, 
 
 I welcome thee here. 
 
 While dark clouds lour. 
 
 And winds sound drear. 
 
 The Christmas wreath hath entwined my brow. 
 But the Violet smiles in that chaplet now. 
 
 Sweet wanderer! — gladly I gi-eet thy form 
 ’Mid the loud shrill blast and the wintry stonn. 
 Thou callest up visions of happier times — 
 
 Thou tellest of sunnier southern climes — 
 
 Thou paintest bright pictures to memory’s eye. 
 Of bliss-fraught houi’s for ever gone by — 
 
24 
 
 Thou speak’st of the distant — the lost — the dear; 
 Thine azure is dimmed by a grief-fraught tear; 
 Yet I will not be sad, for thou tellest to me 
 Of returning Spring and returning glee. 
 
25 
 
 THE MAY MORN BOUQUET. 
 
 Come let us goe, while we are in our prime, 
 
 And take the harmless follie of the time. 
 
 There’s not a budding hoy or girle, this day, 
 
 But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 
 
 A deale of youth, ere this, is come 
 Back, and with white-thorn laden home. 
 
 Some have dispatcht their cakes and creame, 
 
 Before that we have left to dreame ; 
 
 And some have wept, and woo’d, and plighted troth. 
 
 And chose their priest, ere we can cast oft sloth; 
 
 Many a green gown has been given. 
 
 Many a kiss, both odde and even; 
 
 Many a glance too has been sent. 
 
 From out the eye. Love’s firmament. 
 
 Then while time serves, and we are but decaying. 
 
 Come, my Corinna, come, let’s goe a Maying. 
 
 Robert liEiiiiicK. 
 
 Dora alone. 
 
 Oh ! the morn is bright, the sky is blue. 
 
 The sun is shining cheery; 
 
 And the May-pole’s dressed—but where arc you, 
 My Lubin—where’s iny dearie? 
 
 I’ve put on all my finest things, 
 
 (This kerchief looks so natty!) 
 
 My ears have now as handsome rings 
 As those Will bought for Patty. 
 
 E 
 
26 
 
 I wonder who’ll be chosen queen, 
 
 I know who’d like to play it; 
 
 There’s none so tall as me, I ween. 
 
 Nor prettier—though I say it. 
 
 And Lubiii always says I tread 
 As stately as a Venus, 
 
 When I’ve one .milk-pail on my head. 
 
 And another’s held between us. 
 
 [Enter Lubin, &c. 
 
 ‘ Long looked for, come at last,’ they say— 
 I’ve wanted you for hours; 
 
 And now you have not a bouquet! 
 
 Here take some garden-flowers. 
 
 Lubin. 
 
 “ No, Dora, none of these for me. 
 
 To you I’ll leave the rose. 
 
 And violets, too—for both, I see. 
 
 Your cheek and eye disclose. 
 
 And Marion may mate her pale 
 And fair face with the lily; 
 
 And jealous Nancy cannot fail 
 To choose the daffodilly. 
 
•27 
 
 The honeysuckle give to Kate, 
 
 So kindly and caressing; 
 
 Whoever wins her for a mate. 
 
 Will win both wealth and blessing. 
 
 Narcissus take to Roland Hay, 
 
 The dandy of our village ; 
 
 Whose Sunday suit walks every day. 
 Far from his farm and tillage. 
 
 Yon bramble fling to Rachel Rann, 
 
 So crabby and so spiteful; 
 
 The mignonette’s for little Fan, 
 
 Both darlings—they’re delightful. 
 
 Sweet William flies to blushing Sue, 
 For oh ! she loves him dearly; 
 
 The scarlet poppy, Meg, to you. 
 
 Your lip’s as red, or nearly.” 
 
 The green is swept—the fiddler’s come. 
 And lads, to lasses glancing 
 
 (While flourishes sound on the drum). 
 Are eager to be dancing. 
 
 And Lubin now, without remorse, 
 
 His bright blue vest’s adoming 
 
 With a gay bunch of yellow gorse ; 
 While all the maids are scorning 
 E 2 
 
28 
 
 Such trumpery and cpieer” bouquet, 
 ’Till Luhin begged they’d hear him 
 Ill its defence :—and soon the gay 
 Young faces gather’d near him. 
 
 lubin’s song. 
 
 Fair maidens. I’ll sing you a song; 
 
 I’ll tell you the bonny wild flower. 
 
 Whose blossoms so yellow, and branches so long. 
 
 O’er moor and o’er rough rocky mountain are flung. 
 
 Far away from trim garden and bovver. 
 
 It clings to the crag, and it clothes the wild hill; 
 
 It stands sturdily breasting the storm. 
 
 When the loud-voiced winds sing so drearily shrill. 
 
 And the snow-flakes in eddies fall silent and still. 
 
 And the shepherd can scarce wrap him warm. 
 
 'Tis the bonny bright gorse, that gleams cheerily forth. 
 Like sunlight e’er lingering here. 
 
 In the verdure of Spring, and when Summer on earth 
 Has called all the fairest of blossoms to birth. 
 
 As a crown for the noon of the year. 
 
 When the " fall of the leaf” in the forest is heard. 
 
 And the naked boughs stretch through the air; 
 
29 
 
 And when rustling under each foot that is stin’ed. 
 
 The crisp leaves are crushing;—and when the coy bird 
 At your door pecks the crumbs scatter’d there; 
 
 Even then blooms the gorse —not a month of them all 
 But finds this true friend on his way; 
 
 And does not its cheering presence recall 
 An old proverb ? *—sweet Dora, why suddenly fall 
 Thy blue eyes ? and why turn thus away ? 
 
 I’ll never rob thee of a lily nor rose. 
 
 While the bonny bright gorse may be mine; 
 
 For that flower is a charter to love while it blows. 
 
 And entitles thy Lubin, wherever it grows. 
 
 To a kiss from those sweet lips of thine. 
 
 Nay, pout not, nor frown—though you thus prove the flowei' 
 E’en more emblematical yet— 
 
 For the golden bud lives in a weapon-girt bower. 
 
 All around and about her are guardians of power. 
 
 And countless spears valiantly set. 
 
 But as, when resolved the bright blossom to gain. 
 
 We value not spear head nor lance; 
 
 So when Lubin a kiss craves, sweet Dora in vain 
 May frown a refusal. Come, now to the train— 
 
 To the flaunting May-pole and the dance ! 
 
 * “When gorse is out of blossom, kissing is out of fashion’’—gorse being in 
 bloom all the year. 
 
so 
 
 LOVERS AND LILIES. 
 
 The Naiad-like lily of the vale, 
 
 Whom youth makes so fair, and passion so pale. 
 
 That the light of her tremulous bells is seen 
 Thro’ their pavilions of tender green. 
 
 Shellev. 
 
 Then seek the bank where flowering elders crowd. 
 
 Where scatter’d wild the lily of the vale 
 Her balmy essence breathes. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 Come, Lady mine, into the woods, for there 
 The sweet May lilies their young beauty show. 
 Bending their slender stems, whose pearly bells. 
 Like cups o’er-filled with perfume, shed it forth. 
 Lading the fragrant air. 
 
 Come, Love mine. 
 
 And I wiU show thee how the lilies fair 
 Are guardian’d by their tall and shelt’ring leaves. 
 Who brave themselves the rude and boisterous wind 
 To shield from every harm the fair things wi’apped 
 Safe by their cai'eful love. 
 
 I’ll tell thee then. 
 
 That thou, e’en like the lily bell, should’st be 
 Guarded by fond and all-enduring love j 
 
/ 
 
 
I 
 
31 
 
 That thou, far fairer than a flower, should’st hide 
 From too familiar sight thy beauty’s wealth. 
 
 And give it unto one whose long-tried he’art 
 May claim a prize so rich. 
 
 Smile, Lady mine. 
 And though thou art so passing fair, yet deign 
 To imitate the lily-bells—and I 
 Will shelter thee from every unkind breath. 
 
 And fold thee close in true and faithful love. 
 
 E’en as those leaves the flowers. 
 
3‘2 
 
 PANSIES; OR LOVE IN IDLENESS. 
 
 Oheron, My gentle Puck, come hither; thou remember’st 
 Since once I sat upon a promontory, 
 
 And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back 
 Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, 
 
 That the rude sea grew civil at her song, 
 
 And certain stars shot madly from their spheres. 
 
 To hear the sea maid’s music. 
 
 Puck, I remember— 
 
 Oberon. That very time I saw, (but thou could’st not) 
 
 Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
 
 Cupid all armed : a certain aim he took 
 At a fair vestal, throned by the west; 
 
 And loosed his love shaft smartly from his bow. 
 
 As it should pierce an hundred thousand hearts. 
 
 But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft 
 Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon— 
 
 And the imperial votress pass’d on 
 In maiden meditation, fancy free; 
 
 Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell: 
 
 It fell upon a little western flower. 
 
 Before milk white, now purple with love’s wound— 
 
 And maidens call it “Love in idleness.” 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Ophelia. There’s Rosemary—that’s for remembrance; ’pray you, love, re¬ 
 member ; and there is Pansies, that’s for thoughts. 
 
 Laertes. A document in madness—thoughts and remembrance fitted. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Most sti’angely true and beautiful hath giown 
 The fancy of that line —Pansies for thoughts; 
 And thought is changeful ever. So are now 
 The fair Ophelia’s token flowers more fit 
 To he its emblems; for their varying hues. 
 
 Like thoughts, diversified with bright, and deep. 
 And gay, and sombre tints, mirror the mind 
 In every changeful mood. Some robe them still 
 
In milk-white garb; and these are maiden tlioiights. 
 Then, ‘^purpled with Love’s wound,” the3^’re pencilled o’er 
 With richer beauty; and fantastic oft. 
 
 And fleeting too, are these love-marks, I ween. 
 
 Some prank them bravely out in courtier garb. 
 Trimming with gold their purple.* Some, methinks, 
 Their quiet humble-coloured heads bend down. 
 
 Like gentle, modest beings, doomed to bear 
 Much of earth’s grief, subduing their young hearts 
 Into a holy calm. Others again. 
 
 With hues abruptly, almost harshly, mixed. 
 
 Are like the meteor-minded sons of earth. 
 
 With whom wild genius dwells—brilliant and strange;— 
 In them e’en eiTor oft times glorious shows. 
 
 Others, like hoarding misers, deep within 
 Hide a rich golden treasure, guarded round 
 With many a blackened line ; and all the rest 
 Sombre and dusk appears;—they would not seem 
 To have such wealth, and so go dimly clad. 
 
 Oh ! are not Pansies emblems meet for thoughts P 
 The pure, the chequer’d—gay and deep by turns; 
 
 A hue for every mood the bright things wear 
 In their soft velvet coats. 
 
 And let his name. 
 
 Who thus entwined them in immortal song, 
 
 * Since writing these lines I have found that the name of the Pansy, thus 
 described as a courtier, singularly coincides with my own fancy; it is the “George 
 the Fourth.” 
 
34 
 
 Be ever honoured ■when they meet our gaze; 
 
 And bring, as though ’tvvere writ upon their leaves. 
 All that most graceful fairy scene, where Puck, 
 
 His elvish ears attentive, leams the tale 
 Of 0 heron’s syren-song—and how the shaft 
 Of armed Cupid dyed this “western flower,” 
 
 Which maidens now call “love in idleness.” 
 
35 
 
 SPRING MEMORIES AND MUSINGS. 
 
 I HAVE presented my gi'aphic portraits of Spring’s fair 
 children to my readers, with little illustration save my own 
 fanciful, and, it may he, feebly descriptive poems; but as 
 several of the selected Flowers, and others (which, though not 
 represented in the illustrative groups, are famed gems), have 
 poetic fables connected with them, I shall now give a few 
 brief memoirs of familiar favourites, illustrating and enlivening 
 my dull prose with extracts from our great old Poets. 
 
 In suffering my own productions to take precedence of 
 these jewels, drawn from the mines of jroetic wealth be¬ 
 queathed to us by our ancient Bards, I am not actuated by 
 vanity, but by a very different feeling—that of policy; 
 believing that my humble lays would be far more graciously 
 received by my readers, before the memory of favourite pas¬ 
 sages on like subjects had been refreshed by my extract- 
 gleanings ; well knowing, how 
 
 As in a theatre, the eyes of men, 
 
 After a well-graced actor leaves the stage. 
 
 Are idly bent on him that enters next, 
 
 Tliinking his jirattle to be tedious. 
 
 E 2 
 
36 
 
 There are few persons to whom the return of Spring is not 
 a source of delight. Even to the denizens of the dim and noisy 
 town its approach is welcome, as bringing a promise of clean 
 streets and fair weather, and offering the chance of an occasional 
 peep of blue sky between the tall houses. But to the dwellers 
 in pleasant countiy places, where the hills and dales are Nature’s 
 own—where the wide heaven is imsmirched by smoke, and 
 the air is pure and bright, and fragi’ant with the springing 
 Flowers and the fresh eartli j where the birds are flitting gail}- 
 around, and trilling forth songs of liberty and love;—to all 
 whose lives may happily be passed among such scenes how 
 glorious is the Spring-time ! 
 
 How exhilarating are the first few warmer days—how 
 joyously we fling aside portions of our cumbrous winter¬ 
 walking attire, to ramble along “ by hedge-row elms and 
 hillocks green; ” and, after the first small buds have burst forth 
 on the branches, how anxiously we watch their gi’ovvth, and 
 fancy we may see the leaves expanding in the genial sunshine, 
 and clothmg the skeleton forms of winter with robes of young 
 vernal beauty. The general hue of the evergreens, which have' 
 so kindly solaced us during the wintry months, seem to acquire 
 a more sombre tinge, as the vivid yellow green of the other- 
 trees now quite ecliirses their beauty, although, when the 
 young shoots of firs and cedars are put forth, the alternation 
 of colour in them is very striking. 
 
 The birds are now busy, too, and musically clamorous; hun¬ 
 dreds of them are warbling, and chirping, and chattering at 
 once, yet in their mingled voices we hear no discord. It is 
 
all hannony—the music of natm’e. 1 often listen to the 
 happy creatures, suiging so merrily in their greenwood haunts, 
 and flitting airily along in search of materials for their nests, 
 those wonderful little things! or looking for food for the young 
 callow brood within; and I do marvel how any being can be 
 so wantonly cruel, how any spirit can be so blind to the glory 
 and happiness of natiue, as to ensnare or destroy creatures 
 so harmless, so glad, so beautiful, as birds. 
 
 The fathers of English poetry have so lauded this, their 
 favourite season, in undying verse, that of all poetical subjects 
 “ Spring” has perhaps the least chance of receiving any thiirg 
 like original treatment at the hands of their descendants, who 
 must not only shrink to stars of small magnitude indeed beside 
 the greater luminaries, but be content to appear, for the most 
 part, as shining only with reflected light. 
 
 The Bards of old looked on nature with the eye of the natu¬ 
 ralist, the fancy of the poet, and the grace of the painter. The 
 simjrlest flower, or the most trivial incident, is described by the 
 pencilling picture-like verse of Chaucer with a bright, clear, 
 glecsome expression, only equalled in its peculiar beauty by his 
 simple, impressive, and touching pathos. He revelled in the 
 merry Spring-time, and many are the bright and sparkling 
 descriptions of reviving nature which he has left us, telling how 
 
 The shoures sote of rain descended soft 
 Causing the ground fele tiiuis and oft, 
 
 Up for to give many an wholesome air; 
 
 And every plain was y-clothed faire 
 
88 
 
 With newe greenej and niakith smale floures 
 To springen here and there in felde and inede, — 
 So very gode and wliolesom be the shoures, 
 
 That they renewin that was olde and dede 
 In winter time ; and out of every sede 
 Springith the herbe; so that every wight 
 Of this season wexith richt glad and light. 
 
 Spenser, in his “ Cantos of Mutability,” describes a proces 
 sion of the seasons and months, from which I select the fol 
 lowing. The attributes of each are very fancifully and appro 
 priately marshalled forth. 
 
 So forth issued the seasons of the yeare, 
 
 First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of floures. 
 That freshly budded, and new bloosmes did beare. 
 In which a thousand birds had built their bowres. 
 That swetely sung to call forth paramoures; 
 
 And in his hand a iavelin he did beare. 
 
 And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures) 
 
 A guilt engraven morion he did weare, 
 
 I’hat as some did him love, so others did him feare. 
 
 #♦***♦ 
 
 These marching softly, all in order went. 
 
 And after them the months all riding came; 
 
 First, sturdy March, with brows full sternly bent. 
 And armed strongly, rode upon a ram. 
 
 The same which over Hellespontus swam. 
 
 Yet in his hand a spade he also hent; 
 
 And in a bag all sorts of seeds y-same 
 Y’hich on the earth he strewed as he went. 
 
Next came fresh April, full of lustyhed, 
 
 And wanton as a kid whose home new buds; 
 
 Upon a bull be rode, the same which led 
 Europa floating thro’ th’ Argolick finds : 
 
 His homes were gilden all with golden studs. 
 
 And garnished with garlonds goodly dight 
 Of all the fairest flowres and freshest buds 
 Which tlr earth brings forth; and wet he seemed in sight 
 With waves, thro’ which he w^aded, for his Love’s delight. 
 
 Then came faire May, the fay rest Mayde on ground, 
 Deckt with all dainties of her season’s pryde. 
 
 And throwing flowres out of her lap ai’ound. 
 
 Upon two brethren’s shoulders she did ride. 
 
 The twinnes of Leda; which, on eyther side. 
 
 Supported her like to their soveraine queene : 
 
 Lord! how all creatures laught when her they spide, 
 And leapt and daunced as they had ravisht beene! 
 
 And Cupid self about her fluttred all in greene. 
 
 These allegorical stanzas are quite in the “ Faery Queen” 
 spirit. In that great poem Spenser displays infinite gi'andeur, 
 loftiness, and luxuriant imagery ; but when we peruse or listen 
 to it, we are no longer in the world of reality—the world of 
 Chaucer; we are at once witched away to Faery Land, where 
 nature is aiTayed in such gorgeous hues, that, much as the 
 imagination may be fascinated and dazzled by the splendid 
 dreams before us, we cannot walk in fancy side by side with the 
 poet through his maze of enchantment, as we may, and do, with 
 the poets of this Avorld, our cheerful, simple-minded Chaucer 
 especially, whose flowers, and trees, and arbours, and nightin¬ 
 gales, are realities that seem to rise in social companionship 
 around us, while listening to his truth-invested verse. 
 
40 
 
 Spenser’s descriptions in the Faery Queen are grand and 
 luxurious pictures, at which we gaze afar off, and wonder, and 
 admire, and gaze again ; and by these he is chiefly known. 
 But it is in his pastoral poems, his “Shepheard’s Calendar,” 
 Colin Clout,” “ Hymmes of Beauty,” “ Muiopotmos,” 
 “ Prothalamion,” and “ Epithalamion,” his many sweet son¬ 
 nets, and his “ Ruines of Time,” that Spenser’s truly natural 
 poetry is found ; and it is most true and beautiful. ‘‘ Poets 
 paint with the pen,” said one of the Caracci; and plentifully 
 scattered through the above mentioned poems are pictures of 
 pure sylvan loveliness that the pencil of Claude himself could 
 not exceed. We might almost fancy they were endowed with 
 some spell of enchantment, they have such a delightfully calm, 
 happy effect on the mind engaged in their contemplation. 
 
 We will now 
 
 “ Pursue his footing light 
 
 Through the wide woods and groves, with greene leaves dight.” 
 
 The following exquisite stanzas are in his “Virgil’s Gnat: ” 
 
 The verie nature of the place, resounding 
 With gentle murmure of the breathing ayre, 
 
 A pleasaunt bowre with all delight abounding 
 In the freshe shadowe did for them prepayre. 
 
 To rest their limbs, with wearines redounding. 
 
 For first the high palme-trees, with branches faire. 
 Out of the lowly vallies did arise. 
 
 And high shoote up their heades into the skyes. 
 
 ****** 
 
41 
 
 Here also grew the rouglier-rinded Pine, 
 
 The great Argoan ship’s brave ornament, 
 
 Whom golden Fleece did make an heavenly signe; 
 Which coveting, with his high top’s extent, 
 
 To make the mountaines touch the starres divine. 
 Decks all the forest with embellishment; 
 
 And the black Holme that loves the watrie vale; 
 And the sweete Cypresse, signe of deadly bale. 
 
 Emongst the rest the clambring Yvie grew, 
 
 Knitting his wanton arms with grasping hold. 
 
 Least that the Poplar happely should rew 
 
 Her brother’s strokes, whose boughes she doth enfold 
 
 ^Vith her lythe twigs, till they the top survew. 
 
 And paint with pallid greene her buds of gold. 
 
 Next did the Myrtle tree to her approach. 
 
 Not yet unmindful of her old reproach. 
 
 But the small birds in their wide boughs embowring, 
 Chaunted their sundrie tunes with sweete consent; 
 And under them a silver spring, forth powring 
 His trickling streames, a gentle murmure sent; 
 Thereto the frogs, bred in the slimie scouring 
 Of the moyst moores, their iarring voyces bent; 
 
 And shrill grashoppers cliirped them around : 
 
 All which the ayrie Echo did resound. 
 
 In this so pleasaunt place the Shepheard’s flocke 
 Lay everie where, their wearie limbs to rest, 
 
 On everie bush, and everie hollow rocke. 
 
 Where breathe on them the whistling wdnd mote best 
 The whiles the Shepheard self, tending his stocke, 
 
 Sate by the fountaine side, in shade to rest, 
 
 Where gentle slumbring sleep oppressed him 
 Displaid on ground, and seized everie lim. 
 
 0 
 
42 
 
 The following poem by Robert Herrick, entitled “ Farewell 
 Frost; or. Welcome Spring,” is very descriptive, though not 
 remarkable for the peculiar melody of sound usually found in 
 his short but sweet writings. 
 
 Fled are the frosts, and now the fields appeare 
 Recloth’d in freshe and verdant diaper; 
 
 Thawed are the snowes, and now the lusty spring 
 Gives to each mead a neat enameling; 
 
 The palmes put forth their gemmes, and every tree 
 Now swaggers in her leavy gallantry. 
 
 The while the Daulian minstrell sw'eetly sings. 
 
 With warbling notes, her Tyrrean sufferings. 
 
 What gentle winds respire! as if here 
 Never had been the northern plunderer. 
 
 To strip the trees and fields, to tlieir distresse. 
 
 Leaving them in a pittied nakednesse. 
 
 And look how when a frantick storme doth teare 
 A stubborn oake or holme, long growing there. 
 
 But lul’d to calmnesse, then succeeds a breeze 
 That scarcely stirs the nodding leaves of trees; 
 
 So when this warre, which tempest-like doth spoil 
 Our salt, our come, our honie, wine, and oil. 
 
 Falls to a temper, and doth mildly cast 
 His inconsiderate frenzie off at last; 
 
 The gentle dove may, when these turmoils cease. 
 
 Bring in her bill, once more, the branch of peace. 
 
 The changes from Winter to Spring, and from a time of 
 war to that of peace, are here very happily compared. But in 
 our Flower legends Henick will be heard to greatest advantage; 
 in grace, fancy, and the most melodious cadences of verse, 
 he is unrivalled, either by old or modern writers. Yet while 
 thus eulogising his really sweet poems, 1 ought, perhaps, to 
 
add, tliat these shine out but as straggling stars in a clouded 
 sky; and that in the entire collection of his works there is 
 far more to pass over than to pause and admire; a selection 
 of HeiTick’s poems would form so valuable and delightful a 
 volume, I much wonder such a work has not yet been pub¬ 
 lished.* 
 
 The gallant and graceful Earl Sun-ey, the lover of the fair 
 Geraldine, has dedicated one of his sweetest sonnets to 
 “ A Description of Spring, in which eche thing renews, save 
 only the lover.” 
 
 The soote season, that bud and bloome forthe brings. 
 
 With grene hath clad the hill, and eke the vale; 
 
 The nightingall, with fethers new, she sings. 
 
 The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. 
 
 Somer is come; for every spray now springs, 
 
 The hart hath hung his old head on the pale. 
 
 The buck in brake his winter coat he flings, 
 
 The fishes flete with new repayred scale. 
 
 The adder all her slough away she flings, 
 
 'I'he swallow swift pursueth the flies smale, 
 
 The busy bee, her honey now" she mings, 
 
 Winter is worne, that w'as the floure’s bale; 
 
 And thus I see among these pleasaunt thynges 
 Each care decays, and yet mi/ sorrow sprynges. 
 
 Of all the attributes of Spring, Floioers take the precedence; 
 the very mention of “ the soote season” brings with it the 
 thought of the “bud and bloom” that form its chiefest beauty, 
 and ere 
 
 -well aparelled April on the heel 
 
 Of limping Winter treads, 
 
 * “Choice fruits from Herrick’s Hesperides" will shortly appear, edited by the 
 Author of this volume. 
 
44 
 
 we are eagerly longing for the time, when 
 
 Daisies pied, and violets blue. 
 
 And lady smocks all silver white, 
 And cuckoo buds of yellow hue. 
 
 Do paint the meadows with delight. 
 
 How gracefully linked together in perfect poesy are the 
 few sweet Spring Flowers which our divine Shakspeare repre¬ 
 sents the fair Perdita as wishing for to present to her guests— 
 
 O Proserpina, 
 
 For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let’st fall 
 From Dis’s waggon! Daffodils n 
 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty. Violets, dim. 
 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes. 
 
 Or Cytherea’s breath. Pale primroses. 
 
 That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
 Bright Phoebus in his strength; a malady 
 Most incident to maids. Bold oxlips, and 
 The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds. 
 
 The flower-de-luce being one. 
 
 Having culled most of Shakspeare’s floral gems for intro¬ 
 duction in other parts of the present volume, I will only 
 select one or two more groups of flowers, and then pass on to 
 (he fables, &c., connected with those fonning the illustrations 
 of Spring. 
 
 Ben Jonson —‘‘rare Ben Jonson”—has a most beautiful 
 scene in “ Pan’s Anniversary,” where all the flowers familiarly 
 known are thus lightly yet richly grouped. 
 
45 
 
 Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground 
 With every flower, yet not confound. 
 
 The primrose drop, the Spring’s own spouse. 
 Bright day’s eyes, and the lips of cows. 
 
 The garden star, the queen of May, 
 The rose, to crown the holyday. 
 
 Drop, drop your violets, change your hues. 
 Now red, now pale, as lovers use; 
 
 And in your death go out as well 
 As when you lived unto the smell; 
 
 That from your odour all may say 
 This is the shepherd’s holyday. 
 
 Shepherd. 
 
 Well done, my pretty ones—rain roses still, 
 
 Until the last be dropt; then hence, and fill 
 Your fragrant prickles for a second shower. 
 
 Bring corn-flags, tulips, and Adonis-flower, 
 
 Fair ox-eye, goldy-locks, and columbine. 
 
 Pinks, goulands, king-cups, and sweet sops-in-wine. 
 Blue hare-bells, pagles, pansies, calaminth. 
 Flower-gentle, and the fair-haired hyacinth. 
 
 Bring rich carnations, flower-de-luces, lilies. 
 
 The chequed and purple-ringed daffodillies. 
 
 Bright crown-imperial, kingspear, hollyhocks. 
 
 Sweet Venus’-navel, and soft lady-smocks. 
 
 Bring too some branches forth of Daphne’s hair. 
 And gladdest myrtle for these posts to wear. 
 
 With spikenard weaved, and marjoram between. 
 
 And starred with yellow golds, and meadow’s queen. 
 That when the altar, as it ought, is drest. 
 
 More odour comes not from the phoenix’ nest. 
 
 The breath thereof Panchaia may envy. 
 
 The colours China, and the light the sky. 
 
46 
 
 Ben Jonson, with most of the old 2)oets, studiously jjieserved 
 the sense of the name given to each flower: for instance, in¬ 
 stead of daisy, a word which at first seems to mean nothing, 
 he says “ bright day’s-eyes,” the flower having received that 
 name from its habit of closing uj) in rainy weather and at 
 night. Besides “ eye of the day,” it vvas also named y mar¬ 
 guerite,” a pearl, under which title it is celebrated by 
 Chaucer. 
 
 In Feverere, whan that it was colde, 
 
 Froste, snowe, haile, raine, hath dominacion. 
 
 With changable elementes, and winds manifolde, 
 
 Which hath of ground, flowre, herbe, jurisdicion, 
 
 For to dispose aftir their correcion; 
 
 And yet Aprillis, with his plesant showres, 
 Dissolveth the snowe, and bringeth forth his flowres. 
 
 Of whose invencion lovirs may be glade. 
 
 For they bring in the Kalendis of Maie, 
 
 And they, with countenance demure, meke. 
 
 Owe worship to the lusty flowres alwaie. 
 
 And in special, one called iye of the dale, 
 
 The daisie, or flowir white and rede. 
 
 And in Frenche called La belle Marguerite. 
 
 Chaucer’s love of the daisy is most fully and beautifully ex¬ 
 pressed in the “ Prologue to the Legende of goode Women,” 
 one of the many gems we find in his works. He describes his 
 great fondness for study, and how he delights in reading his 
 “ olde bookes,” for which he has such faith and credence that 
 no sport nor game can entice him away from them. 
 
47 
 
 Save certainly, whan that the month of Maie 
 Is comen, and that I heare the foules sing, 
 
 And that the floures ginnen for to spring, 
 
 Farewell my booke, and my devocion : 
 
 Now have I than eke this condicion, 
 
 That of all the floures in the mede 
 
 Than love I most these flowres white and rede, 
 
 Soch that men callen Daisies in our toun. 
 
 To hem I have so great affectioun, 
 
 As I sayd erst, when comen is the Maie, 
 
 That in my bedde there daweth me no daie. 
 
 That I n’am up and walking in the mede 
 To see this floure ayenst the Sunne spredej 
 Whan it up riseth early by the morrow. 
 
 That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow. 
 
 So glad am I, whan that I have presence 
 Of it to done it alle reverence. 
 
 As she that is of all floures the floure. 
 
 Fulfilled of all vertue and honoure, 
 
 And ever ylike faire, and fresh of hewe. 
 
 And ever I love it, and ever ylike newe. 
 
 And ever shall, till that mine herte die, 
 
 Alle sweare I not, of this 1 wool not lie : 
 
 He then tells how, at evening, he goes to watch. 
 
 As soon as ever the Sunne ginnetii west 
 To seen this floure, how it will goe to rest. 
 
 For feare of night, so hateth she darknesse. 
 
 Her chere is plainly spred in the brightness 
 Of the Sunne, for there it woll unclose: 
 
 He then coini^lains that he has neither, rhyme nor prose “ suf- 
 fisaunt this floure to praise aright,” and describes his eagerness 
 to go forth into the fields before sunrise, to wait the resurec- 
 tion” of the day’s-eye. 
 
48 
 
 And doune on knees anon right I me sette, 
 
 And as I could, this freshe floure I grette, 
 Kneeling alway, till it unclosed was. 
 
 Upon the smale, softe, swete gras. 
 
 That was with floures swete embrouded all. 
 
 Of soch swetenesse, and soch odour all. 
 
 That for to speake of gomnie, herbe, or tree. 
 Comparison may not ymaked be. 
 
 For it surmounteth plainly all odoures. 
 
 And of the rich beaute of the floures : 
 
 * * * * # 
 
 And leaning on my elbow and my side 
 The longe day I shope me to abide. 
 
 For nothing els, and I shall not lie. 
 
 But for to looke upon the daisie. 
 
 That well by reason men it calle may. 
 
 The daisie, or else the iye of the day. 
 
 The Emprise, and floure of floures all, 
 
 I pray to God that faire mote she fall. 
 
 And all that loven floures for her sake : 
 ***** 
 
 Whan that the Sunne out of the south gan w’est. 
 And that this floure gan close, and gan to rest; 
 For darkness of the night, the which she dred. 
 Home to mine house full swiftly I me sped. 
 
 To gone to rest, and earely for to rise. 
 
 To seene this floure to sprede, as I devise. 
 
 The daisy has never received homage like Chaucer’s; nor has 
 any flower (Shakspeare’s Love-in-idleness alone excepted) be¬ 
 come so entirely' associated with a poet’s fame. How simply 
 and how lovingly he paints his affection for this darling of the 
 year! Coleridge justly remarked, ‘Giow well we seem to know 
 Chaucer;” and in these lovely descriptions of his early and 
 late watchings of his favourite flower, how completely we seem 
 
49 
 
 to behold him, “kneeling alway, till it unclosed was ; ” and at 
 sunset, when its leaves were again folded, we see him hastening 
 home, that he may rise early and watch it again expand. A 
 beautiful portrait of a gentle, happy, and truly poetic mind 
 may be found in Chaucer’s passages descriptive of his own 
 habits and fancies, and yet, comparatively, his works are 
 known to but a small portion of readers, and are but little 
 appreciated, chiefly for want of the attention at first 
 required to understand the varying accents, and form the 
 coiTect rhythm in reading them. His poems are so replete 
 with beauties, and so thoroughly English in spirit, that they 
 must, ere long, occupy that place among familiar favourites 
 which they have so long in vain deserved. 
 
 Shakspeare very gracefully introduces the daisy in tlie 
 description of Lucrece sleeping. 
 
 Without the bed her other fair hand was, 
 
 On the green coverlet; whose perfect white 
 Sliowed like an April daisy on the grass. 
 
 Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light, 
 And, canopied in darkness, sweetly lay. 
 
 Till they might open to adorn the day. 
 
 To our flower-loving Herrick I must be indebted for the last 
 specimen of daisy eulogy which I shall quote here; it is a 
 sweet melodious little fancy, and, as is usual in such compo¬ 
 sitions of his day, conveys a very elegant compliment to his 
 mistress. 
 
 H 
 
50 
 
 TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON. 
 
 Sliut not SO soon; the dull-eyed night 
 Ha’s not as yet begunne 
 
 To make a seizure on the light, 
 
 Or to seale up the sunne. 
 
 No marigolds yet closed are, 
 
 No shadowes greate appeare; 
 
 Nor doth the early shepheard’s starre 
 Shine like a spangle here. 
 
 Stay but till my Julia close 
 Her life-begetting eye ; 
 
 And let the whole world then dispose 
 It selfe to live or dye. 
 
 Among the poetic groups of Spring Flowers, culled from the 
 rich paiterre of Britain’s noble and immortal Bards, I cannot 
 omit the following exquisite description of the vernal season, 
 by Gawain Douglas, Bishop of Dunkeld. The epithets in it 
 are often peculiarly happy; but to those of my readers who 
 think Chaucer’s language obscure these truly beautiful lines 
 will seem utterly unintelligible, even with the glossary ap¬ 
 pended. 
 
 And blissful blossoms in the bloomed sward 
 Submit their heads in the young sun's safe-guard : 
 Ivy-leaves rank o’erspread the Barmekyn^ wall; 
 
 The bloomed hawthorn clad his pykis''^ all 
 Foi’th of fresh burgeons f the wine-grapis ying 
 Endlong the twistis did on trestles Iiing, 
 
 “ Bttrniekyn —old mound, barbican. b Pykis — thorns, 
 
 c Burgeons —buds. 
 
51 
 
 The locked buttons on the gemmed trees 
 O’erspreadand leaves of nature’s tapestries; 
 
 Soft grassy verdure, after balmy showers. 
 
 On curland stalkis smiland to their flowers. 
 
 Beholdand them so many divers hue. 
 
 Some pers,^ some pale, some burnet,^ and some blue. 
 Some grey, some gules,^ some purpure, some sanguene, 
 Blanchet^ or brown, fauch-yelLoui^ many ane. 
 
 Some heavenly coloured, in celestial gre,‘ 
 
 Some watry-hued, as the haw-waly^ sea; 
 
 And some depaint in freckles red and white. 
 
 Some bright as gold, with aureate lea vis lite-.' 
 
 The daisie did unbraid her crownal smale. 
 
 And every flower un-lapped in the dale. 
 
 The flower-de-luce forth spread his heavenly hue, 
 
 Flower-damas,"' and columbo black and blue. 
 
 Sere dowis smale on dandelion sprung. 
 
 The young green bloomed strawberry-leaves among; 
 Gimp gilliflowers their own leaves uyi-shet-," 
 
 Fresh primrose, and the purpure violet. 
 
 The rose-hiobbis tetand° forth their head, 
 
 Gan chip, and ki/th’ their vernal lippis red; 
 
 Crisp scarlet leaves sheddand, baith at anes. 
 
 Cast fragrant smell amid from golden grains. 
 
 Heavenly lilies, with lockerand' toppis white 
 Opened, and shew their crestis redemiteJ 
 
 <1 Pecs—light blue, 
 e Burnet —brownish, 
 f Gules —scarlet, 
 g Blancliet —white. 
 l> Fauch-yellow —fawn-coloured yel¬ 
 low. 
 
 > Celestial gre —sky blue, 
 k Haw-waly —dark-waved. 
 
 ' Lite — little. 
 
 •” Flower-damas —damask rose. 
 
 " Unshet —unshut, opened. 
 
 <> Rose-knobbis tetand —rose-buds 
 peeping. 
 
 P Kyth —show. 
 
 1 Lockerand —curling like locks of 
 hair. 
 
 r Redemite —crowned. 
 
 The expression “ lockerand toppis,” in speaking of the lilies, is very quaintly 
 appropriate, as so many of that class of flowers have the petals, when fully 
 expanded, turning back in a perfect curl like the red tiger lily. 
 
 H 2 
 
52 
 
 The balmy vapour from their silver croppis,^ 
 
 Distilland wholesome sugar’d honey-droppis, 
 
 So that ilk burgeon, scion, herb, or flower, 
 
 Wox all embalmed of the fresh liquoure. 
 
 And bathed did in dulce humoures flete. 
 
 Whereof the beeis wrought their honey sweet. 
 
 Leaving the old Bards, I shall now introduce one of the 
 loveliest flow'er scenes ever painted by poet’s pen, and which 
 has few rivals, even among the bright and beautiful creations 
 of its author. It is a di’eara of Spring Flowers, by Percy 
 Bysshe Shelley. 
 
 I dreamed that, as I wandered by the w'ay, 
 
 Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, 
 
 And gentle odours led my steps astray. 
 
 Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring 
 Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 
 Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 
 Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, \ 
 But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in a dream. 
 
 There grew pied wind-flow'ers and violets, 
 
 Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth. 
 
 The constellated flower that never sets; 
 
 Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth 
 ’I'he sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets 
 Its mother’s face with heaven-collected tears. 
 
 When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears. 
 
 And in the w^arm hedge grew lush eglantine. 
 
 Green cow-bind, and the moonlight-coloured May, 
 
 And cherry blossoms, and wdiite cups, wdiose wine 
 Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day ; 
 
 s Croppis —heads. 
 
58 
 
 And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, 
 
 With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray ; 
 
 And flowers azure, black and streaked with gold, 
 
 Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. 
 
 We find Shelley, too, lavishing words of praise and fondness 
 on the daisy. How exquisitely descriptive is the epithet 
 “ ])earled Arcturi of the earth, the constellated flower that 
 never sets;” the association of true and beautiful ideas is the 
 happiest that can be conceived in so few words. The pearl¬ 
 like whiteness of the flower; the name “Arctini,” from the star 
 Arcturus, which is always visible to our hemisphere, as the 
 daisy is ever in bloom; and the tenn “ constellated flower, ’ 
 so beautifully realizing the starry groups in which they 
 are seen clustering together, are ideas as truly as they are 
 poetically emblematical of the subject. 
 
 Primroses and cowslips have ever been in high favour with 
 the sovereigns of song. The Swedish name of the former, maj- 
 nycklar, or the key of May, is very characteristic of the sud¬ 
 den arrival of Summer in high latitudes. The primrose comes, 
 and, as if it unlocked the treasure-house of earth, all the other 
 bright gifts of the season follow close upon it. In Beaumont 
 and Fletcher’s Bridal Song of Theseus and Hippolita, we find 
 among “ Nature’s children sweet,” 
 
 Primrose, first-born child of Ver, 
 
 IVIerry Spring-time’s harbinger. 
 
 With her bells dim. 
 
 And Henick celebrates their meek, young beauty in one of 
 his most musical, melancholy strains : 
 
54 
 
 TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. 
 
 Why doe ye peep, sweet babes ? can teares 
 Speak griefe in you, 
 
 Who were but borne 
 Just as the modest morn 
 Teemed her refreshing dew? 
 
 Alas! you have not known that shower 
 That marres a flower; 
 
 Nor felt th’ unkind 
 Breath of a blasting wind: 
 
 Nor are ye worne with yeares. 
 
 Or warpt as we. 
 
 Who think it strange to see 
 Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young. 
 
 To speak by teares before ye have a tongue. 
 
 Speak, whimp’ring younglings, and make known 
 The reason why 
 Ye droop and weep. 
 
 Is it for want of sleep. 
 
 Or childish lullaby ? ' 
 
 Or that ye have not seen as yet 
 The violet ? 
 
 Or broughte a kisse 
 From that sweetheart to this ? 
 
 No, no, this sorrow shown 
 By your teares shed, 
 
 Wo’d have this lecture read; 
 
 That things of greatest, so of meanest worth. 
 Conceived with griefe are, and with tears brought forth. 
 
 The cowslip bells are generally named by poets as the re¬ 
 sort of faries; Shakspeare’s “ dainty Ariel” sings— 
 
 Where the bee sucks, there suck I; 
 
 In a cowslip’s bell I lie; 
 
 There I couch when owls do cry. 
 
And the Fairy, talking to Puck, in the '‘Midsummer-night’s 
 Dream”—that “ paradise of dainty devices”—says, in sjDeaking 
 of Titania— 
 
 The cowslips tall her pensioners be; 
 
 In their gold coats’ spots you see ; 
 
 Tliose be rubies, fairy favours, 
 
 In those freckles live their savours : 
 
 I must go seek some dewdrops here. 
 
 And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. 
 
 Herrick alludes to the cowslip gatherers in his sweet verses 
 
 TO MEDDOWES. 
 
 Ye have been fresh and green. 
 
 Ye have been filled with fiowres, 
 
 And ye the walks have been 
 
 Where maids have spent their houres. 
 
 Ye have beheld how they 
 With wicker arks did come. 
 
 To kisse and beare away 
 The richer cowslips home. 
 
 Y’ave heard them sweetly sing. 
 
 And seen them in a round; 
 
 Each virgin, like a spring, 
 
 With honeysuccles crown’d. 
 
 But now, we see none here. 
 
 Whose silverie feet did tread. 
 
 And with dishevell’d haire 
 Adorned this smoother mead. 
 
 Like unthrifts, having spent 
 Your stock, and needy grown, 
 
 Y’are left here to lament 
 Your poor estates alone. 
 
56 
 
 Anothei' lovely Spring Flower, which is very familiar to us, 
 and often found in company with the primrose, is the hlue-bell, 
 or wild hyacinth,— scilla non-scriptiis. The soft delicate blue 
 of the bells hanging gi-acefully from the tall stem, and its wav¬ 
 ing leaves of bright green, which grow in gi’eat profusion, render 
 it conspicuously beautiful ; nor is its odour unworthy of its 
 appearance. I intended to introduce portraits of the primrose 
 and blue-hell, grouped, among tire illustrations of Spring; but 
 having exceeded the number of plates, that drawing, among 
 others, is omitted. It is remarkable that two flowers, so 
 distinct from each other as the Spring blue-hell and the fragile 
 harebell of Autumn, should he so frequently described as one 
 and the same flower. No one thinks of mistaking a snowdrop 
 for a lily, and yet these two blue bells are more imlike. 
 
 Two more popular favourites among Spring’s rainbowed chil¬ 
 dren ai-e the celandine and buttercup; and their bright golden 
 faces tell us many a tale of infancy and happiness,—of the time 
 “ when daisies and buttercups gladdened our sight like treasures 
 of silver and gold.” There is the arum, too, with its curious 
 sheaths, enfolding the singular spire of yellow, purple, or 
 pink, which children call “ cows and calvesa title which my 
 floral etymology has not yet enabled me to make airy sense of; 
 hut I well remember the pleasure of seeking and gathering the 
 plant; and now the sight of the arum’s broad shining barbed 
 leaves in a hedge or on a hank, is an incsistihle attraction to peep 
 for the well-known treasure. The modest “tender-hued wood- 
 sorrel” gives to the lane its “ neat enamelling,” with its triple 
 crimson-lined leaves and soft blossoms. And how delicately do 
 
57 
 
 the light blossoms of the wild strawbeny gem the banks with 
 their small silvery stars ! while above them the hawthorn gently 
 waves its branches in the soft breeze, enwreathed and loaded 
 with clustering sivarms of flowers. 
 
 Speaking their perfume to the tell-tale air. 
 
 Who, gently whispering, will gaily go, 
 
 And all around the fragi'ant message bear. 
 
 Come, let us rest this hawthorn-tree below. 
 
 And breathe its luscious fragrance ere it flies, 
 
 And watch the tiny petals as they fall. 
 
 Circling and winnowing down our sylvan liall. 
 
 Shook from the full-flowered spray by quiv’ring wing 
 Of some gay bird, up-rushing to the skies 
 Its wild out-pouring melody to sing. 
 
 Exulting in its joy.* 
 
 The pink hawthorn is an elegant and brilliant ornament to 
 the lawn or shrubbery, and forms a beautiful kind of raspberry- 
 and-cream contrast to the white ; but our affection is for the 
 hedge-row hawthorn, the ti'ue “ May,” whose lavish wealth of 
 flowers and fragrance in Spring adds to our lovely scenery a 
 chai'in peculiarly English. 
 
 All our true poets love this generous wayside friend; Shak- 
 speare, in Henry IV., says— 
 
 Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade 
 To shepherds looking on their silly sheep 
 Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy 
 To kings, that fear their subjects’ treachery ? 
 
 * From an unpublished Foem by tlie Author. 
 
 I 
 
58 
 
 Chaucer thus alludes to the good and pleasant old custom 
 of going a Maying, in his “ Court of Love: ” 
 
 And forthe goeth alle the Courte, both moste and leste. 
 
 To fetch the flowirs freshe, and braunche and bloome. 
 And namely hawthorne brought both page and groome, 
 With freshe garlantis partly blew and white. 
 
 Spenser makes frecpient mention of this fragrant Spring 
 flower, both in his “Faery Queen,” and his poems of this 
 world. The allusion I think most appropriate and beautiful, 
 is this opening dialogue of the fifth “ ^Eglogue,” in his “ Shep- 
 heard’s Calender : ”— 
 
 Palinode. Piers. 
 
 PuHnode. Is not thilke the mery moneth of May, 
 
 When love lads masken in fresh aray ? 
 
 How fades it then, wee no merrier beene, 
 
 Ylike as others, girt in gawdy greene ? 
 
 Our bloncket liveries bene all to sadde 
 
 For thilke same season, when all is ycladde 
 
 With pleasaunce; the ground with grasse, the woods 
 
 With greene leaves, the bushes with bloosming buds. 
 
 Youngthes folke now flocken in everie where 
 
 To gather May buskets and smelling brere; 
 
 And home they hasten the postes to dight. 
 
 And all the kirk pillours eare day-light. 
 
 With hawthorne-buds, and sweete eglantine. 
 
 And girlonds of roses, and soppes in wine. 
 
 Such merrimake holy Saints doth queme. 
 
 But wee here sitten as drownde in dreme. 
 
 Pitrx. For younkers. Palinode, such follies fitte; 
 
 But wee tway bene men of elder witte. 
 
 Palinode. Sicker this morrow, no longer agoe, 
 
 1 sawe a shole of shepheardes outgoe. 
 
59 
 
 With singing and shouting, and iolly chere: 
 
 Before them yode a lustie tabrere. 
 
 That to the many a hom-pype playd, 
 
 Whereto they dauncen eche one with his mayd, 
 
 To see those folks make such iovysaunce, 
 
 Made my heart after the pype to daunce: 
 
 Tho to the greene wood they speeden hem all 
 To fetchen home May with their musicall; 
 
 And one they bringen in a royale throne. 
 
 Crowned as king; and his queene attone 
 Was Lady Flora, on whom did attend 
 A fayre flocke of faeries, and a fresh bend 
 Of lovely nymphes, O that I were there 
 To helpen the ladies their May-bush beare ! 
 
 Though I have devoted so large a space to eulogies of the 
 hawthorn, I cannot quit the subject without quoting a stanza 
 from my graceful favourite, Herrick, also commemorating the 
 ceremonies used in the meiTy olden-time on May-day. Much 
 do I regret that such good and poetical festivities have become 
 nearly obsolete. Many of the sports and pastimes of our an¬ 
 cestors would now be unsuited to their more cultivated descend¬ 
 ants; but such as bring us into close communion with Nature’s 
 loveliness and glory must, of necessity, be yet more highly 
 enjoyed as our minds become more elevated and capable of 
 comprehending, appreciating, and, above all, heartily feeling 
 the delightful influence of the harmony and beauty of creation. 
 
 But let us hear Herrick. 
 
 TO CORINNA, GOING A MAYING. 
 
 Get up, get up, for shame, the blooming morne 
 Upon her wings presesents the god unshorne. 
 
 I 2 
 
60 
 
 See how Aurora throws her faire 
 Fresh-quilted colours through the aire; 
 
 Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 
 The dew bespangling herbe and tree; 
 
 Each flower has wept, and bow’d towards the east 
 Above an hour since, yet you are not drest; 
 
 Nay! not so much as out of bed. 
 
 When all the birds have mattens seyd. 
 
 And sung their thankful hymnes; ’tis sin. 
 
 Nay, profanation, to keep in. 
 
 When as a thousand virgins on this day 
 Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May. 
 
 Rise, and put on your foliage; and be seene 
 To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and greene. 
 And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
 For jewels for your gowne or haire; 
 
 Feare not, the leaves will strew 
 Gemmes in abundance upon you; 
 
 Besides, the childhood of the day hath kept. 
 
 Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. 
 
 Come, and receive them, while the light 
 Hangs on the dew-locks of the night; 
 
 And Titan on the eastern hill 
 Retires himself, or else stands still. 
 
 Till you come forth. Wash, dresse, be brief in praying 
 Few beads are best, when once we goe a Maying. 
 
 Come, my Corinna, come; and comming, mark 
 How eche field turns a street, eche street a parke. 
 Made greene, and trimmed with trees 5 see how 
 Devotion gives each house a bough. 
 
 Or branch; each porch, each doore, ere this 
 An arke, a tabernacle is, 
 
 Maide up of whitethorn neatly interwove. 
 
 As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
 
 Can such delights be in the street 
 And open fields; and we not see’t ? 
 
61 
 
 Come, we’ll abroad, and let’s obay 
 The proclamation made for May: 
 
 And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; 
 
 But, my Corinna, come, let’s goe a Maying. 
 
 Is not this exquisitely beautiful ? I know of nothing, on a 
 similar subject, which may bear a comparison with the sweet¬ 
 ness, fancy, and delicate elegance of these lines. They are 
 soft and musical enough to have been breathed out in the 
 chime of Lily-hells. The melody of Hen'ick’s true poetry is, 
 to my mind, almost unequalled — Shelley alone rivals him ; 
 and, as Shelley’s poetry is of a far loftier character, a com¬ 
 parison may not well he drawn between them. 
 
 Next to the hawthorn-bloom, the lilac and laburnum con¬ 
 tribute most to the adornment of the glad earth at this festive 
 season ; and right gaily do they deck her out, with their count¬ 
 less clusters of amethyst and showers of gold. 
 
 One might invent a fable, or at least improve one, and 
 represent Jupiter visiting Danee in the form of a laburnum-tree 
 in bloom, far more gi’acefully than in a fall of heavy clinking 
 metal; though if the fair ladyes of those classic days loved 
 parties and pin-money as well as modem beauties seem to do, 
 methinks the celestial wooer would have sped but poorly in his 
 comtship; for, verily, and indeed, Plutus is far more in request 
 than the blooming Flora; and the exhibition of a diamond 
 necklace in a close and heated midnight ball-room is a matter 
 of higher importance, and, as they would fain persuade us, 
 productive of more pleasure (though this I will not do them 
 the wrong of believing) than a health-giving ramble in the 
 
6‘2 
 
 blessed country, and the acquisition of a cluster of bright wild 
 flowers, glittering with nature’s gems of dew. 
 
 Spring is certainly the season of England’s greatest beauty. 
 The vine-wreathed Autumns of southern climes may, and 
 must be, rich and rare; but we will not envy them while 
 our own dear Land has her fairy-like realms of orchards in 
 blossom, and in loveliness, as in fame, is a queen indeed. 
 What can be more luxuriantly picturesque than the appear¬ 
 ance of the world of Flowers which our cider counties display 
 at this season ? Indeed, the small garden orchards attached 
 to road-side cottages all over England are gems of beauty. 
 The various tints and texture of the blossoms, from the jjure 
 white of the peai' and cherry to the deep rose-coloured 
 buds of the apple and crab, and the young delicate gi’een 
 of the just opening leaves, do truly seem like a festal robe 
 worn by the joyous earth in honour of the Spring-time. 
 The Broom too, “ the honny, bonny Broom,” waves its slender 
 sprays in the soft breeze, and we look from the gay, gold- 
 coloured butterfly-blossoms it bears on the hills, to the small 
 and more delicate w'hite ones of the gardens, and know not 
 which ai’e most beautiful. The Guelder Rose-trees look as 
 if overburthened with their globes of silvery flowers; and the 
 aromatic Syringa breathes afar off her delicious perfume, which 
 emulates in sweetness, as her flowers do in beauty, the famed 
 orange blossoms of southern lands. 
 
63 
 
 It was during a delightful journey through scenes like this, 
 when 
 
 Zephirus and Flora gentelly 
 Yave to the flowers soft and tenderly 
 Hir sote brethe, and made hem for to sprede, 
 
 As God and Goddesse of the flourie mede, 
 
 In which, methoughte, I mighte daie by dale 
 Dwellen alway, the jolly month of Maie, 
 
 that the following “ May Meditations” suggested themselves. 
 
 She came—the bright, beautiful, gladsome Spring! 
 
 She hath waved o’er the earth her glittering wing; 
 
 With her sunny smile, and her joyous voice. 
 
 She hath bid the chilled, weary earth rejoice; 
 
 UolT her wintry garb, and with flow’rets gay 
 Richly embroider her verdant array. 
 
 The Spring came forth; with her glance so bright, 
 
 Her song of glee, and her wing of light. 
 
 She hath flitted along o’er vale and hill 
 That in Winter’s deep sleep lay dark and still; 
 
 She hath warbled her cheerful, arousing strain. 
 
 And they burst from their slumbers to life again. 
 
 She waved o’er the forests her magic wand. 
 
 And the leaves sprang forth ’neath her fairy hand. 
 
 The luxuriant lilac’s bloom is there. 
 
 And laburnums waving their yellow hair; 
 
 The blossoms of snow on each clustered spray 
 Their light petals spread on her flower-gemmed way, — 
 Some piu’est white, and some with a streak 
 Like the fluttering blush on a maiden’s cheek. 
 
64 
 
 O’er field and hedge-row, by bank and stream. 
 
 Her path we trace in the rainbow gleam 
 Of the myiiad flowers, that now unfold 
 Their ti-easures of silver and burnished gold; 
 
 And, queen of wild buds, the hyacinth blue 
 Rivals the skies with as bright a hue; 
 
 And the hedge-geranium, fair and brief. 
 
 Twines ’mid each gay group her fi-agi’ant leaf. 
 
 And star-like blossoms, that blushing, peep 
 Down sheltered lane and o’er rocky steep. 
 
 List! —’twas the nightingale’s note ye heard : 
 
 To the fairest flower sings the sweetest bird. 
 
 For the earliest rose has opened, to fling 
 Her fragrant breath on the breeze of Spring. 
 
 Few trees are so magnificent in foliage as the horse-chestnut, 
 with its lai'ge fan-like leaves, far more resembling those of some 
 tropical plant than the garb of a forest free in climes like ours; 
 but when these are crowned with its pyramids of flowers, so 
 splendid in their distant effect, and so exquisitely modelled and 
 pencilled when we gather and examine their fair forms — is it 
 not then the pride of the landscape ? If the oak—the true 
 British oak—be the forest king, let us give him at least a 
 pai’tner in his majesty; and let the chestnut, whose noble 
 head is crowned by the hand of Spring with a regal diadem, 
 gemmed with pyramids of pearly, and golden, and ruby flowers— 
 let her be queen of the woods in bonny England: and while 
 we listen to the musical hum of the bees, as they load 
 
()5 
 
 tliemselves with her wealtli of lioney, we will fancy they are 
 congratulating their noble and generous friend on her new 
 honours. 
 
 I am perhaps growing somewhat too excursive under the influ¬ 
 ence of these sweet Spring memories ; and it may be thought, 
 that in a work ostensibly devoted to flowers, I have no right to 
 trespass upon the forest; but wherever I find such favoured 
 children of Flora as the one last mentioned, be it in garden, 
 glove, forest, or stream, I claim for them right of introduction 
 among their fair and fragrant kindred. 
 
 The flowers which have been selected in illustration of Spring 
 now demand a brief notice, especially as several of them are of 
 very classic origm, according to the poets, whose graceful 
 imaginings will well relieve my matter-of-fact prose. 
 
 It appears rather singular that the Snowdrop, which is con¬ 
 sidered an indigenous plant, is never, to my knowledge, men¬ 
 tioned by the old poets; this circumstance would seem to infer 
 a comparatively recent inti'oduction of the lovely flower, and I 
 have found it gi’owing ivild in several situations (such as the 
 site of a moated house, long since destroyed, where it flourishes 
 in profusion) where it may originally have been planted as a 
 garden flower. Had it been equally abundant in Chaucer’s 
 time, we may be tolerably sure so gentle and beautiful a thing, 
 braving the bleakest season of the year, and excelling even the 
 Daisy in lowly modesty, would not have remained unsung. 
 Nor is it found either in the graceful chaplets of Shakspeare, 
 the songs of Beaumont and Fletcher, or in the rich and many- 
 
 K 
 
66 
 
 hued clusters of Ben Jonson or Spenser; but I must leave this 
 enigma to be solved by abler minds than mine- 
 
 The Snowdrop is hailed year after year wth unchanged 
 delight, as our earliest of 
 
 Spring’s voluptuous paintings, when she breathes 
 
 Her first sweet kisses, 
 
 and, as a native of our soil, “ The fair maid of February” (for 
 by that sweet name is she sometimes known) has an undisputed 
 claim to a chief place in our list of floral friends. In real 
 unpoetical tnitli, I believe the yellow aconite is “ the ae first 
 flower springs either in moor or dale;” but to acknowledge 
 such precedence in any but a solely botanical work, would seem 
 like robbing the heiress of her birthright; and poetry cannot 
 suffer Spring’s fair and virgin queen to be deposed in favour 
 of any less qualified representative, or the Christmas Rose, 
 which gladdens even a drearier season, might justly lay claim 
 to more celebration than she now gains. It would thus appear 
 that simple Audrey’s suspicions of “oiu-craft” ai’e somewhat 
 too well founded, when she enquires of Touchstone, if “poetical 
 means honest in word and deed ? ” 
 
 The Crocus is fancied by Prior as the bridegi'oom of the 
 Lady Snowdrop. It is a graceful conceit, for they are a most 
 faithful couple; rarely severed during their short lives. Toge¬ 
 ther they rise from the snow—together bide the storm, or bask 
 in the sunshine—and when one droops and dies, we know that 
 both are leaving us. 
 
67 
 
 THE CROCUS—PRIOR. 
 
 Dainty young- thing 
 Of life! thou venturous flower 
 Who growest through tlie hard cold bower 
 Of wintry spring. 
 
 Thou various hued, 
 
 Soft, voiceless bell, whose spire 
 Rocks in the grassy leaves like wire 
 In solitude. 
 
 Like patience, thou 
 Art quiet in thy earth. 
 
 Instructing Hope that virtue’s birth 
 Is feeling's vow. 
 
 Thy fancied bride. 
 
 The delicate Snowdrop, keeps 
 Her home with thee; she wakes and sleeps 
 Near thy true side. 
 
 Will man but hear! 
 
 A simple flower can tell 
 What beauties in his mind should dwell 
 Through passion’s sphere. 
 
 The brilliant colours and woody growth of the Pyrus Japo- 
 NICA make it contrast sti’ikingly with the pale and fragile Snow¬ 
 drop, near whose modest bells this superb native of Japan may 
 often be seen, exhibiting the singular appearance I have des¬ 
 cribed in the illustrative lines. The buds and flowers of brightest 
 crimson, with their golden-coloured anthers, come peering out 
 through the snow wreaths, that lie lightly upon their trained 
 stems ; and, to a far less fanciful eye than mine, might well 
 
 K 2 
 
68 
 
 seeiu to have melted their way, dissolving their glittering veil 
 to come blushing again into sunshine. The white and pink 
 varieties of the Pyrus Japonica are also very beautiful, but have 
 not the rich and glowing splendour of my fairy favourite, which, 
 through the months of late Autumn, Winter, and early Sjuing, 
 when so few of our garden darlings venture to look upon the 
 dreary earth, clothes the supporting wall or ti’ellis with its 
 cheering and vivid beauty, being, in this respect, more worthy 
 our esteem than most of om- foreign acquisitions, which gene¬ 
 rally require the additional warmth and shelter of the stove or 
 conservatory. 
 
 The next gem of my floral chaplet is one of classic fame; 
 one of the many fair flow'ers around which mythological fable 
 has thrown its quaint legendary garb : even its botanical name 
 brings a dream of romance with it — JVarcissus Poeticus. Our 
 own merry, dancing dafl'odil claims kindred with the Narcissi; 
 and who does not love the daffodils, 
 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 
 The winds of March with beauty ? 
 
 What a mine of wealth a bank sprinkled thickly with their 
 bright golden crests and waving leaves seemed to us in child¬ 
 hood ! And, if only precious as the memories of such innocent 
 delight, W'e must love them still. Of modern Bards, however 
 great, I have forbidden myself to speak, but what can be more 
 beautiful, in thought, expression, and melody, than these sweet 
 verses of Robert Plerrick’s i* 
 
69 
 
 Faire clafFodills, we weep to see 
 You haste away so soon; 
 
 As yet the early rising sun 
 Has not attained his noon. 
 
 Stay, stay, 
 
 Untill the hasting day 
 
 Has run 
 
 But to the even song:: 
 
 o y 
 
 And, having prayed together, we 
 Will goe with you along. 
 
 We have short time to stay as you, 
 
 We have as short a Spring; 
 
 As quick a growth to meet decay 
 As you, or any thing. 
 
 We die 
 
 As your houres doe, and drie 
 Away, 
 
 Like to the Summer’s raine. 
 
 Or as the pearles of morning’s dew. 
 
 Ne’er to be found againe. 
 
 The Narcissus is celebrated by many of our old Poets, to 
 whom the story of the beautiful youth growing enamoured of 
 his own reflected form as he gazed into a fountain, and pining 
 in hopeless love till transformed into the Flower bearina: his 
 name, was a most tempting subject for their quaint and fanciful 
 muses. The bending heads of all the Narcissi favour the fable, 
 which is certainly a very graceful one ; and we do well to bear 
 such in om- memory, for they greatly enhance and refine the 
 enjoyment we receive fi’om Flowers, in thus making mental 
 tablets of their delicate and pencilled leaves. The Narcissus 
 is one of the flowers spoken of by Emilia and her maid, in 
 the beautiful garden scene in “The Two Noble Kinsmen,” by 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
70 
 
 
 Emilia. 
 
 Servant. 
 
 Emilia. 
 
 Servant. 
 
 Emilia. 
 
 Servant. 
 
 Emilia. 
 
 Servant. 
 
 This garden hath a world of pleasures in’t. 
 
 What flower is this ? 
 
 ’Tis called Narcissus, Madam. 
 
 That was a fair boy certain, but a fool 
 To love himself; were there not maids enough? 
 Or were they all hard-hearted ? 
 
 They could not be, to one so fair. 
 
 Thou would’st not ? 
 
 1 think I should not. Madam. 
 
 That is a good wench! 
 
 Canst thou not work such flowers in silk, wench ? 
 I’ll have a gown full ofem; and of these. 
 
 This a pretty colour : will’t not do 
 Rarely upon a skirt, wench ? 
 
 Dainty, Madam. 
 
 The most deeply and entirely poetical allusion to the fate 
 of Narcissus is the following splendid passage by Ben Jonson. 
 The love of Echo, and her half reproachful grief, give a real 
 and touching pathos to what in other hands is a mere fable. 
 
 Echo. His name revives and lifts me up fi-om earth— 
 See, see, the mourning fount, whose springs weep yet 
 Th’ untimely fate of that too beauteous boy. 
 
 That trophy of self-love, and spoil of nature. 
 
 Who, now transformed into this drooping flower. 
 Hangs the repentant head back from the stream; 
 
 As if it wished—“ would I had never looked 
 Into such a flattering mirror!” O Narcissus! 
 
 Thou that wast once (and yet art) my Narcissus, 
 
 Had Echo but been private with thy thoughts. 
 
 She would have dropped away herself in tears. 
 
 Till she had all turned water, that in her 
 (As in a truer glass) thou might’st have gazed. 
 
 And seen thy beauties by more kind reflection. 
 
 But self-love never yet could look on truth 
 But with bleared beams; slick Flattery and she 
 
 
71 
 
 Are twin-born sisters, and do mix their eyes, 
 
 As, if you sever one, the other dies. 
 
 Why did the Gods give thee a heavenly form 
 And earthly thoughts to make thee proud of it ? 
 
 Why, do I ask? — ’Tis now the known disease 
 Tliat beauty hath, to bear too deep a sense 
 Of her own self-conceived excellence. 
 
 Oh ! hadst thou known the worth of Heaven’s rich gift. 
 Thou wouldst have turned it to a truer use. 
 
 And not (with starved and covetous ignorance) 
 
 Pined in continual eyeing that bright gem. 
 
 The glance whereof to others had been more 
 Than to thy famished mind the wide world’s store. 
 
 Shelley, in the exquisite description of flowers in his Poem 
 of the “ Sensitive Plant,” calls 
 
 Narcissi, the fairest among them all. 
 
 Who gaze on their eyes in the stream’s recess. 
 
 Till they die of their own dear loveliness. 
 
 The scent of the Narcissus, too, is extremely fragrant, and 
 when adorning our windows in wintry weather, how delight¬ 
 fully does the perfumed air of the snug, fire-enlivened study 
 seem to whisper, or at least 6rea^/te, of Summer’s sweet children 
 and meiTy blue sky! Yes, the Narcissus is sweet, but it yields 
 the palm of fragi’ance to its modest neighbour in the wreath. 
 Who does not know that 
 
 Violets, dim. 
 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes, 
 
 Or Cytherea’s breath, 
 
 have their humble dwelling-places in our English lanes ? 
 Who has not seen them on many a simny bank, in early 
 
72 
 
 Spring, clustering together, the pm^Dle and the white, hiding 
 among their broad heart-shaped leaves, and, timidly unclosing 
 their soft petals, filling the air with the sweetest of all 
 sweet odours ? 
 
 William Habington, in his poems to Castara, thus prettily 
 alludes to the retiring modesty of this oft-praised flower. 
 
 Like the Violet, which alone 
 Prospers in some happy shade. 
 
 My Castara lives unknown, 
 
 To no looser eye betraid, 
 
 For she’s to herself untrue 
 Who delights i’ the public view. 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton, in his most elegant compliments to 
 the Queen of Bohemia, says 
 
 Ye Violets that first appeare. 
 
 By your pure purple mantles known. 
 
 Like the proud virgins of the yeare. 
 
 As if the Spring were all your own; 
 
 What are ye, when the rose is blown? 
 
 To these lines, which, beautiful as they are, seem like a 
 depreciation of our gentle friend, we have a most complete and 
 flattering contradiction from the melodious lyi'e of Heirick. 
 We find him, in the following lines, allowing the Violet pre¬ 
 cedence of the rose : — 
 
 Welcome, maids of honour. 
 
 You doe bring 
 In the Spring; 
 
 And wait upon her. 
 
73 
 
 She has virgins man}', 
 
 Freshe and faire ; 
 
 Yet you are 
 
 More sweet than any. 
 
 Y’are the maiden posies, 
 
 And so grac’t 
 To be plac’t 
 
 ’Fore damask roses. 
 
 Yet though thus respected. 
 
 By and by 
 Ye doe lie, 
 
 Poore Girles, neglected. 
 
 In these our records of the Romance of Flowers, far be 
 it from us to neglect the gi’aceful fables in which the Violet 
 plays her part. Some relate, that the delicate and fragrant 
 blossom was first produced by the earth at the bidding of 
 Jupiter, to be food for Id during her metamorphosis: others 
 say that Venus, hastening to meet Adonis, trod on a thorn, 
 and that the blood from her celestial foot dyed the flower, 
 which was then white, with its present dim purple. 
 
 Herrick tells a story different from both these; and though 
 evidently the coinage of his own prolific brain, rather than a 
 versification of any popular notion, it is too fanciful to be 
 overlooked. 
 
 HOW VIOLETS CAME BLEW. 
 
 Love on a day, wise poets tell, 
 Some time in wrangling spent. 
 Whether the violet should excell. 
 Or she in sweetest scent. 
 
 L 
 
74 
 
 But Venus having lost tlie day, 
 
 Poore girles, she fell on you, 
 
 And beate ye so, as some dare say 
 Her blovrs did make ye blew. 
 
 Our divine Shakspeare, in his loftiest flights of thought 
 and imagination, frequently pauses to cull the lowly Violet; and 
 never does her soft hue and sweet perfume gi’eet us in such 
 power, and gi’ace, and beauty, as when wrought into some 
 spirit-stirring picture or mighty “fabric of a dream” among 
 his wondrous works. How beautiful, in “ Twelfth Night, is 
 the comparison of soft music to the breath of wind upon 
 the Violet! 
 
 That song again — it had a dying fall. 
 
 O! it came o’er my ear like the sweet south 
 That breathes upon a bank of Violets, 
 
 Stealing and giving odour. 
 
 The Violets from which the illustrative drawing was made, 
 were the late-flowering variety, the leaves of which are some¬ 
 what larger than the wild Spring ones; those having bloomed 
 and passed away while the author’s hand was powerless, and 
 her pencil idle, during illness. 
 
 The occupant of the following plate rrrust be equally well 
 krrowrr with its more gentle companions, for, as the almost un¬ 
 failing inhabitant of wild moor, rnoirntain, and waste land, the 
 yellow Gokse is orre of our fanriliar roadside acquaintances; 
 and rough though it be, there is a kind of cheeriness in its 
 bright golden face, that makes us ever gr’eet its seeming smile 
 
75 
 
 with pleasure —1 should say ujjection. The Gorse appears 
 the emblem, indeed the portrait, of many a kindly being, whose 
 rough and even repulsive exterior so overshadows their better 
 and brighter pans, that the careless and superficial observer 
 would declare “ all barren : ” while they who look beyond the 
 surface, find qualities and beauties in the friend’s mind and 
 the flower’s scent, that prove, though “all is not gold that 
 glitters,” the true treasure must often be sought in the hardest 
 rock. 
 
 My reason for bringing my rough friend into such polished 
 society as he here meets, was the wish to illustrate an old 
 rustic proverb, which says “ When Gorse is out of blossom, 
 kissing is out of season,” very adroitly choosing the Gorse as 
 the test, from its never being wholly destitute of blossoms. 
 
 The Anemone, “blushing with faint crimson,” is another of 
 our Spring Flowers invested with mythological fable. It first 
 sprang, say the poets, from the blood of Adonis; and, in 
 memory of its so imagined origin, Ben Jonson and many 
 others name it Adonis-flower: in “ Pan’s Anniversary,” he 
 says— 
 
 Well done my pretty ones — rain roses still. 
 
 Until the last be ciropt, then hence, and fill 
 Your fragrant prickles for a second shower. 
 
 Bring corn-llags, tulips, and Adonis-flower. 
 
 Shakspeare, in his “ Venus and Adonis,” has the following 
 beautiful passage descriptive of the Flower’s birth : 
 
 L 2 
 
By this the boy that by her side lay killed. 
 
 Was melted like a vapour from her sight, 
 
 And in his blood that on the ground lay spdled, 
 
 A purple flower sprung up, chequer’d with white : 
 Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood 
 Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood. 
 
 She bows her head, the new sprung flower to smell. 
 Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath ; 
 
 And says, within her bosom it shall dwell. 
 
 Since he himself is reft from her by death : 
 
 She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears 
 Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears. 
 
 Poor flower, quoth she, this was thy father’s guise, 
 (Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire) 
 
 For every little grief to wet his eyes: 
 
 To grow unto himself was his desire. 
 
 And so ’tis thine ; but know, it is as good 
 To wither in my breast, as in his blood. 
 
 Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast; 
 Thou art the next of blood, and ’tis thy right: 
 
 Lo! in this hollow cradle take thy rest, 
 
 My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night : 
 There shall not be one minute of an hour 
 Wherein I will not kiss my sweet Love’s flower. 
 
 The Anemone is also called Pasqne-Jlower, from its blossom¬ 
 ing about Easter; and Wind-flower, from being formerly 
 supposed to open only when the wind blew. Hence its name 
 Anemone, from the Greek word dvsf^os, anemos, wind. The 
 wild wood Anemone, being a well-known and indigenous plant, 
 and most delicately beautiful too, would seem preferable, as 
 an illustration of the Flower; but the deeper colours of the 
 
77 
 
 cultivated kinds suit better the romance and the allusions of 
 the poets. 
 
 The Lily of the Vale (for, despite the decision of botanists, 
 that our modest little darling cannot claim kindred with the 
 illustrious Lily family, a Lily —the Lily, we still fondly call it) 
 is a native of our own fair plains and bosky dells; indeed, 
 from the chill air of Lapland to the genial simshine of bright 
 beaming Italy, the fragile and fragrant Lily of the Valley may 
 be found. In the woods of Eileriede, neai- Hanover, they 
 grow in the most luxuriant profusion, and quite a festival is 
 held during their time of flowering. Every house has a 
 bouquet of 
 
 “ The nice-leaved, lesser Lilies, 
 
 Shading, like detected light. 
 
 Their little green-tipt lamps of white;” 
 
 and the woods are crowded with parties celebrating this floral 
 anniversary. 
 
 We might almost believe the Lilies must sometimes blush in 
 surprise and anger (if such gentle creatures could be imagined 
 guilty of human feelings) at some of the quaint and extrava¬ 
 gant comparisons which Poets of the olden time used to draw 
 between the charms of their demi-goddess ladye loves and 
 this fairest of all fair flowers. Hear the following aflinnation of 
 an anonymous gentleman, who wrote in the year 1658, “ to 
 his Mistresse:”— 
 
 I’ll tell you whence the rose did first grow red. 
 
 And whence the Lilly whiteness borrowed. 
 
 You blushed; and then the rose with red was flight, 
 The Lilly kiss’t your hands, and so came wbitc. 
 
78 
 
 Before that time the rose was but a stain, 
 
 The Lilly naught but paleness did contain j 
 You have the native colour;—these, they die. 
 
 And only florish in your livery! 
 
 How exquisitely gi'aceful and melodious is this, yet straining 
 even the wide licence of a poet’s fancy. 
 
 The Pansy boasts a gi'eater variety of aliases than most 
 flowers: it is known as the Heartsease, Love-in-idleness, La 
 Pensde, from which significant name we derive the word 
 Pansy; and has also many rustic appellations, such as “a 
 Kiss at the Garden Gate,” “Pink o’ my John,” &c. 
 
 Although every flower which our divine Shakspeare has 
 mentioned claims from us an immortality of love, yet the 
 Pansy seems especially dedicated to him. Other Bards have 
 written most sweet and dainty conceits about the blushing rose, 
 and the fair lily, and the blue violet, and many another gentle 
 bud and gorgeous blossom; but none have so entirely appro¬ 
 priated any to themselves as Shakspeare has “ the Pansy 
 freaked with jet.” He has given tlie fable to the Flower; and 
 a ])assage of more perfect poetical beauty cannot exist, than 
 the scene where Oberon directs Puck to “ fetch him this herb ;” 
 but as it precedes my illustrative poem, I shall omit it here. 
 How touchingly poor Ophelia mingles the Pansy in her gifts 
 of token flowers : “ There’s Pansies—that’s for thoughts ! ” 
 
 Herrick, in his usual quaint, fanciful way, gives a dillerent 
 
 account. 
 
79 
 
 HOAV PANSIES OR HART’s-EASE CAME FIRST. 
 
 Frolick virgins once these were, 
 
 Overloving, living here; 
 
 Being here their ends deny’d. 
 
 Ran for sweethearts mad, and dy’d. 
 
 Love, in pitie of their teares, 
 
 And their losse in blooming yeares. 
 
 For their restlesse here-spent houres. 
 
 Gave them hart’s-ease turned to fleures. 
 
 Thus the Heartsease is made the emblem-flower of those 
 coquettish fair ones, whose youthful smiles and blandishments 
 have failed in attaining the end so devoutly wished; though, 
 for my own part, I am much inclined to dispute the justice 
 of Master Herrick’s decision, inasmuch as coquetry, or, to use 
 a more modern term, Jiirtation, in youth, cannot possibly 
 procure heart's ease in old age. 
 
 To attempt any thing like an original illustration of a 
 flower so invested with poetry by our sovereign of song 
 would be, if not “ to gild refined gold,” at least to place the 
 counterfeit beside the true metal, as if to betray itself. I 
 have only endeavoured, by introducing some yoimg and popu¬ 
 lar descendants of the Shakspearian favourite, to render the 
 quoted passages yet more familiar, and the emblems more 
 evident and varied. If my introduction of these modern 
 beauties, as candidates for participation in the honours awarded 
 to their ancient, but far less brilliant namesakes, should induce 
 any Pansy fancier to acknowledge the poetical, as well as the 
 
80 
 
 scientific and fashionable claims of the fair token-flowers, my 
 sketches, both of pen and pencil, may happily prove some¬ 
 thing more than a matter of “love and idleness.” 
 
 Here the author may be supposed to curtsey her adieu, 
 for a season, to the kind readers who have companioned her 
 in her prosaic ramble among the Flower’s selected as Illustra¬ 
 tions of Spring. Like an actress who performs several parts 
 in one play, she must now change her character, and pray a 
 “ continuance of patronage in the poetic and pictorial line,” 
 until the next sweet Season, with its bright Flowers and 
 fanciful flibles, asks a similar introduction from her prosaic 
 pen. 
 
SUMMEK. 
 
 Now each creature joyes the other, 
 Passing happy days and howers; 
 One bird reports unto another, 
 
 In the fall of silver showers; 
 While the Earth, our happy mother. 
 Hath her hosome decked with flowers. 
 
 M 
 
t 
 
83 
 
 A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 It was a bright and cheerful afternoon, 
 
 Towards the end of the sunny month of June, 
 
 Wien the north wind congregates in crowds 
 The floating mountains of the silver clouds 
 From tlie horizon — and the stainless sky 
 Opens beyond them, like eternity. 
 
 All things rejoiced beneath the sun — the weeds. 
 
 The river, and the corn-flelds, and the reeds; 
 
 The willow-leaves, that glanced in the light breeze. 
 
 And the Arm foliage of the larger trees. 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 Nay, we’ll have music; let that sweet breath, at least. 
 
 Give us her airy welcome. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! 
 
 Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
 Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 And at the last, the bird began to sing 
 So passing swetely, that, by many fold. 
 
 It was more plesaunt than I couth devise; 
 
 And whan this song was ended in this wise. 
 
 The nightingale with so mery a note 
 Answerid him tliat alle the wode yrong 
 So sodainly, that, as it were a sote, 
 
 I stode astonied, and was with the song 
 Thorow ravishid; that, till late and long, 
 
 I ne wist in what place I was, ne where. 
 
 And ayen, methought, she song even by mine ere. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 Oh ! leave the dull dim house, and come with me 
 Down to the river’s brink ; and we will go 
 Floating in our light boat so silently. 
 
 Watching the sunset-tinged clouds, that glow 
 O’er the broad brow of heaven, and, hanging low, 
 
 IM 2 
 
84 
 
 Like eyelids, curtain o’er the orb, whose hour 
 Of sleep is well nigh come. Oh! ’tis so calm. 
 
 So still, so holy, I could think each power 
 Of sin and soitow from the earth had flown. 
 
 And Peace, descending, claimed it for her own; 
 Shedding from out her dove-like wings the balm 
 Which fills the evening air. 
 
 See, how the arrowy dragon-flies dart out! 
 
 Now here, now there. 
 
 They swiftly flit about; 
 
 Restless, as if we roused them from still sleep, 
 
 ’Mid the tall river grass. Ha! what is that ? 
 
 Start not—’tis only a poor water-rat 
 Crossing the raver to his nest, that deep 
 ’Neath yon old willow he has burrowed out. 
 
 See him, now, steering over;—his long tail 
 Extended for a rudder ; and his route 
 Leaves on the glassy stream a double trail 
 
 / 
 
 Stretching out, fork-like, to the farther bank. 
 
 Where from green rrooks of Sumrrrer foliage rank. 
 Peeps Myosotis—fair “ Forget-me-not,” 
 
 Looking with her bright blue eyes into ours. 
 
 As though to ask, if, ’midst earth’s rainbowed bowers. 
 We ever had her gentle face forgot. 
 
 The willows and “long purples,” too, recall 
 To fancy’s eye the sad and fatal spot 
 Where poor Ophelia, with her coronal 
 Of wild wood flow’rets, fell. 
 
85 
 
 Now the low breeze. 
 
 Which speaks soft music in warm summer-eves. 
 Comes sighing through the wood; but ere it pass 
 To ripple the calm stream, the giant grass. 
 
 Which one might fancy India’s jungles bore. 
 
 Stays the young wanderer, with her whisper soft; 
 And each long streamer, trembling aloft, 
 Discourseth tones that murmuringly i^our 
 Their music eloquent to listening ears; 
 
 And from the hills, that bend on either shore 
 Their gently-sloijing and wood-clothed sides 
 Down to the river’s brim. 
 
 Comes, through the twilight dim. 
 
 Blent with the water’s rippling as it glides. 
 
 The last small chirp of many a sleepy bird. 
 
 In varied tones, now near, now distant heard. 
 
 As if disturbed when close within the nest. 
 
 Their small heads warmly hid beneath their wings. 
 The wearied warblers had gone to rest. 
 
 Yet hark 1 a gush of melody, that rings 
 In rich full cadence o’er the silent eaith; 
 
 A burst of music, whose soft echo brings 
 
 Tears, not of sorrow — smiles apart from mirth. 
 
 Oh! ’tis the silvery-voiced bird of eve. 
 
 The gentle nightingale, that now pours forth 
 Her love-lorn lay—so deem they who believe 
 That in her brilliant song she doth but grieve. 
 
86 
 
 It is a fanciful imagining, 
 
 To blend aught sad or sorrowful with one 
 Who thus triumphantly doth round her fling, 
 
 Far in the silent night, her wondrous spell; 
 Reigning in air, upon her viewless throne. 
 
 The sovereign queen of else subdued sound. 
 
 The very leaves hang moveless—tlie small bell 
 Of many a river flow’ret, that all day. 
 
 Rang with the music of the busy bee. 
 
 And danced, delighting in the sunshine gay. 
 
 Now stilly hangs, as if attentively 
 It listened to the night-bird’s music sweet. 
 
 Over the stream. 
 
 Where drooping willow-leaves the waters meet. 
 
 The moonbeams gleam. 
 
 Broadly and calmly, in a radiant sheet 
 Of lustre bright. 
 
 Which e’en the pinion of the smallest breeze, 
 
 / 
 
 With winnow light. 
 
 May break to shining fragments. The huge trees. 
 Bending their stately heads the river by. 
 
 Are miiTored in it, as majestical 
 
 As they now stand; while on each leaf-crest high 
 The lady moon has placed a coronal 
 Of her encrowning light. Now, over all 
 
 The slumbering vale she holds her silent'^reign. 
 Empress of sight, as the night-bird of sound. 
 
87 
 
 Whose yet more rich and more exulting strain 
 Floats in its wondi’ous harmony around. 
 
 Rapid and changeful; varying in its tone. 
 
 Even as Flowers vary in their hue_ 
 
 Each to the rest unlike, yet all her own. 
 
 Oh! they are Summer queens, the wondrous two. 
 The biid on earth, the fair moon in the sky j 
 Seems it as each from other magic drew i 
 
 The night grows brighter with that music nigh. 
 Whose thrilling tones are lit upon their way 
 Into our inmost spirit, by the soft 
 And harmonizing gleam of each clear ray. 
 
 Falling in smiling lustre from aloft. 
 
 And showing where the lilies lie asleep 
 Beneath their floating canopy. 
 
88 
 
 THE LADYE’S CHAPLET. 
 
 And floiues freshe, blue, red, and white, 
 
 Be her about, the more for to delight; 
 
 And on her heade she hath a chapelet 
 Of roses red, full pleasantly yset. 
 
 Lydgate. 
 
 Hire yelwe here was broided in a tresse 
 Behind hire back a yerde long, I gesse. 
 
 And in the gardin, at the sonne uprist. 
 
 She walketh up and doun; wher as hire list. 
 
 She gathereth floures, partie white and red. 
 
 To make a sotel gerlond for hire hed. 
 
 And as an angel hevenlich she song. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 At every turn she made a little stand. 
 
 And thrust among the thorns her lily hand. 
 
 To draw the rose; and every rose she drew 
 She shook the stalk, and brushed away the dew. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 “ I SIGH for thee, Love, when the morning skies 
 Their earliest beams of rosy radiance wear. 
 
 And earthly things a heavenly brightness bear; 
 The bending Flowers upraise their tearful eyes. 
 Heavy with pearly dew that on them lies. 
 
 And the fond sun, with all a nurse’s care. 
 
 Kisses the shining drops that lingered there 
 From each moist, downcast face; and soon arise. 
 In laughing beauty, all the glittering band. 
 
 How gaily dance they on the wa\'y air! 
 
 The fields and garden are a fairy land — 
 
 And sportive Mab, on some tall lily fair. 
 
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89 
 
 Or gayer tulip, holds her radiant court— 
 
 But I want thine eyes, Love, with mine upon the sport. 
 
 Without thee. Beauty is not beautiful—I know 
 That when with thee I gaze upon a flower. 
 
 E’en though the frailest bud that bears the name. 
 
 To thee ’tis precious, and then dear to me; 
 
 Love hides a charmed gem beneath each leaf. 
 
 Giving them value in our partial eyes. 
 
 But when alone, though Persia’s roses bend 
 In graceful fragi-ance o’er my garden path. 
 
 And I may cull them,— yet they seem less fair. 
 
 Their blush less soft, and their perfume less sweet. 
 Than when thou last didst sportively enwreath 
 Roses from that same tree around my brow.” 
 
 So munnured the fair Emmeline, and sighed— 
 
 And then, the very flowers she had dispraised 
 Would fain have twined amid her clust’ring hair. 
 
 But that another’s hand was gently laid 
 Upon the blushing chaplet, which not then 
 Out-crimsoned her soft cheek. Another’s eye 
 Gazed upon her’s, that dropped their deep-fringed lids. 
 As though o’ercome by full and sudden joy. 
 
 Nor e’en glanced up, until a fervent kiss. 
 
 Stealing the tear which weighed the dark lash down. 
 Called a long look, half fondness, half reproof. 
 
 On that proud happy listener. 
 
 N 
 
90 
 
 And now, 
 
 Leave we the Lovers to their own sweet thoughts. 
 For love doth teach such language to the face. 
 
 In its own silent eloquence, that words. 
 
 Not needed, are forgotten—is’t not so ? 
 
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91 
 
 THE JASMINE TREE. 
 
 A BARD* once sang of a Jasmine tree 
 That grew beside a castle wall, 
 
 The castle where dwelt his ancestry. 
 
 And where he is Lord of tower and hall. 
 And passing sweet was his gentle lay. 
 
 Much praising the fair and fragrant Flower, 
 Which robeth now in its bright an’ay 
 The grey and ancient Border Tower. 
 
 But he deemed that in days of foi’ay rude 
 The tree could not have flourished there. 
 When warriors in the couit-yard stood. 
 
 And trumpets roused the slumb’ring air. 
 
 He asked the silv’ry flowers if they 
 Looked forth as now, when o’er the hill 
 Moss-troopers rode to feud or fray, 
 
 “ And bugles blew for belted Will ? ” 
 
 Then said he, that he might not dream 
 Of deeds that stern old time did see. 
 
 While gazing on the stany gleam 
 Of his own graceful Jasmine tree. 
 
 A maiden chanced to hear' this lay. 
 
 Who marv’ling much it did not tell 
 
 * Lord Morj3eth. 
 
 N 2 
 
9‘2 
 
 Of ladyes beautiful and gay^ 
 
 Who must have loved the Jasmine well— 
 Ventured, all humhly, then to sing 
 Unto the Bard an answering strain, 
 
 Whieh while the flower we hither bring, 
 Perchance ye’ll listen to again. 
 
 And might not e’en the Jasmine tree 
 In sterner days emvi'eath the tower. 
 
 Which now it rohes luxuriantly. 
 
 With em’rald leaf and pearly flower ? 
 
 Were none hut wamors tenants here— 
 
 The armed serf, the belted knight. 
 
 With falchion keen, and poised spear. 
 
 Helm, shield, and cuirass gleaming bright ? 
 
 I know they'd pass the Jasmine tree. 
 
 Nor even glance at aught so frail. 
 While o’er them waved triumphantly 
 Their banner in the moniing gale: 
 
 I know the fragrance that it cast 
 
 Their rugged souls no joy could yield; 
 They only heard the trumpet’s blast 
 That called them to the battle field. 
 
93 
 
 But did none love the Jasmine tree ? 
 
 Yes;—Beauty, in her turret bower. 
 Cherished its gentle purity. 
 
 And culled the fair and fragrant flower 
 It nestled ’midst her raven hair. 
 
 It wreathed around her lofty brow. 
 And, sooth, no easy task it were 
 To say which wore the purer snow. 
 
 The free and sportive Jasmine tree ! 
 
 O’er the lone captive’s dtirksomc cell. 
 
 How many a tale of liberty 
 
 Could’st thou to his sad spirit tell ! 
 
 Each slender tendril floating there. 
 
 Laughing in sunshine, nursed by showers. 
 And gemming the perfumed air 
 
 With winged wreaths of stany flowers. 
 
 The captive saw the Jasmine tree. 
 
 Whose slight and fragile branches crept 
 Through the dim loop-hole stealthily — 
 
 He sadly gazed on them, and wept; 
 
 Each wandering breeze their light leaves stirred. 
 They looked up to the glorious sky. 
 
 And, poised upon them, many a bird 
 Trilled forth its free wild melody. 
 
94 
 
 Perchance there grew a Jasmine tree 
 Beside his own ancestral hall. 
 
 Where he had loved, in childhood’s glee, 
 
 To watch its short-lived blossoms fall: 
 
 Alas ! how soon those blossoms died, 
 
 When severed from their native stem ! 
 
 Did not like early doom betide 
 
 That captive ? Drooped he not like them ? 
 
 Well knew the slender Jasmine tree 
 Within which casement high to peep. 
 And where on soft winds gi’acefully 
 With pendant stai’iy branch to sweep. 
 She looked in bowers where ladyes sung 
 Of love and knightly fealty. 
 
 And silently her sweet sighs flung 
 O’er many a tale of chivalrie. 
 
 And when to battle’s sanguine plain 
 Each gallant knight must fearless hie. 
 And ladye-loves gazed on the train. 
 
 With heaving breast and weeping eye. 
 The lovely Jasmine drooped her head. 
 
 As if in grief for thosa so dear. 
 
 And from her snowy chalice shed. 
 
 In sympathy, a dewy tear. 
 

95 
 
 THE COUNTRY MAID AND THE PIMPERNEL- 
 
 FLOWER,* 
 
 I’ll go and peep at the Pimpernel, 
 
 And see if she think the clouds look well; 
 
 For, if the sun shine. 
 
 And ’tis like to be fine, 
 
 I shall go to the fair. 
 
 For iny sweetheart is there :— 
 
 So, Pimpernel, what bode the clouds and the sky ? 
 If fair weather, no maiden so merry as L” 
 
 The Pimpernel-flower had folded up 
 Her little gold star in her coral cup; 
 
 And unto the maid 
 Thus her warning said: 
 
 “ Though the smi smile down. 
 
 There’s a gathering frown 
 O’er the chequered blue of the clouded sky; 
 So tarry at home, for a stonn is nigh.” 
 
 * The Pimpernel, called familiarly “ Poor-man’s Weather-glass,” closes in 
 (lamp or rainy weather. 
 
96 
 
 The maid first looked sad, and then looked cross, 
 Gave her foot a fling, and her head a toss; 
 
 “ Say you so, indeed. 
 
 You mean little weed ? 
 
 You’re shut up for spite. 
 
 For the blue sky is bright; 
 
 To more credulous people your warnings tell. 
 
 I’ll away to the fair—good day. Pimpernel. 
 
 “ Stay at home, quoth the flower ! — in sooth, not I, 
 1 ’ll don my straw hat with a silken tie; 
 
 O’er my neck so fair. 
 
 I’ll a kerchief wear. 
 
 White, chequer’d with pink; 
 
 And then — let me think. 
 
 I’ll consider my gown—for I’d fain look well 
 So saying, she stepped o’er the Pimpernel. 
 
 Now the wise little flower, wrapped safe from harm. 
 Sat fearlessly waiting the coming storm; 
 
 Just peeping between 
 Her snug cloak of green. 
 
 Lay folded up tight 
 Her red robe so bright. 
 
 Though hroidered with pui-ple, and starred with gold. 
 No eye might its bravery then l)ehold. 
 
97 
 
 The fair maiden straight donned her best array 
 And forth to the festival hied away: 
 
 But scarce had she gone 
 Ere the storm came on. 
 
 And, ’mid thunder and rain, 
 
 She cried, oft and again, 
 
 “ Oh ! would I had minded yon boding flower. 
 And were safe at home from the pelting shower 
 
 Now, maidens, the tale that I tell would say. 
 Don’t don fine clothes on a doubtful day : 
 Nor ask advice, when, like many more, 
 Your resolve was taken some time before. 
 
 o 
 
98 
 
 THE WHITE WATER LILY, 
 
 THE QUEEN OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Oh ! vainly seek ye, ’mid the garden’s store, 
 
 For one Flower so pre-eminently fair 
 O’er all the rest, that right of sovereignty 
 Must seem her heritage. The Rose is hright. 
 
 And wondrous fi’agrant; yet the Woodbine sheds. 
 From her long bloomy streamers, breath as sweet. 
 And on them both the Violet might turn 
 Her soft blue eye in gentlest reproach, 
 
 That perfume such as hers should he o’erpast. 
 E’en the white maiden Jasmine, in her pride. 
 Would take the hue of jealousy, and turn 
 To envious yellow her complexion pure. 
 
 Were she deemed than the rest less fit to reign. 
 
 Seek not the Floral Queen among them all: — 
 But leaving far behind the garden trim. 
 
 And shining palaces, where dwell the bright 
 Sun-worshippers of many a fervid clime. 
 
 Go to the lake’s o’ershadowed margent, where. 
 Over the waves, like fairy-car^iets spread 
 For summer revelrie, lie leaves afloat. 
 
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99 
 
 Extending many a rood ;* broad dark-luied leaves. 
 Clothing the bosom of the water clear. 
 
 And gently heaving up and down, as though 
 
 Her breathing thus disturbed them. ’Midst these rise. 
 
 In pure and stately beauty, urn-like forms. 
 
 Just ’bove the water’s height; some, not unclosed. 
 
 Are tinged with tenderest green; while others spread 
 Full to the warm down-gazing sun their deep. 
 
 White, sculpture-like, and softly-glowing cups 
 Of modelled petals, lit up from within 
 By one large anthered star of golden flame : 
 
 And, leaning on the dark green leaves, they lie. 
 
 These lovely, nymph-like Lilies,—looking up 
 In worship and in love imto the sun. 
 
 On whom alone they smile; for when he goes 
 From his blue mid-day 2 )alace over head. 
 
 And the ti’ees cast long shadows on the lake. 
 
 The loving water nymphs, no longer joyed 
 By the bright presence of their radiant god. 
 
 Fold their rich snowy robes, and, bending low. 
 
 Suffer the waves to sing a lullahy 
 Over their sleeping heads. 
 
 When morning’s beam 
 Looks gaily o’er the earth, the Lilies lift 
 Slowly above the waters their fair forms. 
 
 * “Lay floating Tiiany a rood.”— Milton. 
 0 2 
 
100 
 
 Yet still enwrapped close. When noontide brings 
 Their worshipped deity to his wonted shrine 
 O’er their hlue-bosonied lake, they fondly rise, 
 
 To gxeet and welcome him with ev'ery charm 
 That lavish Nature has endowed them with: 
 
 And ne’er did forms more exquisitely fair, 
 hi ore stately, chaste, or beautiful, emerge 
 From earth to tell her praise. 
 
 Oh ! well might they. 
 
 The dusk, untutored Indians, bend before 
 Such perfect loveliness in adoration; 
 
 Well might they deem some god or spirit shrined 
 Within so bright a temple! 
 
 And shall we 
 
 In fancy e’er create a meaner flower 
 The sovereign of these sweet and beauteous ones ? 
 No—seek the Lilies’ still, calm haunts, and see 
 The waters sporting round their pearly cirps. 
 
 And flingirrg sirnrry gleams uporr their snow. 
 
 Like srrriles and hlnshes o’er a rnaiderr’s cheek. 
 
 — If ye e’er gazed orr aught more beautiful. 
 
 Oh! tell me what it was — for rreer have I. 
 
101 
 
 COURTIERS. 
 
 I said the Lily was the queenly Flower, 
 
 And these bright creatures, sure, her Courtiers be 
 For they are robed all so royally. 
 
 E’en like the glittering guests of regal bower; 
 
 And, like them too, their chiefest rank and power 
 Lie in their sounding titles, and we see 
 That both do value the embroiderie 
 Of their gay-tinted garb. In their first hour 
 Of modish fame, see how to both down bend. 
 
 In fashion’s homage, all the wondering crowd 
 Of sycophant adorers ! Should chance send 
 A newer star, how soon into a cloud 
 Shrink the late idols! whom no more ye find ; 
 
 Nor have they either left ye any sweets behind. 
 
102 
 
 THE COMPLAINT OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT, 
 
 SHOWING THE PAINS AND PENALTIES OF POPULARITY. 
 
 The blue-eyed Forget-me-not, beautiful flower. 
 Half-wooed and half-stolen, I brought from her bower. 
 By the bright river’s brink, where she nestled so low. 
 That the water o’er stem and o’er leaflet might flow; 
 
 As if, like Narcissus, she foolishly tried 
 To gaze on her own gentle face in the tide. 
 
 Half inclined, half reluctant, the flower bade adieu 
 To the friends left behind in the dell were she grew;* 
 And a few shining drops, from the river-spray flung. 
 Like tears of regret on her azure eyes hung; 
 
 But I kissed them away, as a lover had done. 
 
 In joy that my fair river-beauty I’d won. 
 
 And then swiftly I hied to my lone desk away. 
 
 Lest my flower should droop, grow dim, and decay! 
 
 For methought I once more would pourtray the soft hue 
 Of that smooth vivid green, and that delicate blue; 
 
 And while o’er the semblance I silently bent. 
 
 My fair sitter sighed forth this touching lament. 
 
 * The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, 
 
 And it seemed, to a fanciful view, 
 
 To weep for the buds it had left with regret, 
 
 On the flourishing bush where it grew. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
I 
 
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103 
 
 Alas ! it is a weaay thing 
 To have such great renown; 
 
 Ten thousand bards my praises sing, 
 Through city, shire, and town. 
 
 From scribblers that earn pence a line. 
 To those that win a pound. 
 
 None think their poesy will shine. 
 
 Till it my praise resound. 
 
 And misses, in those curious books 
 Called “ albums,” and so forth. 
 Paint a blue marigold, whose looks 
 Proclaim her none of earth; 
 
 On which the parson, if he’s young. 
 Or doctor, if he’s handsome. 
 
 Must perpetrate a doleful song: 
 
 Oh! will no fairy ransom 
 
 My face from such a libel vile ? 
 
 And clear my reputation. 
 
 So shuTed by treachery and guile. 
 
 From such an imputation. 
 
 As that I set the twaddlers on 
 To so be-rhyme and saint me ? 
 
 As I’m a flower, they know no more 
 Of me, — than those who paint me. 
 
104 
 
 The human beauties of the land 
 Must sit for days and hours. 
 
 To let the painter’s mimic hand 
 Each feature scan—but floxoers. 
 
 They think, may just he drawn 
 As ignorance may like them; 
 
 Leaves snipt and shaped, like gauze or lawn, 
 As whim or fancy strike them. 
 
 E’en “ Botanists” mistake my form 
 That’s seen by brook and fountain,* 
 
 For my rough cousin’s,f who’s clad warm. 
 
 To dwell on moor and mountain. 
 
 But this I’d pardon, if the Bards’ 
 
 And Poetasters’ chorus 
 Were silenced once — we’ll give rewards 
 To all who’ll no more bore us. 
 
 That silly Lover, tumbling down 
 And drowning in the Rhine, 
 
 First set the jingle-makers on, 
 
 And then that book of thine. 
 
 Oh ! Ackermaun ! like finger-post, 
 Directed sumphs to me. 
 
 And e’er since then, the buzzing host 
 Have dinned incessantly. 
 
 Myosotis Palustris. 
 
 t Myosotis Alpestris. 
 
105 
 
 Oh! ye fair Ladies of Parnassus, 
 (Although ye are old-fashioned). 
 
 If ever in your flights ye pass us. 
 List to our prayer impassioned; 
 
 And find another victim-bud 
 To serve your superficial 
 Vot’ries — ’tvvould do in wax, or wood. 
 Or cambric artificial. 
 
 Give it a name that nicely heads 
 An elegy or sonnet. 
 
 And the whole clan of X. Y. Z.’s 
 Will start a-rhyming on it. 
 
 1’ 
 
106 
 
 ON A FRIEND’S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 “ Bring Flowers, young Flowers,” a wreath I’ll twine, 
 A crown for that niind-wi’itten brow of thine — 
 
 A radiant wreath—not one drooping spray 
 Shall dim, with ill omen, thy natal day; 
 
 Not a lurking dew-drop shall dare appear. 
 
 For though bright and lustrous, ’tis like a tear: 
 
 And smiles must dimple each cheek to-day. 
 
 Tears, soitow, and care shall flee far away! 
 
 But, alas, for my wreath ! The transient Flowers 
 Have passed away with the Summer hours; 
 
 They are all, all flown, the wild and the sweet. 
 
 Their slight forms may never the cold winds meet: 
 
 All flown and faded—or one loved gem 
 I had sought and wreathed for thy diadem. 
 
 Not the rose—that has thorns—and I would not bring 
 In my simple garland so false a thing; 
 
 Did I the leaves of thy destiny twine. 
 
 No thorn should approach e’en a thought of thine. 
 
 Of the Flower I’d bring, I have often told 
 How brightly its petals of blue imfold. 
 
 And oft I’ve repeated its name, to tell 
 What no other words breathe half so well. 
 
107 
 
 Then know ye that Flower so dear to me. 
 
 The flower that to-day should my offering be ? 
 For though less than nothing my gift and line, 
 To thee they would both be dear, as mine. 
 That flow’ret aye hallows the loneliest spot, 
 
 And its name is my boon— "Forget-me-not." 
 
108 
 
 FEUDS AMONG THE HEATHER.* 
 
 Methought, when these any flowers entwined were, 
 I heard a tone. 
 
 Like young leaves rustling in the Sinnnier air. 
 
 When every one 
 
 W’^hispers forth gentle iniasic : — and I hent 
 To catch the sound 
 
 (If sound that shadow of a voice might be). 
 
 Which, inuriaiui-ing round. 
 
 Seemed as though one discoursed displeasedly, 
 
 And then another 
 
 Answered in softer and more even speech ; 
 
 It was the Heather — 
 
 And this the converse that mine ear did reach. 
 
 GREENHOUSE HEATHS. 
 
 Gems of the sheltered bower are we; 
 
 What know we of wilding flowers like thee P 
 Thy rugged stein, hung with pmple bells. 
 The tale of thy lowly lineage tells; 
 
 • Tlie group contains two of our wild native heaths and three foreign ones. 
 
109 
 
 Thou may St be met on each open moor, 
 
 ’Mong gorse and ling. 
 
 Thou common thing ! 
 
 Thy paltry blossoms the children poor. 
 
 And gypsies, bring 
 
 Bound up in bundles to sweep the street. 
 
 And art thou for our high presence meet ? 
 
 We have been bred up with tenderest care; 
 
 We know not the breath of the common air; 
 Our delicate stems and modelled forms 
 Are shielded from winds, and frosts, and storms; 
 For we are the beautiful, great, and rare; 
 
 But what ai’e ye ? 
 
 H ow can ye see 
 
 Our stately pride, yet boldly dare 
 Presumptuously 
 
 To raise your heads of humble name 
 
 With us, who have titles, and rank, and fame ? 
 
 WILD HEATHER. 
 
 Buds of the mountain and moor are we. 
 
 The dear and the gleesome, the feai'less and free 
 Our strong stems shrink not from storm nor rain. 
 We shake off the tears, and laugh out again. 
 
110 
 
 When Zepliyrus drives the red clouds i’ the mony 
 The lark upsprings 
 On her dewy wings. 
 
 From our sheltering sprays to the sky upborne. 
 And, soaring, sings 
 
 Her love for the wild and jDurple Heather, 
 
 Where her callow nestlings lie safe together. 
 
 Glorious, and glad, and dear are we. 
 
 Ringing our bells o’er the heath in glee. 
 
 Glorious and glad — and oh ! most dear 
 Ts the Heather-bloom to the mountaineer; 
 
 And dear to his children, who, laughing, come 
 And carry bright wreaths to their cottage home. 
 
 As the blessed things roam, ’neath their fairy feet 
 We rustling dance, 
 
 And our heads advance 
 Their innocent hands to gift and greet; 
 
 For childhood’s glance. 
 
 When playmates laugh menily out together. 
 
 Like sunlight shines on the bells of Heather. 
 
 In our freedom we scorn such slaves as ye. 
 
 Your empty pride, and your vanity: — 
 
 Ye are fine, ’tis ti’ue — and neat and trim. 
 
 But are ye not shut in a prison dim ? 
 
 Ye ai’e captive slaves, though ye boast and sneer. 
 And think we should bow to your grandeur here. 
 
Ill 
 
 Ours be the grandeur, and ours the glee. 
 
 For we o’er the hills and the heaths wave free. 
 
 We bend not our purple and fearless crests. 
 
 To meaner things, though in gaudier vests. 
 
 Freely above us the wind may blow, 
 
 Men-ily round us the streamlet flow; 
 
 And the promise-toned hum of the busy bee. 
 
 The glad day long. 
 
 Seems a harvest song 
 
 Of joy for the sweets that from flower and tree. 
 Around us flung. 
 
 And the honeyed bells of the puiple Heather, 
 
 She hath gathered in store for the wintery weather. 
 
 Ye are sheltered, ye say, from the blights of even; 
 Oh ! are ye not hid from the sunlit heaven ? 
 
 Ye are cultured, and cherished, and tended—ti’uej 
 But are ye not exiles and captives too ? 
 
 Are ye not victims of pride and art ? 
 
 From Nature’s paths do ye not depart ? 
 
 For eve’s gentle dew, and morn’s bright beam. 
 
 Have ye not fires, and stoves and steam ? 
 
 And while we c^uafF gaily our Summer rain, 
 
 A few stagnant drops your lives sustain ; 
 
 And while we are kissed and rocked by the breeze. 
 Ye stand erect in your palaces. 
 
 Each, ranged in his special rank and place. 
 Holding proudly on high his titled face. 
 
112 
 
 Yet ye are the beings would smile in scorn 
 At our claims—at '^things on the wild heath born;” 
 That would shrink from our presence as all unmeet. 
 Because we are useful, and keep ye neat. 
 
 Your dwellings, ye idlers, would soon look dim. 
 
 If ye had not our kindred to keep them trim. 
 
 Ye find even besoms of use, no doubt; 
 
 Then let aiTogance cease such things to flout. 
 
 We may ask, perchance, of what use ai'e ye, 
 
 When such o'erstrained ])ride ^ve feel and see. 
 
 The lark dwells not in your slight weak sprays. 
 
 Not glassing your blossoms the streamlet plays. 
 
 The happy and hard-working bee ne’er comes 
 Within yo^lr well-guarded and glittering domes — 
 
 Ye suffer not even the breeze to bring 
 A breath of your sweets on his downy wing — 
 
 Ye do not — perchairce ye too well feel 
 Ye have nought he would condescend to steal — 
 
 No—vain ones—we pity, but envy not 
 Your rank and state. 
 
 Ye little gi'eat; 
 
 Ours is a prouder and happier lot— 
 
 A nobler fate; 
 
 For we live in gladness and love together. 
 
 We fearless flowers of the mountain Heather! 
 
THE FLOWER AND THE FAIRY. 
 
 I do wander every where, 
 
 Swifter than the moone’s sphere, 
 
 An(i I serve the Fairy Queen, 
 
 To dew her orbs upon the green. 
 
 SlIAKSPKAHE. 
 
 And that same dew, which sometimes on the buds 
 Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, 
 
 Stood now within the pretty flow’ret’s eyes. 
 
 Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 A Fairy, whose task was to dwell upon earth, 
 
 Watching the birth 
 
 And height’ning the beauty of Summer Flowers, 
 
 As the little buds oped to the dews and showens. 
 
 Aweary grew 
 
 Of each tint and hue 
 
 That so long she had gazed on through days and hours. 
 
 And the Fairy threw 
 Around o’er the garden a wistful gaze. 
 
 That rested on bower, and bank, and maze; 
 
 And the Fairy sighed. 
 
 And the flowers replied. 
 
 In echoes of fragrance, that fanned along 
 liike a butterfly’s wing or an elfin song. 
 
 As the soft breath died 
 Into stillness and calm o’er the garden wide, 
 
 Q 
 
114 
 
 The blushing Rose, 
 
 The nightingale’s young and gentle bride. 
 
 Her delicate leaves begun to unclose. 
 
 And spread to the sunshine her grace and pride ; 
 
 And then she spoke. 
 
 In tones that like audible perfume broke 
 On tire wingless air—and each other flower 
 Bent in listening mood on her slender stalk. 
 
 To hear the Rose and the Fairy talk. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 “ Beautiful spirit!—what grief is thine ? 
 
 Why doth thine eye 
 
 With less love and joy on thy children shine ? 
 
 Why doth thy sigh 
 
 Bid each petaled bosom to heave with fear ? 
 What raiseth our Fairy’s anger here ? 
 
 Do we not ever rejoice to greet 
 Thy guardian love 
 
 With tributes of homage ? Beneath thy feet. 
 O’er lawn and grove. 
 
 Do we not lift up our heads to bless 
 Our Fairy’s fond care and loveliness ? 
 
 How have thy children displeased thee. 
 
 Loved Fairy, tell: 
 
 Oh ! look now around thee. Fairy, see 
 Each bud and bell. 
 
115 
 
 And star-like blossom, and ti'embling leaf. 
 
 Awaits thy wishes in fear and grief. 
 
 Has the Jasmine’s perfume become less sweet? 
 
 Or the Woodbine frail 
 Too eagerly flung her arms to greet 
 The Summer gale ? 
 
 Or has the Ceris-flower not blown ? 
 
 Sweet guardian, why is thine anger shown ? ” 
 
 Then the Faiiy besought the flowers to clear 
 From their ghstening jJetals each dewy tear ; 
 
 And unfold on the breeze each j^encilled leaf. 
 
 For they had not the power to ease her giief: 
 
 And she told them how long she had dwelt away 
 From her home-land, vvhere sprite, and elf, and fay. 
 Were her frolic-mates—and where sky and air 
 Were brighter than ever earth’s flow’rets were : 
 
 And she told them that much as she loved each face. 
 Blooming around her in light and grace. 
 
 Sometimes a sigh 
 
 Would rise in her breast, a tear to her eye. 
 
 As she thought on sweet Fairy-land’s glittering sky; 
 For though the hue. 
 
 To earthly view. 
 
 Of many a bud seemed soft and blue. 
 
 There was not one 
 
 Which recalled to her eye the exquisite shade 
 Of which Fairy-land’s radiant heaven was made. 
 
 Q 2 
 
116 
 
 When this plaint had gone 
 Wafting along o’er leaf and stem. 
 
 Full many a flower 
 
 Who deemed her own beauty a peerless gem. 
 Began to lour. 
 
 And sulkily shut up her leaves an hour 
 Before the sun 
 
 Had gone to his rest in his western bower. 
 
 One sly little bud resolved to see 
 
 What the tint of this elfin heaven might he; 
 
 And when the Fay 
 
 Spread her gossamer wings, to fly away 
 For a transient glimpse of her home so bright, 
 There clung to her foot a seedling light 
 Of the Commeline-flower—and up they go 
 (While marvelled the Fairy what pinched her so) 
 Aloft, aloft! 
 
 On pinions soft. 
 
 The Fairy flew onward with strengthening sjjccd, 
 And taking heed 
 
 To be mute and still, and watchful, too. 
 
 Went on the adventurous Commeline-seed. 
 
 And when over them, clear, and bright, and high. 
 Rose the dazzling canopied fairy sky. 
 
 No longer wondered young Commeline 
 That the azure of earth as dim was seen 
 By their gentle and guardian elfin cpieen ; 
 
117 
 
 For the Irises deep, and Convolvuli fair, 
 
 t 
 
 And each Blue-bell, thoiigh brilliant, and sweet, and rare. 
 Aye, even the famed Forget-me-not, 
 
 Were dim ’neath the sky of that fairy spot. 
 
 But the Commeline-seedling resolved to show. 
 
 Among eaithly flowers, that radiant glow. 
 
 And eagerly gazed unwearied up, 
 
 To catch a ray in her tiny cup. 
 
 That when on her young stem flow’rets grew. 
 
 They might robe them in Elf-land’s purest blue. 
 
 When the Fairy returned to the flowers of earth. 
 
 Young Commeline sank to her place of birth. 
 
 And quietly slept in a darksome cell 
 
 While the leaves grew sere, and brown, and fell. 
 
 Through tlie chill frozen winter she lay asleep. 
 
 Nor till Spring called her forth began to peep; 
 
 But when Summer’s gay wreaths had clothed the bowers. 
 Then, brightest of all, came the Commeline-flowers, 
 
 All clad in the pure and the beautiful hue 
 Of the Fairy-land heaven—celestial blue. 
 
 The Flowers’ Fairy-queen paused, pleased and amazed. 
 As, descending one day, for the first time she gazed 
 On the brilliant and deep hue the Commeline wore. 
 
 So far fairer than e’er she had seen it before. 
 
 And from that day the sprite to loved Fairy-land flew 
 Less often than e’er she was wonted to do; 
 
118 
 
 For whenever she pined for its brilliant blue sky. 
 
 She need but to gaze on the Commeline’s eye; 
 
 And the garden grew fair, and the groves became tall. 
 For their guardian was with them to cherish them all; 
 The flowers sweetly replied to the smiles of the Fay, 
 Who caressed them more tenderly day after day. 
 
 And rarely to Elf-land’s enchantments would roam. 
 
 For all of its loveliness gladdened her home. 
 
 And now, my fair Dames, there’s an argument due 
 To this story of fairies and flow’rets of blue. 
 
 Ne’er be vain over much of the charms you possess, 
 For such vanity serves but to make those charms less; 
 But ever and earnestly strive to acquii-e 
 New wealth, such as they who best love you admire. 
 And thus bind in wreaths of affection at home. 
 
 Hearts, which otherwise oft might be tempted to roam. 
 Be e’en like my Flower, who gained her bright tint 
 By not feeling too proud to amend from a hint. 
 
119 
 
 TO THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Well art thou named—thou waiun-hued Passion Flower, 
 Fit emblem of the ardour and caprice 
 Of that wild passion. Love :—for thou dost change. 
 Even like him, thy semblance; and thou art coy. 
 
 Aye, as the fairest maiden whose young heart 
 Thy namesake hath invaded. Coy, and proud. 
 
 For thou, forsooth, must have the bright sun come. 
 And wait, and gaze upon thy sleeping face,* 
 
 Before thou wilt vouchsafe to ope thine eyes 
 Of stany beauty to our wondering gaze. 
 
 And then, ere long, the jealous petals close. 
 
 And shut within their selfish clasp the gem 
 They darken, not admire. And are there not 
 Some other selfish things in this strange world. 
 
 That do the like with flowers of lovelier growth ? 
 
 Oh! ye are coy and proud—but beautiful— 
 Wondrously beautiful is every one 
 Among your varied tribes. Some of ye, pale,f 
 That hang in rich profusion o’er the porch 
 
 * Alluding to the Passion-flower only expanding in sunshine. 
 
 t The White, or, as it is sometimes called. Blue Passion-flower, grows in luxuri¬ 
 ant profusion about cottages in the south of England, and more especially in the 
 Isle of Wight. 
 
120 
 
 Of many a cottage in our own dear land, 
 
 Clasping the Jasmine and the monthly Rose, 
 
 As in affection, for that they are not 
 The natives of our soil, but, like ye, deign 
 To glad a clime less genial than their own. 
 
 And some of ye are bright as the young clouds 
 That blush with joy to see the sun arise. 
 
 Such was the flower* named after Her whose loss 
 The isles long wept; alas! too true a type 
 That fair frail flower of early fading youth. 
 
 And how fantastic ye do sometimes go! 
 
 With nect’ries like to hair that stands on end. 
 
 And long-lobed leaves, and tendrils curling close. 
 Strongly upholding all the tangled mass. 
 
 Oh ! to behold ye in your native homes. 
 
 Ye strange and glorious creations ! There, 
 Springing ’mong giant trees, whose soaring tops 
 Are roofed by the o’er-arching sky, ye climb. 
 
 And bloom, and flourish in uncultured pride. 
 Gorgeously beautiful. I close mine eyes. 
 
 And fancy paints a wilderness of wealth. 
 
 In those scarce-trodden wilds, and forests vast. 
 
 And sunny prairies, of the western world. 
 
 * One of the most brilliant red Passion flowers chanced to be first brought to 
 England on the birth-day of the late Princess Charlotte, and thence was called 
 Passiiiora Princeps. 
 
121 
 
 Where birds on wings of every glittering dye 
 Flit in gay freedom through their forest homes. 
 And insects, sparkling in the sunlight, fill 
 The solitude with Nature’s eloquence. 
 
 u 
 
12-2 
 
 THE FLOWER OF THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 (iVY-LKAVED BELT, FLO'^ER.) 
 
 Thereby a chrystal stream did gently play, 
 
 'V^’bich from a sacred fountain welled forth alway. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 Like to a little hidden brook 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 Singeth a quiet tune. 
 
 It was a blest retreat where I did find 
 This modest gem : 
 
 The forest trees above were intertwined, 
 
 And, under them, 
 
 From an old ruined fountain, gurgled out 
 
 A small clear stream, that circled them about. 
 
 And rippling gently onwards through the wood. 
 Leaped into light 
 
 Beyond the last old gnarled oak that stood 
 Beside the bright 
 
 And sparkling rivulet, like hoaiy age 
 
 Smiling at the pursuits that youth engage. 
 
 Over the fount’s damp, mossy stones there grew. 
 Luxuriantly, 
 
 These little bells of faint and tender blue. 
 Which gracefully 
 

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123 
 
 Bent their small heads in every breeze which strayed 
 
 From lawnv sunshine to the woodland’s shade. 
 
 •/ 
 
 And there they bud, and bloom, and close, and die. 
 In solitude. 
 
 Their lives are brief, but calm.—Alas! that I, 
 
 N ot grief-subdued. 
 
 But innocently gay, as these small flowers. 
 
 In like retreat might pass my future hours! 
 
 R 2 
 
124 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 (l.AVATERA ARBOREA.) 
 
 ^Veary with uncongenial employ 
 
 I sat in my lone room all spiritless. 
 
 The very type of gloomy idleness; 
 
 IMy most-loved hooks I could not then enjoy, 
 
 But, like a tired child, craved some newer toy 
 To call back pleasure out of weariness. 
 
 IVIy cheek leaned on my hand, and a stray tress 
 Of hair writhed in my idle fingers. To destroy. 
 
 At one blest moment, my most gloomy mood, 
 
 A small hand oped the door — a loved friend stood 
 Smiling beside me, and these fair dowsers placed 
 On my neglected palette: swift away 
 h'lew my dark vapours, while aroused and gay. 
 Pencil in hand, the portrait-group I traced. 
 
1*25 
 
 SUMMER, AND SUMMER FLOWERS. 
 
 Then came the iolly Sommer, being dight 
 In a thin silken cassock, coloured greene. 
 
 That was unlyned all, to be more light: 
 
 And on his head a girlond well beseene 
 He wore, from which, as he had chauffed beene. 
 
 The sweat did drop, and in his hand he bore 
 A bowe and shafts, as he in forest greene 
 Had hunted late the libbard or the bore. 
 
 And now would bathe his limbs with labour heated sore. 
 
 Such is Spenser’s quaint description of Summer in the 
 procession of the seasons and months before quoted from; and 
 it is a good portrait of the sultry part of the season in warmer 
 climes than ours. Compared with the volumes of verse dedi¬ 
 cated to Spring, Summer has found few laureates; the rather 
 that its attributes have been joined to those of its blithe fore¬ 
 runner, than from any lack of love for its own boundless 
 wealth and beauty. 
 
 Thomson, whose division of praise among the four seasons 
 allow'ed him to pay them distinct attention, in few, but beau¬ 
 tiful, words, thus paints the approach of Summer: 
 
 From bright’ning fields of ether fair disclosed, 
 
 Child of the sun, refulgent Summer comes, 
 
 In pride of youth, and felt through nature’s depth : 
 
 He comes attended by the sultry hours. 
 
 And ever fanning breezes on his way. 
 
 While, from his ardent look, the turning Siiring 
 Averts her blu.shful face; and earth and skies. 
 
 All smiling, to his hot dominion leaves. 
 
126 
 
 Herrick, in his “ Succession of the four sweete inonthes,” 
 well expresses the progressive increase of the earth’s floral 
 wealth, and, much and beautifully as he lauds the Spring-time 
 in several of his poems, yields the palm to Midsummer and 
 July. 
 
 First April, she with mellow sliowres 
 Opens the w^ay for early flowres; 
 
 Then after her comes smiling May, 
 
 In a more rich and sweet array; 
 
 Next enters June, and brings us more 
 Gems than those two that went before; 
 Lastly, July comes, and she 
 More wealth brings in than all those three. 
 
 In the following most ancient song in the English lan¬ 
 guage,” written about the year 1250, in praise of Summer, 
 Sprimj seems to be the season celebrated, from the allusions 
 used, such as “ springeth the wood new,” and the mention of 
 the cuckoo, whose song, or rather cry, becomes far from merry 
 towards the Midsummer months. 
 
 Sumer is icumen in; 
 
 Lhude sing cuccu; 
 
 Groweth sed and bloweth med, 
 And springeth the w'de uu. 
 Sing cuccu. 
 
 Aw’e bleteth after lomb; 
 
 Lhouth after calve cu ; 
 
 Merrie sing cuccu, 
 
 Cuccu, cuccu; 
 
 Wei singes thou cuccu, 
 
 Ne swik thee nauer. 
 
Many of the Poet’s darlings have depai’ted with the early 
 Spring-time. Snowdrops, Primroses, Violets, Dadodils, Cow- 
 slqts, and Hawthorn have passed away; though the latter 
 sometimes lingers among us, as if to show that May and June 
 may live together. And when the last snowy blossoms fall 
 winnowing down and wither, the hedges are decked with new 
 chaplets of luscious Honeysuckles, which, in shady spots, where 
 the sun’s loving kisses have not called a blush upon their deli¬ 
 cate complexions, are pale lined; but when free to catch 
 his meny glances, they are brightly tinged with red. The 
 Eglantine, too, or Wild Rose, stretches forth its thorny, arched 
 branches across many a narrow lane, turning it into a natural 
 arcade; and though the verdant canopy is not always lofty 
 enough for an uncrouchable six foot cavalier to pass under, 
 who would not carefully avoid deranging the beautiful bower ? 
 gemmed, as it is, with the “ quaint enamelled eyes” of the 
 fair roses, whose soft petals are scarcely painted, but slightly 
 tinged with the most delicate pink, not positive enough to seem 
 the colour of the flower, but like a blush or reflected glow, 
 and redolent of an odour as appropriate to their own fragile 
 beauty, as is a soft sweet voice to the lovely and fairy-like 
 fonn of a young and gentle maiden. 
 
 There are many kinds of the wilding Rosebriar, and the 
 colour varies in the different species from pearly white to deep 
 crimson, but those I have most frequently gathered in my 
 own fair county of Warwick, have been the light pink, though 
 the pure white are also abundant in many situations. 
 
 How truly delicious is a quiet shady lane in Summer! I 
 
128 
 
 do not mean a broad carriage-road lane, but one of those lovely 
 little narrow winding dingles, arched over with Wild-briar and 
 Woodbine, where the air is full of perfume, and the banks 
 bright with flowers. How refreshing it is to step into such an 
 one, from the sunny and shadeless fields, to sit beneath the 
 hedge of Hawthorn and Hazel-bushes, 
 
 ’Mong the gay weeds and verdant grass; while high 
 Into the slumbering air majestic trees 
 Roar their proud leafy crests. — Below, 
 
 Singing along its shallow pehbly bed. 
 
 Sparkles a little rivulet, whose voice 
 Tells soothingly of Summer’s parching thirst 
 In its cool wave allayed; and murmurs oft 
 Its one unvaried tune, till listening ear 
 Of weary wayfarer grows less acute, 
 
 And, lulled by its soft music, he is lapped 
 In some sweet di'eam of pleasant drowsyhead. 
 
 Spenser paints a scene like this in language like the 
 colouring of Claude : 
 
 Then gan the shepheard gather into one 
 
 His straggling goates, and drave them to a foord. 
 Whose cerule stream, rombling in pible stone, 
 
 Crept under mosse as greene as any goard. 
 
 Now had the sun halfe heaven overgone, 
 
 When he his heard back from that water foord 
 Drave, from the foixe of Phoebus’ boyling ray, 
 
 Into thick shadowes, there themselves to lay. 
 
 * * * * # 
 
129 
 
 I’o an high rnountaine’s top he with them went. 
 
 Where thickest grasse did cloatlie the open hills ; 
 
 They now amongst the woods and thickets ment. 
 
 Now in the valleies, wandring at their wills, 
 
 Spread themselves farre abroad thro' each descent; 
 
 Some on the soft greene grasse feeding their fills. 
 
 Some clambring through the hollow clififes on hy. 
 
 Nibble the bushie shrubs which growe thereby. 
 
 Others the utmost boughs of trees doe crop. 
 
 And brouze the woodbine tw’igges that freshly bud; 
 
 This with full bit doth catch the utmost top 
 Of some soft willow, or new growen stud ; 
 
 This with sharp teeth the bramble leaves doth lop. 
 
 And chaw the tender prickles in her cud. 
 
 The whiles another high doth overlooke 
 Her own like image in a christall brooke. 
 
 How beautiful, too, is Forest scenery now ! But it is always 
 beautiful—whether in budding and vernal Spring—green and 
 leafy Summer — many-tinted Autumn — or snow-wr-eathed 
 Winter. Yet Summer is the time of all others when one 
 fancies how blithely Robin Hood and his merry men lived in 
 the bonny greenwood; aird we feel more than ever the oppres¬ 
 sive gloomy closeness of the thickly-peopled town. It is in 
 glad Summer weather that we are most ready to exclaim— 
 
 Oh, come from the city, and live with me, 
 Men’ily under the greenwood tree; 
 
 Where the antlered stag is the lord of all. 
 And the old trees shelter the squirrel small; 
 And the birds are filling the breezy air 
 With songs of rapture.—Come with us there ! 
 
 s 
 
The soft green grass sliall our carpet he, 
 
 O’er-canopied high by the forest-tree; 
 
 And bank and brooklet, and far-off scene. 
 
 Like pictures, shall show round our haunt, I ween ; 
 And wind-flowers, and day’s-eyes, and lilies fair. 
 
 And woodbines and briar-roses sweet and rare. 
 
 Shall be bower and garden.—Come with uS there! 
 
 Spenser’s “ Shepheard’s Calender” has many exquisite 
 sketches of scenery, and in his June we find Hobbinol thus 
 describing his favourite retreat. 
 
 Lo ! Colin, here the place whose plesaunt syte 
 
 From other shades hath weand my wandring minde. 
 
 Tell mee, what w’ants mee here to worke delyte ? 
 
 The simple ayre, the gentle warbling winde, 
 
 So calme, so coole, as no where else I find ; 
 
 The grassie grounde with daintie daysies flight, 
 
 The bramble bush, where byrdes of every kinde 
 To the w'ater’s fall their tunes attemper right. 
 
 Beautiful, in their rich, and calm, and sunlit Summer pride, 
 are the rural scenes of our own dear England. Beautiful, even, 
 is the memory of spots we have transiently beheld in such 
 a season; for though we may dwell in them but an hour, we 
 remember them for a life: and often do they rise before the 
 mind’s eye like pictures, gladdening many a lonely hour with 
 their silent and dreamy eloquence; telling of the thousand 
 “ changes of time and tide,” which w^e have seen and felt, since 
 we gazed on the bright realities; and proving how ju'ecious is 
 
m\ 
 
 that spirit’s wealth we gain from communion, however brief, 
 with the beauty, purity, and holiness of nature— 
 
 Imagination’s momentary spell 
 
 Calls up a well-known scene—Oh! ’tis so fair. 
 
 So very real—we might wander there. 
 
 Come, let us rest on yon rude stile, where stand 
 The village children, and look o’er the sea 
 Of golden-coloured gmin, that waves beneath 
 The gentle breath of the soft Summer’s day; 
 
 Then, turning, glance upon those noble trees. 
 
 Between whose gnarled trunks the winding road 
 Leads onward, shaded and sunlit by tums,— 
 Chequered like life, but far more pleasantly. 
 
 Or, if the corn-field’s bright blest English face 
 More lure ye than the beaten path-way, cross 
 That wealth o’er-laden treasury,—and then. 
 
 Pausing awhile, where rises the church-tower. 
 
 Ivied, and hoar, above the girdling wood. 
 
 On, to the hills away ! until the brow 
 Of the o’er-crowning one lies ’neath your feet. 
 
 And, leaning, breath-spent, on the turf, look round; 
 First earth-ward, where the human dwellings lie 
 Basking in sunlight;—then upon the hills. 
 
 Whose swelling sides, uprising woo the clouds 
 In time of tempest, and enclothe themselves 
 With storm and darkness as a wintry garb, 
 
 s 2 
 
13-2 
 
 To be flung off’ and uncreated by 
 
 The first glad smiles of Spring-like sunniness. 
 
 Mountains, those perpetual thrones of sublimity and gran¬ 
 deur, acquire new beauty in this splendid season—the noon of 
 the year. The rare plants peculiar to theii- rugged heights are 
 mostly in bloom, and the wild thyme and the heather spread 
 over waste and moorland their treasures of purple and crim¬ 
 son flowers,—making glad many a solitary place, and cheer¬ 
 ing the wanderer as he climbs crag above crag, till, from the 
 crest of some mighty rock, he gains a scene of glory that 
 were reward sufficient for thrice the labour he has spent. 
 Perhaps his gaze is on one of the many spots of which Eng¬ 
 land loves to boast, and justly too, that even the fabled 
 happy Vale of Rasselas would suffer by comparison. Often 
 such a scene gains added beauty from some stupendous 
 work of other days, Castle, or Abbey’s grey monastic pile; 
 and how many thoughts do these mouldering remnants sug¬ 
 gest? How strangely beautiful it is to see flowers of the 
 gayest hues dancing in the light breeze, and flinging round 
 their young perfume over the lingering death-bed of a thing 
 of centuries! The Wallflow'er, the Clove Pink, and the 
 Snap-dragon, especially, may be seen growing in the most 
 luxuriant profusion amid such spots, and literally making a 
 garden of a grave. Daisies and Buttercups grow in the 
 mouldered stone of the windows—Nettles spring on the sides of 
 the crumbling buttress, and trees may often be seen w'aving 
 their long arms from tower and donjon, as if in mockery of 
 
133 
 
 the flaunting banners of other daysand the noisy jack¬ 
 daws and downy, spectre-like owls, are the only disturbers of 
 the utter silence, where formerly 
 
 Knights and dames in bower and hall 
 Held stately sport and festival; 
 
 or where the solemn chant of the mass, and the far-heard 
 vesper-bell told that many a “ Friar of orders grey” there bent 
 in prayer and penance oft.” 
 
 In no place or season can the triumj)!! of nature over art be 
 so vividly expressed. The proud fabric of man’s ambition, 
 toil, and ingenuity, totters and decays; while the frailest of 
 Nature’s works, the delicate flower, whose individual life is 
 hut a day, springs, ever renewed, in undiminished vigour. 
 
 I remember, where the bosomy hills 
 Lie, spreading in their fertile gladness round 
 A massive buttressed pile of other days, 
 
 That now in age is mould’ring: while the hills. 
 
 The ancient hills, which saw that Abbey rise 
 In its first youthful grandeur from the earth. 
 
 And still have looked upon it, year by year. 
 
 Are still as brightly verdant—still as rich 
 In the full time of harvest—still as young. 
 
 When Spring’s light finger wreaths their lofty brows 
 With her sAveet, gem-like flowers,—as when at first. 
 
 In their slow-growing infancy, those tow'ers 
 Caught the fair sunlight on their unrent sides. 
 
 So while Art’s noblest works are born and die. 
 
 Nature’s renowned youth oullasteth all. 
 
134 
 
 The radiant Sninmer far exceeds the gladsome Spring in 
 her garden beauties; some few of them—alas ! that they arc 
 few—we must gossip about presently: meanwhile we cannot do 
 better than read, and at the same time/ancy, this very fanciful 
 description of Fanglorie’s Garden, by Giles Fletcher; 1610. 
 
 The garden like a ladie faire was cut, 
 
 That lay as if she slumbered in delight, 
 
 And to the open skies her eyes did shut. 
 
 The azure fields of heaven were ’sembled right 
 In a large round, set with the flowers of light: 
 
 The flow’rs de luce, and the round sparks of dew, 
 
 Tliat hung upon their azure leaves, did show 
 Like twinkling starrs, that sparkle in the evening blew. 
 
 Upon a hillie bank her head she cast, 
 
 On which the bowre of Vain-delight was built. 
 
 White and red roses for her face wear plac’t. 
 
 And for her tresses marigolds were spilt : 
 
 Them broadly she displaied, lilie flaming guilt. 
 
 Till in the ocean the glad day wear drowned; 
 
 Then up again her yellow locks she wound. 
 
 And with greene fillets in their prettie cauls them bound. 
 
 Why should I here depeint her lillie-hand. 
 
 Her veines of violets, her ermine brest, 
 
 Which there in orient colours living stand ; 
 
 Or how her gowne with silken leaves is drest. 
 
 Or how her watchman, armed with boughie crest, 
 
 A wall of prim hid in his bushes bears. 
 
 Shaking at every winde their leavie spears. 
 
 While she supinely sleeps; ne to be waked fears ? 
 
 The sculptor of old proposed to make a statue of Mount 
 Athos: this landscape-gardening Poet, spreading his sleeping 
 
lady over several acres, had a similar taste for colossal port¬ 
 raiture ; but his flowers are disposed with infinite grace and 
 poetic beauty. He very sweetly alludes to the Marigold 
 closing at night, and partially hiding its golden petals within 
 the green calyx, by saying that the ladie wound uj) her 
 yellow locks, and hid them in a green caul or cap. 
 
 The “ garden-queen,” the Rose, outvies even the dainty 
 Violet in the number and enthusiasm of her laureates; she 
 is indeed unrivalled, both in popular and poetical fame; nor 
 has she yet lost much of her renown, for a rarity in litera¬ 
 ture would he that poem, if of any length, vvhich should fail 
 to offer its homage at her fair and fragrant shrine. This 
 favourite of gods and men, the emblem of love and beauty, 
 and the mute but expressive monitress that “ all that’s bright 
 must fade,” has been in all ages the unwearying theme of 
 the Poets, from the gay odes of Anacreon to the c[uaint 
 moralizing songs and sonnets of our old English writers; 
 and from them, through a long and glorious vista of names, 
 illustrious among the mind’s nobility, down to the present 
 time, with its few great and countless lesser lights. 
 
 Spenser’s sweetest allusion to the Rose is in this “ lovely 
 lay” from his Faerie Queen; it is very beautiful. 
 
 The whiles some one did chaunt this lovely lay :— 
 
 “ Ah 1 see, whoso fayre thing doest faine to see. 
 
 In springing flowre the image of thy day ! 
 
 Ah ! see the virgin Rose, how sweetly shee 
 Doth first peep foorth with baslifiill modestee, 
 
 That fairer seems the lesse ye see her may. 
 
 Eo! see soone after, how more bold and free 
 
Her bared bosome she doth broad display. 
 
 Lo! see soone after, how she fades and falls away ! 
 
 “ So passeth, in the passing of a day 
 
 Of mortall life, the leafe, the bud, the flowre; 
 
 Ne more doth florish after fii’st decay. 
 
 That earth was sought to deck both bed and bowre 
 Of many a lady and many a paramoure. 
 
 Gather therefore the rose wildest yet is prime. 
 
 For soone comes age, that will her pride deflowre: 
 Gather the rose of love wildest yet is time. 
 
 Whitest loving thou mayst loved be with equal crime.” 
 
 Well does the excelling beauty and exquisite perfume of 
 this praised flower merit our admiration. We may say, with 
 the Poets, Beaumont and Fletcher— 
 
 Nature picked several flowers from her choice banks. 
 And bound them up in thee — sending thee forth 
 A posy for the bosom of a queen. 
 
 In lire garden scene already quoted from, in the “ Two 
 Noble Kinsmen,” is this exceedingly poetic and graceful 
 passage ; it has few equals. 
 
 Emilia. Of all flowers 
 
 Methinks a Rose is best. 
 
 Servant. Why, gentle Madam ? 
 
 Emilia. It is the very emblem of a maid; 
 
 For when the west wind courts her gently. 
 
 How modestly she blows, and paints the sun 
 With her chaste blushes ! When the north comes 
 near her. 
 
187 
 
 liude and impatient, then, like Chastity, 
 
 She locks her beauties in her bud ao-ain. 
 
 And leaves him to base briars. 
 
 Shakspeare, in his “ Love’s Labour Lost,” has this pretty 
 and gallant speech, made by the courteous Boyet to the 
 Princess and her ladies when maskins:: — 
 
 Fair ladies masked are roses in their bud ; 
 
 Dismasked, their damask sweet commixture shown. 
 
 Are angels veiling clouds, or roses blown. 
 
 The beauty and perfume of the Rose are celebrated in 
 those sweet sonnets of Shakspeare, so familiar to all lovers 
 of true and graceful poetrv. 
 
 Oh ! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem 
 By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! 
 
 The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
 For that swmet odour which doth in it live. 
 
 The canker blooms have full as deep a dye 
 As the perfumed tincture of the roses ; 
 
 Hang on such thorns, and play as wmntonly, 
 
 \ When Summer’s breath their masked buds discloses. 
 
 But for their virtue only is their show. 
 
 They live unwoo’d, and unrespected fade ; 
 
 Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so. 
 
 Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made : 
 
 And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth. 
 
 When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth. 
 
 Nor did I wonder at the lilies white, 
 
 Nor praise the deep vermillion in the rose ; 
 
 They w'ere but sweet, the figures of delight. 
 
 Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 
 
 * # * * ♦ 
 
 x 
 
138 
 
 'J’he forward violet I thus did chide; 
 
 Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, 
 if not from my love’s breath ? The purple pride 
 
 Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, 
 
 In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dy’d. 
 
 The Lily I condemned for thy hand. 
 
 And buds of Marjoram had stol’n thy hair. 
 
 The Roses fearfully on thorns did stand. 
 
 One blushing shame, another wdiite despair; 
 
 A thii'd, nor red nor white, had stolen of both, 
 
 And to his robbery had annex’d thy breath; 
 
 But for his theft, in pride of all his growth, 
 
 A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 
 
 More flowers I noted, yet I none could see. 
 
 But sw'eet or colour it had stolen from thee. 
 
 The two following sonnets are very elegant examples of 
 the inoraliiimg vein among the Bards of the olden time; 
 who, to say truth, were generally speaking, more prone to 
 coin new and quaint compliments to ladye’s channs while 
 in their morning beauty, than to offer trite and unpalatable 
 warnings of the decay and departure of such fleeting fasci¬ 
 nations. The first, by Samuel Daniel (1562), concludes (as 
 all proper sonnets should do) with what the lady addressed 
 would gladly believe the cream and object of the effusion, 
 but the preceding lines describing the Rose, and the havoc 
 which “ swift speedy time” makes in youthful loveliness, are 
 exceedingly touching and graceful. 
 
 Look, Delia, how w’ esteem the half-blown rose. 
 The image of thy blush and Summer’s honour. 
 Whilst yet her tender bud doth uadisclose 
 That full of beauty time bestows upon her; 
 
139 
 
 No sooner spreads lier beauty in the air, 
 
 But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline; 
 She then is scorned who late adorned the fair ; 
 
 So fade the roses in those cheeks of thine. 
 
 No April can revive the withered flowers, 
 
 Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now; 
 
 Swift speedy time, feather’d with flying hours. 
 
 Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow. 
 
 I’hen do not thou such treasure waste in vain. 
 
 But love now, whilst thou mayest be loved again. 
 
 Sir Richard Fanshawe (1607) addresses the fair flower 
 herself on lier vain display of loveliness, thus pi’esenling an 
 attractive fable to his gentle readers, vvho could not well avoid 
 perceiving the hidden moral. 
 
 Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves 
 The wanton wind to sport himsell presumes. 
 
 Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives 
 For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes ; 
 
 Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon. 
 
 What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee ? 
 Thou’rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon. 
 
 And passing proud a little colour makes thee. 
 
 If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives. 
 
 Know, then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane; 
 For that same beauty doth in bloody leaves 
 The sentence of thy early death contain. 
 
 Some clown’s coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower. 
 If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn; 
 
 And many Herods lie in wait each liour 
 To murder thee as soon as thou art born. 
 
 Nay, force thy bud to blow, their tyrant breath 
 Anticipating life, to hasten death. 
 
 T 2 
 
140 
 
 The cheek of Beauty has ever been the allotted throne ol 
 this floral queen, and so it is, and will he; hut alas ! in many 
 a fair face, the vermeil hlush has given place to a pallid 
 hue. ’Tis in the morning sunshine, and the hilly hreeze 
 that the true-tinted rose is worn; but its fresh hues fade and 
 blanch in the crowded saloon or the heated ball. It is ot few 
 votaries of dissipation’s order that Herrick could say— 
 
 One asked me where the roses grew, 
 
 I bade him not go seek, 
 
 But forthwith bade my Julia show 
 A bud in either cheek. 
 
 In order to display their own elegant invention in expla¬ 
 natory fables, the classic Bards of old feign the Rose to have 
 been originally white; and divers ai'e the causes assigned for 
 its change of complexion. Herrick, versifying one lancy, 
 tells us— 
 
 ’Tis said, as Cupid daunc’t among 
 The gods, he down the nectar flung; 
 
 Which on the white rose being shed, 
 
 Made it for ever after red. 
 
 Another legend is, that Venus, hastening to protect Adonis, 
 trod on the thorns of the rose, and, her foot being wounded, 
 a few drops of her celestial blood served to make the flowers 
 blush ever after for their cruelty to their patron divinity. 
 Some Poets suppose the Rose to have sprung first, on this 
 occasion, from the tears of Venus. Sir Walter Raleigh 
 jdaintively introduces this tradition in his poem of “ the 
 Shej)herd to the Flowers.” 
 
141 
 
 Vermillion roses, that with new clayes rise. 
 
 Display your crimson folds, fresh looking faire, 
 
 Whose radiant bright disgraces 
 The rich adorned rayes of roseate rising morne! 
 
 Ah! if her virgin’s hand 
 Do pluck your purse ere Phcebus view the land. 
 
 And vaile your gracious pompe in lovely nature’s scorne; 
 
 If chance my mistresse traces 
 Fast by your flowres to take the Sommer’s ayre, 
 
 Then wofull blushing, tempt her glorious eyes 
 To spread their teares, Adonis’ death reporting, 
 
 And tell Love’s torments, sorrowing for her friend, 
 W'hose drops of blood, within your leaves consorting, 
 Report fair Venus’ moanes to have no end 5 
 Then luay remorse, in pittying of my smart, 
 
 Drie up my teares, and dwell within her heart. 
 
 Herrick, in one of his many complimentary fancies, thus 
 accounts for the Rose’s change of colour, and the thought seems 
 to have become public property since his day, for we find it 
 versified in divers manners by bards of all degrees— 
 
 Roses at first were white. 
 
 Till they could not agree 
 Whether my Sappho’s breast 
 Or they more white should be. 
 
 But, being vanquished quite, 
 
 A blush their cheeks bespread; 
 
 Since which, believe the rest, 
 
 I’he roses first came red. 
 
 Being dedicated to the goddess of beauty and god of love, 
 ihe Rose often plays her ])art in the tender and sentimental 
 
142 
 
 scenes so especially patronized by those tutelar divinities, and 
 many an oft-used but still current simile is drawn from the 
 blushing hue, the smirassing loveliness, and the cruel thorns of 
 the fair emblem-flower. When that reckless contemner of 
 female charms, Memnon, the " Mad Lover,” of Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, sees the beautiful Calls, and, after gazing in mute 
 astonishment and adoration at such a vision of light, exclaims, 
 “ Good Lady, kiss me !”—the flattered and amused Princess 
 replies with poetic as well as witty elegance, 
 
 “ Kiss you at first, my Lord ? ’Tis no fair fashion 
 Our lips are like rose-buds, blown with men’s breaths 
 They lose both sap and savour;—here’s my hand, Sir.’’ 
 
 The tenn “ under the rose,” applied to any secret transaction, 
 is perhaps not generally known to be of classic origin. Cupid, 
 once on a time, wishing to gain assistance from Harpocrates, 
 the god of silence, gave him the rose, by way of bribe; and 
 from this circumstance, the custom formerly prevalent among 
 some nations, of suspending a rose from the ceilings of rooms 
 in which secret meetings were held, is evidently derived; and 
 hence the familiar expression, “ under the rose,” which is very 
 insignificant unless the origin of it be known. 
 
 The Persian and Arabian Bards abundantly celebrate the 
 Rose in their elegant and figurative poems; and the Bulbul, or 
 Nightingale, being the supposed lover of this beautiful flower, 
 the description of their mutual faith, unrivalled perfections, and 
 loirg-cnduring love, occrtpies rro small space hr the works of 
 Haliz aird his disciples. The celebrated hundred-leaved Rose 
 
143 
 
 of the East, and the “ Feast of Roses,” have been made fomiliar 
 to us by the mention of them in modem works of deserved 
 fame. It would not become so true-hearted a lover of our 
 own dear land as myself to forget that, while gay France 
 entwines her brow with the Fleur-de-lis—Scotland, bonny 
 Scotland, with the Thistle—and green Erin, that emerald 
 gem on the blue sea’s breast, has her modest Shamrock— 
 England wreaths her diadem with the queenly Rose. Would 
 that the memory of that emblem were imdimined—that we 
 might look upon our Rose and know its fair fame was un¬ 
 spotted, its leaves unstained by the blood of England’s children ; 
 but the struggles of the factions who bore for badges in civil 
 warfare the Red and White Roses, have left an ineffaceable 
 blot upon the annals of both realm and flower. Shakspeare 
 rather lenghthily records the choice of the Roses on this oc¬ 
 casion, but in terms of less beauty than his thoughts are 
 usually an'ayed in. 
 
 Herrick, in his “ Parliament of Roses,” ordains that their 
 place, and that of the rest of the flowei's, should be Julia’s 
 bosom; an invasion of sweets which would be more available 
 to the garden portrait of a Ladie faire” (quoted from 
 Fletcher), than to any mortal dame of such fair proportions 
 as, from her Poet-Lover’s numerous compliments, we must 
 imagine the gentle Julia. 
 
 THE PARLIAMENT OF ROSES.-TO JULIA. 
 
 I dream’t the Roses one time went 
 
 To meet and sit in Parliament; 
 
144 
 
 The place for these, and for the rest 
 Of flowers, w'as thy spotlesse breast. 
 Over the which a state was draw’n 
 Of tifFanie, or cob-web lawne ; 
 
 There in that parly, all those powei’s 
 Voted the Rose the queen of flowers 
 But so, as that herself should be 
 The maide of honour unto thee. 
 
 In “ The Gentleman of Venice,” by Shirley (a dramatic 
 writer of great merit but small popularity), is this very lively 
 and poetic dialogue between a fair lady and a young 
 gardener ;— 
 
 Belaura. 
 
 Georgia. 
 
 Bel. 
 
 Geo. 
 
 Bel. 
 
 Geo. 
 
 Bel. 
 
 Geo. 
 
 Bel. 
 
 Geo. 
 
 You are conceited, Sirra; does wit grow in this garden ? 
 Yea, Madam, while I am in it; I am a slip myself. 
 Of rosemary or thyme ? 
 
 Of wit, sweet Madam. 
 
 ’Tis pity, but thou shoulds’t be kept with watering. 
 Thei-e’s wit in every flower, if you can gather if. 
 
 I am of thy mind. 
 
 But what’s the wit, prethee, of yonder tulip ? 
 
 You may read there the wit of a young courtier; 
 Pride, and show of colours, a fair promising, 
 
 Deare when ’tis bought, and quickly comes to nothing. 
 The w'it of that rose ?— 
 
 If you attempt. Madam, to pluck a Rose, I shall 
 find a moral in’t.— 
 
 Signior Georgio expecting that in gathering the Rose the 
 Lady would wound her hand, and thus show that pain often 
 succeeds to pleasure. 
 
 Although not entirely in praise ot the Rose, the following 
 sonnet of Spenser is so good and graceful that I shall quote 
 it here:— 
 
145 
 
 Sweet is the Rose, but grows upon a Brere; 
 
 Sweet is the Juniper, but sharp his bough; 
 
 Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere; 
 
 Sweet is the Firbloome, but his branches rough ; 
 
 Sweet is the Cypresse, but his rynd is tough; 
 
 Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill. 
 
 Sweet is the Bi'oome-flower but yet sowre enough; 
 And sweet is Moly, but his root is ill. 
 
 So every sweet with soure is temper’d still. 
 
 That maketh it be coveted the more. 
 
 For easie things, that may be got at will. 
 
 Most sorts of men do set but little store. 
 
 Why then should I accompt of little paine. 
 
 That endlesse pleasure shall unto me gaine! 
 
 In a very beautiful but I believe anonymous poem of the 
 time of Chaides I., is so elegant an allusion to the Rose, that 
 I shall make it my concluding extract from these records of the 
 Garden Queen; especially as the warning tone may be listened 
 to, with equal propriety, by the gay and “ inconstant” fair 
 ones of the present clay as by their predecessors, the coquettes 
 of the olden time. 
 
 INCONSTANCY REPROVED. 
 
 I do confess thou’rt smooth and fair. 
 
 And I might have gone near to love thee. 
 
 Had I not found the slightest prayer 
 
 That lips could speak, had power to move thee: 
 But I can let thee now alone 
 As worthy to be loved by none. 
 
 I do confess thee sweet, yet find 
 
 Thou’rt such an unthrift of thy sweets. 
 
 Thy favours are but like the wind. 
 
 That kisseth every thing it meets; 
 
 u 
 
146 
 
 And since thou canst by more than one, 
 
 Thou’rt worthy to be kissed by none. 
 
 The morning Rose, that untouched stands, 
 
 Anwed with her briars, how sweetly smells ? 
 
 But plucked and strained thro’ ruder hands 
 Her sweet no longer with her dwells. 
 
 Her scent and beauty both are gone. 
 
 And leaves fall from her one by one. 
 
 Such fate, ere long will thee betide, 
 
 When thou hast handled been awhile! 
 lake sere flowers to be thrown aside. 
 
 And I shall sigh, and some will smile 
 To see thy love to every one 
 Hath brought thee to be loved by none! 
 
 The pretty single Rose, from which my illustrative drawing 
 was made, was more nearly free from thorns shan any I have 
 yet seen ; indeed I could not find any of the “ sharp spines’, 
 on its smooth stem, but I will not olfend the manes of the 
 moral and amatory Bards of old, by asserting the entire ab¬ 
 sence of Beauty’s attendant evils. 
 
 Next follows, in this our humble portrait gallery of Flora’s 
 fair children, the pure Jasmine ; one among the chosen plants 
 in Milton’s bower of Eden. 
 
 _Each odorous bushy shrub 
 
 Fenced up the verdant wall y each beauteous floMer, 
 
 Iris all hues, Roses and Jessamin, 
 
 Rear’d high their flourished heads between, and wrought 
 Mosaic. Under foot the Violet, 
 
 Crocus and Hyacinth, with rich inlay, 
 
 Broider’d the ground, more coloured than with stone 
 Of costliest emblem. 
 
147 
 
 Tliough born beneath a sunnier sky, and nourished by a 
 kindlier soil than ours, yet the pure, the fragi-ant, the modest, 
 maidenly Jasmine has become unto us as an old familiar 
 friend, and is now as well laiown, and as frequently seen 
 climbing round the cottage-porch, as our own luscious Honey¬ 
 suckle. I love to see them twining together, the stranger 
 and the native, and wooing into kindly companionship the 
 delicate China-rose, with her clustered blossoms of faint pink, 
 contrasting so well with the deep rich crimson of the unclosed 
 buds. 
 
 We derive another pleasure, even greater than the fair 
 flowers themselves can give, when we see the walls of many 
 a lowly cottage which we pass in our Summer rambles, covered 
 with sweet and oftentimes rare plants, trained even along the 
 thatched roof and round the chimney-stack, with their blossoms 
 peering in at the open lattice, and hanging in draperies gayer 
 and more graceful than ever decked a Royal Hall, over the 
 rude rough-hewn door-way. When we see a Cottage so full 
 of beauty without, we may safely conclude there is a guiding 
 mind within; and drawing a natural comparison between the 
 culture and propagation of plants and knowledge, we cannot 
 but rejoice to see the Jasmine, which on its first introduction 
 into England was only attainable by the great and wealthy, 
 for the adornment of their “ Banqueting Houses,” now equally 
 possessed by the poor labourer, in his humble cabin garden. 
 Nor can we see this, without gladly feeling that thoughts and 
 things far more precious have spread to an equal extent, and 
 are now alike available to Prince and Peasant. 
 
 u 2 
 
148 
 
 Certainly, among the many heart-cheering sights which 
 meet the eyes of the rambler in our favoured England, none 
 are more pleasing than the trim-looking and fragi'ant little 
 gai’den-plots fronting the modest and picturesque dwellings 
 on each side the village-street. In many situations in the 
 vicinity of Horticultural Societies, the offered prizes stimulate 
 the cottagers to vie with each otlier in the culture and pro¬ 
 duction of fine specimens, and the display of choice flowers 
 in these little borders is such as to throw far into the shade 
 the auriculas, tulips, anemones, stock-gilliflowers, flarmting 
 holly-hocks, carnations, and all the other fragrant denizens 
 of the “ Squhe’s garden” or the “ Rectory.” The profusion 
 of China-rosetrees beside the cottage doors is quite a feature 
 in the landscape in inany parts of England ; and how beautiful 
 and gratifying a one it is those best know who love the glory 
 of flowers and the pleasm’e of fellow-beings as dearly as 
 the writer. 
 
 The large yellow Jasmine (with which the white is gi'ouped 
 in the drawing) seems quite a different flower from her virgin 
 relative, whose wreath of pearly stars cannot he approached in 
 loveliness by the golden diadem of the more gaily coloured 
 variety. Both are natives of India. 
 
 I know of no fable connected with the Jasmine, but have 
 sometimes fancied that the hue of the yellow ones came of 
 jealousy; and Heivick, in a quatrain, entitled, “Why flowers 
 change colour,” seems somewhat of my mind— 
 
 These fresh beauties, we can prove. 
 
 Once were virgins sick of love ; 
 
149 
 
 I’urned to flowers, still in some 
 Colours goe and colours come. 
 
 We must quit the garden’s trim walks and flower-beds, if we 
 would seek our next fair subject in its favourite haunts; for the 
 fragrant and beautiful Wall-flower, the Choiranthus Cheiri 
 of botanists, loves to dwell amid the relics of past magnificence, 
 to hide the dismantled ruins with its robe of green and gold, and 
 to crown with its wealth of blossoms the mouldering walls and 
 towers of our old abbeys and castles, where 
 
 —— “ Beautiful it blooms. 
 
 Gleaming above the ruin’d tower. 
 
 Like sunlight over tombs.” 
 
 I have myself gathered its exquisitely perfumed flowers on 
 the Elizabethan Kenilworth • aye, even in her Majesty’s 
 chamber, and from the far-famed and peerless banquet-hall 
 {once decked with other fabrics than the interlacing stems of 
 ivy and wild flowers) ; I have found it blooming on the 
 crumbling battlements of Conway Castle; springing from 
 crannies in the proud and royal Eagle Tower of Caernarvon— 
 and many another departing monument of royal and feudal 
 magnificence and might in Cambria’s mountain-realm; at 
 Ludlow, the noble Castle Hall where Milton’s Masque of 
 Comus was first represented, is richly adorned with the starry 
 golden flowers. Goodrich and Ragland equally share its 
 bright smiles illumining their dim recesses, and crowning 
 either ancient Keep with annual garlands : at Chejostow, it 
 enwreaths the dim prison-house of Henry Marten; at 
 Tintem, — that relic of surpassing beauty,—the Wall-flowers 
 
150 
 
 seem to revel in luxuriance, and as the light Summer breeze 
 comes sighing through the ivied ti'acery of the windows, it 
 brings with it a gush of fragTance, far excelling the incense 
 that was wont to float through the “ long-diawn aisle” in 
 times of yore. 
 
 And where the golden censers high had flung 
 Their fragi'ant clouds around the imaged throne. 
 
 The wall-flower shed its perfume, as it clung. 
 
 And waved in wild luxuriance o’er the stone 
 Chafed by the stonns of years ; an emblematic bloom, 
 
 A halo coronal of light o’er grandeur’s tomb. 
 
 The Wall-flower is very appropriately considered the emblem 
 of love in adversity, for it never appears on the stately pile in 
 its day of pride and grandeur; but when the buttresses fall, 
 and the walls totter, and desolation reigns over the decaying 
 glories of a bye-gone time, then the flower brings its beauty 
 and fragrance to gladden the solitary place, and by its cheerful 
 smiles to rob the sad scene of half its gloom. 
 
 So far we have looked on the serious and sentimental charac¬ 
 ter of the Wall-flower; hut now Master Herrick shall give us 
 a somewhat different view of the subject in a fable “ of his own 
 composing.” 
 
 HOW THE AVALL-l’LOWER CAME FIRST, AND WHY SO CALLED. 
 
 Wily this flower is now called so, 
 
 List, sweet maids, and you shall know. 
 Understand, this firstling was 
 Once a brisk and bonny lasse, 
 
 (Kept as close as Dance was;) 
 
151 
 
 Who a sprightly springall lov’d 
 And, to have it fully prov’d, 
 
 Up she got upon a wall. 
 
 Tempting down to slide withall; 
 
 But the silken twist unty’d. 
 
 So she fell, and bruis’d, she dy’d. 
 
 Love, in pity of the deed. 
 
 And her loving lucklesse speed. 
 
 Changed her to this plant, we call. 
 
 Now, the Flower of the Wall. 
 
 The Pimpernel, which I have gi’ouped with the Wall-flow^er 
 in the plate, is also a wild flower of English grow'th j and few 
 are more brilliantly, none more minutely, beautiful. The 
 scarlet Pimjiernel, the Anagallis arvensis of botanists, is also 
 called by the pretty rustic name of the “ poor man’s weather¬ 
 glass, fioin the susceptibility possessed by the flowers causing 
 them to close at the approach of damp or rainy weather; and 
 ‘ on this hint I spake,” in the illustrative poem. 
 
 The blue Pimpernel, A. cccrulea, is also represented in the 
 engraving; that, as likewise the pink and white varieties, ai’e 
 natives of Britain, hut not foiuid nearly so often as the A. arven¬ 
 sis —the bright scarlet, which is very common in corn-fields and 
 among hedge plants. By cultivation, the corolla of the anagallis 
 is produced very much larger than in the tvild state; hut in 
 this, and many similar cases, I jirefer the simple original 
 plant to any new or educated variety. 
 
 To the peerless beauty of the River-cpieen, the jnire and 
 stately White Water-Lily, let us next pay homage due, as 
 to tlie loveliest of Flora’s gifts to our zone. In the splendid 
 
152 
 
 •' Flora Londinensis,” of Hooker, I find the following inter¬ 
 esting “ memoir" of this exquisite flower :— 
 
 “ This truly beautiful plant, Avhich may vie with the most splendid 
 productions of the tropics, is familiar to every one, how little soever 
 skilled in scientific botany, as an inhabitant of still pools and slug¬ 
 gish streams in almost every part of Great Britain. But it is in the 
 little bays and inlets, the quiet I'ecesses of Alpine lakes, that it is seen 
 in the greatest perfection. On the banks of Loch Lomond, I have 
 beheld acres literally covered with this lovely plant, which almost 
 conceals the water with its large dark green floating leaves ; these, 
 again, forming an admirable contrast to the pure white of the blos¬ 
 soms, which rise just above them. In Holland, perhaps, only does 
 the Nymphffia, there called the White Rose of the Waters, occur in 
 greater profusion, where the canals are bordered and almost choked 
 with it for miles ; and its increasing so rapidly as to impede naviga¬ 
 tion is only prevented by the practice of cutting down the stems ot 
 the Water-Lilies twice every year. This plant blossoms in the Sum¬ 
 mer months, and the flow'ers are fully expanded in the middle of the 
 day, closing in the afternoon, and sinking somewhat below the sur¬ 
 face of the water during the night, which last fact, long reported, 
 has finally been verified by Sir James Smith. 
 
 “ Very similar to this species in the flow'er, but differing from it in 
 the toothed leaves, is the Nympluca Lotus, the Lotus of the Egyp¬ 
 tians, by which people, as w'ell as by the natives of India, it is held 
 so sacred that the latter were seen to prostrate themselves on enter¬ 
 ing the study of Sir William Jones, wdiere a flow'er of it chanced to 
 be lying. The seeds, as well as the roots, are said to be eaten 
 in those countries. From the leaves and flowers Sturm, in his 
 Deutschland Flora, assures us that the Turkish ladies prepare an 
 agreeable drink.” 
 
 After so admirable a description I have little left to say of my 
 favourite flower, which, in pm’e and stately beauty, is truly 
 “ the Queen all flowers among,” the Empress of the River, 
 the “ Lady of the Lake.” How few, if any, of our foreign 
 
153 
 
 acquisitions to the garden and conservatory, approach in love¬ 
 liness to this native of our Highland lochs and lowland streams ! 
 And there is something of elegant luxurious refinement in its 
 appearance,—if I may be allowed so to speak of nature ,—for 
 flowering as it does, in the noon of Summer, when many spots 
 are parched with drought, the Lily is refreshingly beautifr.l, re¬ 
 clining on the placid bosom of the water, her fair head pillowed 
 on the spreading leaves, and gently undulating, as a tiny 
 wavelet glides along the sunlit, glittering surface. The scent 
 of the Lily, though faint, is exceedingly sweet; thus adding 
 rich qualities to its rare charms. 
 
 The Yellow Water Lily, the Nuphar Lutea, is also beautiful, 
 when not thrown into the shade by the peerless loveliness of its 
 “ white bosomed” relative. The leaves are equally fine, though 
 dilFerent in form, being more aiTOw-shaped; but the flower is 
 little more than a fourth part the size of the majestic Nymphtea. 
 Many of our water-plants are highly ornamental and interest¬ 
 ing ; the tall and rare-flowering Rush may rank next to the Lilv 
 in beauty; and the yellow Iris, or water-flag, the delicate 
 Arrow-head, purple Loose-strife, and “ foam-like” Meadow¬ 
 sweet, with “ the blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, 
 Hope’s gentle gem, the fair forget-me-not,” deck our river and 
 lake banks with their rich enamel of rainbow-hues, and tremble 
 in the sunshine, under the light feet of the dragon fl}^, as he 
 darts, like a bright meteor, from leaf to flower; while the less 
 brilliant but busy bee goes more heavily along, murmuring 
 her story of industry and prudent foresight; and the gay 
 
 X 
 
154 
 
 ephemeron revels away her day’s life in merry sport, without 
 care or fear. Shelley, in his dream of flowers, has an exquisite 
 peep of such a spot;— 
 
 And nearer to the river’s trembling edge 
 
 I'here grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank’d with white, 
 And starry river-buds among the sedge, 
 
 And floating Water-Lilies, broad and bright, 
 
 AVhich lit the oak that overhung the edge 
 
 With moonlight beams of their own watery light; 
 
 And bulrushes and reeds of so deep green. 
 
 As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 
 
 Shakspeare beautifully describes a like scene, in Hamlet, 
 when the Queen relates the manner of Ophelia’s death. The 
 passage is familiar to all—but few will object to its repetition 
 
 here;— 
 
 There is a Willow grows aslant a brook 
 
 Tliat shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream: 
 
 There with fantastic garlands did she come. 
 
 Of crow-flowers, nettles, daysies, and long purples, 
 
 That liberal shepherds give a grosser name. 
 
 But our cold maids do dead-men’s fingers call them: 
 'I'here on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds 
 Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; 
 
 When down the weedy trophies, and herself. 
 
 Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide. 
 And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up ; 
 
 Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes; 
 
 As one incapable of her own distress, 
 
 Or like a creature native and indu’d 
 Unto that element; but long it could not be. 
 
 Till that her garments, heavy with their drink. 
 
 Pulled the poor w'retch from her melodious lay 
 To muddy death. 
 
155 
 
 In Beaumont and Fletcher’s “ Two noble Kinsmen,” is a 
 scene which always forcibly reminds one of tbe above-quoted 
 passage of Shakspeare. The jailor’s daughter having become 
 enamoured of Palamon, goes distraught at his escape from 
 prison and desertion of her, and is seen sitting by the water¬ 
 side by a neighbour, who thus relates her condition to her 
 Father:— 
 
 As I late was angling 
 
 In the great Lake that lies behind the palace, 
 
 From the far shore, thick set with reeds and sedges, 
 As patiently I was attending sport, 
 
 I heard a voice, a shrill one, and attentive 
 I gave my ear; when I might well perceive 
 ’Tvvas one that sung, and by the smallness of it 
 A boy or woman. I then left my angle 
 To his own skill, came near, but yet perceived not 
 Who made the sound, the rushes and the reeds 
 Had so encompassed it; I laid me down 
 And listen’d to the words she sung; for then 
 Thro’ a small glade cut by the fishermen 
 I saw it was your daughter. 
 
 * * * # * 
 
 She sung much, but no sense; only I heard her 
 Repeat this often : “ Palamon is gone. 
 
 Is gone to the wood to gather mulberries. 
 
 I’ll find him out to-morrow'. 
 
 His shackles will betray him, he’ll be taken; 
 
 And what shall I do then ? I’ll bring a heavy, 
 
 A hundred black-eyed maids that love as I do, 
 
 With chaplets on their heads of dafFadillies, 
 
 With cherry lips, and cheeks like damask roses. 
 
 And all we’ll dance an antic ’fore the Duke 
 
 And beg his pardon!” 'Phen she talked of you. Sir; 
 
 That you must lose your head to-morrow morning, 
 
 X 2 
 
150 
 
 And she must gather flowers to bury you, 
 
 And see the house made handsome. Then she sung 
 Nothing but “ Willow, willow, willowand between 
 Ever was “ Palamon, fair Palamon!” 
 
 And “ Palamon was a tall young man.”—The place 
 Was knee-deep where she sat; her careless tresses 
 A wreath of bull-rush rounded; about her stuck 
 Thousand fresh-water flowers of several colours; 
 
 That methought she appeared like the fair nymph 
 That feeds the lake with waters; or as Iris, 
 
 Newly dropt down from Heaven! Rings she made 
 Of rushes that grew by, and to ’em spoke 
 The prettiest posies: “ Thus our true love’s tied. 
 This you may loose, not me,” and many a one. 
 
 And then she wept, and sung again, and sighed. 
 
 And with the same breath smiled, and kist her hand. 
 
 “ I said the Lily was the Queenly Flower,”' and here, as ih 
 allegiance hound, follow some of the gayest of the Floral 
 (Jourt—the richly-clad Geraniums. Fashion and culture 
 have contributed so much to the aggi'aiidizement of the beau¬ 
 tiful tribe of Pelargoniums, or, as they are generally but erro¬ 
 neously called. Geraniums, that they now count a greater 
 number of royal and illustrious titles in their family than 
 any other species of flower can boast. The two branches 
 who did me the honour of sitting for their portraits in the 
 illustration, display a ciuious historical anachronism, being 
 no less personages than the fair Ann Boleyn and the renowned 
 patriot-king Caractacus. 
 
 The Lily and the Rose, so long unrivalled in the annals of 
 Poesy, are no more the absolute monopolists they have been. 
 
157 
 
 for i)i these days a considerable share of metrical celebrity is 
 awarded to the sentimental favourite of modem Poetasters, the 
 Forget-me-not; which, delicate, and dear, and beautiful 
 as it is, the indiscriminate eulogy and fashionable pre-eminence, 
 now given to it, serve to render less pure and poetical in the 
 eyes of the true votaries of Nature and Romance than many a 
 yet unpraised flower. The very libellous portraits, or rather 
 caricatures, of this fair favourite, exhibited in Albums and 
 giaphic delineations of all grades, with the universal spirit for 
 “ illustrating” the said libels, suggested the rather unromantic 
 lines accompanying the plate in the present volume. 
 
 The Alyosotis Palustris, Great Water Scorpion Grass, or 
 true Forget-me-not, grows very abundantly beside most of our 
 running brooks and rivers, the roots being chiefly in the loose 
 watery mud of the banks. The flowers, which are of a delicate 
 blue, appear in June and July; the leaves are smooth, without 
 hairs on any part, and of a bright light green. I thus describe 
 the features of the real Forget-me-not, because other species 
 are continually being mistaken for the true one. Among other 
 instances of this, the illustrator of a recent serious work on 
 Flowers, although professedly a botanical draughtsman, gives 
 the Myosolis Alpestris instead of the M. Palustris, and so 
 exaggerates the hairy surface of the leaves that they seem 
 ecjuipped in winter clothing from some fliiry-furrier’s. The 
 rough-leaved Scoi-]hon Grasses are found in sandy fields, on 
 mountains, &c.; and a very minute kind flourishes in beautiful 
 little tufts on old walls and ruins. The very origin of the 
 name establishes the Myosotis Palustris as the real owner 
 
158 
 
 of the sentimental renown attached to it. The story is this— 
 Two German Lovers were walking by a river (the Rhine, 
 I believe), when the Lady seeing and wishing for a flower 
 of the Myosotis Palustris, the Cavalier attempted to gather it 
 for her, and in so doing slipped, and was drowned, exclaiming, 
 as he sunk—“ Vergils mich nicht!” 
 
 My next group is formed of natives and foreigners, namely 
 three African and two wild British Heaths : the former 
 splendid in colours and magnitude, and the latter dear in their 
 luxuriant and wild simplicity. Though bonny Scotland claims 
 the Heather as her own especial emblem, and her moorlands 
 and mountains are richly and gaily clad with its verdure and 
 bloom, yet England and Wales are alike enlivened by its 
 merry hells along many a tract of country otherwise bare 
 and barren. 
 
 I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau 
 If birds confabulate or no: 
 
 ’Tis clear that they were always able 
 To hold discourse, at least in fable ; 
 
 And e’en the child, who knows no better 
 Than to interpret by the letter 
 A story of a cock and bull, 
 
 Must have a most uncommon skull. 
 
 In like manner do I think it unnecessary to appeal either 
 to philosophical authority or poetic licence for my frequent 
 floral conversazioni, such as the Feuds atoong the Heather,” 
 and the like, seeing we may quite as readily find sermons 
 
159 
 
 in flowers as in stones; and often do their fair lips speak as 
 eloquently as “ tongues in trees, or books in the running 
 brooks.” 
 
 The beautiful Commeline, whose bright celestial blue I 
 have attempted to account for by a fanciful fairy-tale, well 
 merits its name Ccelestis, for of all the blue flowers of garden 
 or greenwood this wears the clearest and brightest tint. 
 It is pure ultramarine, and the delicate cruciform anthers of 
 vivid yellow, with the peculiar construction of the whole 
 flower, give it a most elegant and gay appearance. The indi¬ 
 vidual flowers are short-lived; opening at sunrise, they fade 
 in the intense heat of noon, and shrivel away, bemg succeeded 
 by others, closely hidden in the large gr'een sheath until 
 ready to expand, and reminding one of little half-fledged 
 birds in a nest. 
 
 The small Convolvulus, represented in the same plate with 
 the Commeline, is a very common species : it does not attain 
 nearly the height of the large white Bindweed, hut creeps plen¬ 
 tifully about banks, hedges, and fields, twining round bents 
 of grass, or any thing capable of lending support to its circling 
 stems. The small and graceful flowers are tinged with faint 
 and deeper shades of pink, like the inside of some delicate 
 tropical shells, which they almost resemble as they peep from 
 the footpaths we are treading on. 
 
 The splendid Passion-Flowers next demand our notice 
 in these remarks on the subjects selected for ])ictorial and 
 
IGO 
 
 poetic illustration. The rich crimson one is named Buona- 
 partia, the two others, purple and white, are the Raceniosa 
 Cwrulea, and Colvillii. The lines accompanying this gi’oup 
 might, perhaps, mduce some of my readers to regi-et my 
 seeming ignorance of the whimsical but much-patronized 
 fancy, that the Passion-flower is a natural tablet,—a medal 
 struck by nature in memory of the Crucifixion. This idea 
 I have often seen, both in prose and poetry; and it is not 
 from ignorance of it, but doubt of its propriety, that my 
 illustration has other allusions. I shall, perhaps, be told, that 
 it is hut a fable, and should have been allowed a jdace at 
 least in a work where so many fables and fanciful legends 
 are assembled; but the subject is too serious to rank with 
 the mere fanciful creations of our classic mythologists and' 
 quaint poets. For myself, I consider the fancy the most 
 <n-oundless that has vet been linked with the fair tribes of 
 Flora. Even had the Passion-flowers been natives of 
 Palestine, the notion would have more apparent reason, 
 but they are denizens of the wild forests of a world undis¬ 
 covered till centuries after the event they are said to com¬ 
 memorate. There are many flowers, too, with cruciform 
 parts, quite as aptly emblematical as this splendid tribe, 
 which bears no analogy to the subject but in its triple¬ 
 headed stigma. The petals are ten in number, the anthers 
 five, and the long jiencilled threads of the star-like nectary 
 ai'e various in number, and almost countless in many varie¬ 
 ties. I shall therefore leave the emblem study of the beautiful 
 Passiflora to minds more superstitiously imaginative than my 
 
161 
 
 own j content to read, liuinbly and adoringly, in the meanest 
 herb and the frailest flower given to me by nature’s lavish 
 hand. His power and might, who clothed them all in theii- 
 wondious beauty, and who bestowed on us the yet more 
 wonderful senses, enabling us to see, admire, and enjoy it:— 
 
 Was it not ever one of nature’s glories, 
 
 Nay, her great piece of wonder, that amongst 
 So many millions, millions of her works. 
 
 She gave the eye distinction to cull out 
 The one from other? 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 The last of my Summer sketches contains two of the Mallow 
 family, flowers of the Lavatera Arborea; and, if grace of 
 form or delicate beauty always received their merited praise, 
 these fair things would have their poetic or legendary tale to 
 tell. As it is, in these unjust times, I cannot conjure up one 
 name of Bardic Chivalrie whose “ troops of the line” may do 
 efficient service to the flowers who are now my clients; for 
 no mythological nor theological fables have yet contributed to 
 render illustrious their genealogical tree. But their own wel¬ 
 come luxuriance and delicate beauty need no other claim on 
 our admiration. 
 
 1 he Mallow is, in floral emblems, used to personify a “ sweet 
 disposition, and in that character, remembering all its other 
 good and graceful qualities [and more than any jiower 
 possesses), it may well image to me the beloved and faithful 
 friend, whose gentle hand laid upon my desk the originals of 
 
 Y 
 
the illustrative drawing ; and whose ever hind and cheering 
 voice is as welcome to my ear as her prized affection is 
 dear to my heart. 
 
 The Ivy-leaved Bell-Flower, represented in the Mallow 
 group, is an indigenous plant, growing in moist shaded situ¬ 
 ations, by no means common. It is found creeping about 
 stones, and among the damp moss of fountains or rocky borders 
 of rivulets, where its delicate little bells of palest blue wave 
 in “ every wind that under heaven doth blow.” 
 
 Though not illustrative of the flower, the following description 
 of a spot sirrrilar to those where we most often find it, may claim 
 a place here; it is frorrr the " Faithful Shepherdess of Beau- 
 rnorrt and Fletcher :— 
 
 For to that holy wood is consecrate 
 A virtuous well, about whose flowery banks 
 The nimble-footed Fairies dance their rounds 
 By the pale moonshine ; dipping oftentimes 
 Their stolen children, for to make them free 
 From dying flesh and dull mortality. 
 
 By this fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn 
 And given away his freedom ; many a troth 
 Been plight, wirich neither envy nor old time 
 Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss, given 
 In hope of coming happiness. By this 
 Fresh fountain many a blushing maid 
 Hath crowned the head of her long-loved shepheul 
 With gaudy flowers, whilst he happy sung 
 Lays of his love and dear captivity. 
 
 Herrick devotes one of his little poems to the giving ol 
 directions “ where he would have his verses read : perhaps, if 
 
163 
 
 every author could so command, and be so obeyed, they would 
 gain more lame, and their readers more pleasure. Following 
 his very good example, I would, in all deference and humility 
 suggest to my kind and most gracious readers, that these simple 
 lays and legends of Summer Flowers, however dull and profitless 
 they may be, cannot fail of exciting interest in the realities they 
 attempt to celebrate, if their jrerusal be vouchsafed in scenes 
 such as gave them birth,—in their native haunts of the quiet 
 shady wood, the breezy heath, or the river’s rim. 
 
s 
 
AUTUMN 
 
 Then came the Automne, all in yellow clad, 
 
 As tho’ she ioyed in her plenteous store, 
 
 Laden with fruits that made her laugh, full glad. 
 ***** 
 
 Upon her head a wreath, which was enrold 
 With ears of come of every sort, she bore; 
 
 And in her hand a sickle she did holde, 
 
 To reape the ripen’d fruits the which the earth did yold. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
I 
 
 K* 
 
 A 
 
THE THREE SWEET SEASONS. 
 
 IDirge for ti^e tieparteU ©nes, 
 
 AND A AIERRY GREETING TO AUTUMN. 
 
 (Pill penseroso.) 
 
 Fair Spring died months ago; 
 
 She pined for jealousy. 
 
 That Summer’s radiant glow 
 
 Brought brighter flowers than she. 
 
 Spring had the Snowdrop pure. 
 
 And the soft-eyed Violet; 
 
 But these might not endiu’e 
 With Rose and Mignonette. 
 
 Spring wore the Primrose pale. 
 
 And the glowing Fairy-fire ;* 
 
 But e’en such gems must fail 
 By Summer’s brave attire. 
 
 * The Pyrus Japonica, page 18. 
 
168 
 
 And Spring hung down her head 
 And her children, one by one. 
 
 Drooped, mingled with the dead; 
 And soon they all were gone. 
 
 And Spring did slowly wane. 
 
 Till one sun-glorious day 
 
 She yielded up her reign. 
 
 And vanished away. 
 
 And Summer then came forth, 
 
 A proud and happy mother; 
 
 Her children graced the earth. 
 Each fairer than the other. 
 
 She looked from out the sky 
 With eyes of laughing blue. 
 
 And the fervid sun on high 
 Smiled gaily earthward too. 
 
 She laid her hand on sea. 
 
 River, and brook, and lake. 
 
 And all flowed peacefully. 
 
 And scarce a wave did make. 
 
 She stripped the hoary hills 
 Of all their capes of snow. 
 
 And bade the mountain rills 
 Run singing as they go. 
 
1G9 
 
 She spread out far and wide 
 The bonnie blooming Heather, 
 
 And bade the Water Lilies ride 
 Yellow and white together. 
 
 She made the day-break glad and bright, 
 And softly calm the gloaming, 
 
 For lovers fond, who in the light 
 Of the silver moon were roaming-. 
 
 Oh ! Summer was a glorious queen. 
 
 But sorrow soon came o’er her; 
 
 Her flowers of beauty waned, I ween, 
 
 Like Spring’s young buds before her. 
 
 The Rose, her fairest darling, fell. 
 
 And left but thorns behind ; 
 
 The Woodbine, Jasmine, lost their smell,— 
 The lilies all declined. 
 
 And one by one they drooped and died. 
 
 Till all had passed away; 
 
 And where triumphant Summer’s pride 
 Had been—’twas dim decay. 
 
 And Summer in bright tears of dew 
 Their mournful loss so wept, 
 
 That she made dim her eyes of blue. 
 
 And then — poor Summer slept, 
 z 
 
170 
 
 Autumn. 
 
 (Allegro c spiritoso.) 
 
 Come, gi’eet merry Autumn, she’s heiress of Spring 
 Who left her a fortune of Flowers; 
 
 Come, welcome her in, let the Heather-hells ring. 
 
 And the Harehell’s soft music he ours. 
 
 Sing, hey for bright Autumn ! her triumphs we'll speak. 
 And love her rich gifts and her honny brown cheek. 
 
 She has wealth all uncoimted; the blossoms of Spring 
 Fell fluttering down from the spray. 
 
 But they left in their place each a germ that should bring 
 A rich treasure for Autrrrnn to-day. 
 
 Then, hey for the heiress! her treasm-es we’ll seek. 
 
 And love the deep tinge of her honny brown cheek. 
 
 She hath swelling hills girdled with broad belts of gold, 
 All waving so bright i’ the sun; 
 
 She hath fruits, fair as jewels, that cannot he told; 
 
 And all this vast wealth may be won ! 
 
 Then, hey for rich Autumn ! and, ere the trees break. 
 
 Go gather the fruit with the bloom on its cheek 1 
 
171 
 
 To the orchard, the garden, ye epicures go. 
 
 Where the smooth luscious Nectarines shine ; 
 
 But afar o er the hills do the Blackberries gi’ow. 
 
 And the Blackberry’s fruit shall be mine. 
 
 Away! o’er the hills where the breezy winds speak. 
 Singing hey for rich Autumn’s bright eye and brown cheek 
 
 Away o’er the mountains! where Heather-bells ring, 
 Away, where the tall Foxgloves wave. 
 
 Where the wild Rose we loved ’mid the flow’rets of Sprinj 
 Hath a monument left o’er her grave; 
 
 For her bright berries stand like an epitaph there. 
 
 To remind us of one so short-lived and so fair. 
 
 Away o’er the hills, to the deep dingle, where 
 O’er the rocks, like a tapestry, flung. 
 
 Hang broadly the Blackberry bushes, for there 
 No statelier tree would have sprung. 
 
 Then clinging and clambering warily down. 
 
 Beware of your footing — and eke of your gown. 
 
 The gourmand may smile at our rustic dessert. 
 
 But there’s a sweet infantine thrill 
 Of gladness and glee that comes over my heart 
 In these scenes, and I feel a child still: 
 
 Oh! I would not exchange a rough Blackberry dell 
 For aught that in orchard or garden may d\\ ell! 
 
 7 . 2 
 
172 
 
 Then forth to the golden-crowned corn-held pass on. 
 Where the sickle is merrily plied. 
 
 And, flashing out brightly beneath the wann sun. 
 
 It tells where the poppies have died,— 
 
 Where the petals of scarlet will wither and fade. 
 
 For the young flowers in death by the ripe com are laid. 
 
 They fall in their beauty ere rent by a storm. 
 
 They are gone, ere the wandering bee 
 Hath nestled within e’en one delicate fonn 
 Now lying all wan on the lea. 
 
 Alas ! for the young and the beautiful now. 
 
 The fairest must oft ’neath the keen sickle bow. 
 
 Come now to the Forest, for Autumn is there. 
 
 She is painting its millions of leaves 
 With colours so varied, so rich, and so rai'e. 
 
 That the eye scarce her cunning believes; 
 She tinges and changes each leaf o’er and o’er, 
 And flings it to earth when ’twill vary no more. 
 
 The glorious Cedars she ever in vain 
 Tries to dress in chamelion hue. 
 
 For- they brave all her arts, and the verdure retain 
 Of their Spring-time the whole Winter through. 
 
 And the sturdy Scots Fir lifts its dark-crested head 
 Unchanged o’er the path where the brown leaves are s})rcad. 
 
173 
 
 Autumn strove hard to deck out the Molly’s rough coat 
 With touches of yellow and red; 
 
 Ikit the honest old hero her fair fingers smote 
 With his weapon-girt leaves till they hied; 
 
 And some drops that were caught on the henies he here. 
 
 Gave the deep ruddy glow that they ever since wore. 
 
 The Ferns, too, ai’e waving all statelily here. 
 
 With seed-stored fronds thickly laid; 
 
 And shedding, when hastily hrushed by the deei-. 
 
 Their light fertile dust o’er the glade. 
 
 Oil, beautiful—beautiful ! stately, yet gay. 
 
 Is a deep forest-glen on a bright Autumn day ! 
 
 Oh ! look on the strange and the whimsical things 
 That among the wild fungi we find; 
 
 And lichens, and moss that like fairy-work springs,— 
 
 If ye love them not all, ye ai'e blind; 
 
 Ye are blind unto Nature’s most glorious looks. 
 
 If ye read not and love not her forest-boni books. 
 
 Then welcome we Autumn, rich heiress of Spring, 
 
 Who fills our dear home-land with glee: 
 
 True, Winter is coming—yet still will we sing 
 Thrice welcome, gay Autumn, to thee! 
 
 And oft o’er the uplands our voices shall speak 
 
 Of Autumn’s bright treasures and bonny brown cheek. 
 
174 
 
 CARNATIONS AND CAVALIERS. 
 
 Oh ! I.,adyes—ye who Lovers have, 
 
 (And I can guess full well 
 
 You are too fair to sigh alone). 
 
 List to the tale I tell. 
 
 A Ladye and her Lover once. 
 
 In a Summer evening-tide. 
 
 Within a stately garden walked. 
 
 And whispered, side by side. 
 
 The Ladye fair and graceful was. 
 
 And well-beloved, I ween. 
 
 By her true Cavalier; than whom 
 A braver ne’er was seen. 
 
 And in the garden wandered they. 
 
 Nor wist which way they went: 
 
 They gazed into each other’s face 
 In Love’s own blest content. 
 
 On paced they through the ])leached paths. 
 Where honey-suckles crept. 
 
 And, drooping from the boughs o’erhead. 
 The pensile streamers swept 
 


 
 * 
 
 
In graceful chaplets round 
 The Lovers as they walked; 
 
 And with soft glances more than words, 
 They eloquently talked. 
 
 The Knight had dwelt in southern climes 
 Beneath a warmer sun. 
 
 And learned the language of the Flowers, 
 And fancies many a one 
 
 The Poet-Lovers gave 
 
 To herb, and leaf, and flower. 
 
 That they might Love’s ambassadors 
 Be in the fair-one’s bower. 
 
 Without a line of written vows 
 
 Fond hearts were oft-times plighted; 
 
 And flowers, too, could tell whene’er 
 A proffered suit was slighted. 
 
 The Fleartsease promised “ perfect love 
 Hope in the Hawthorn lay; 
 
 Despair and death with Hemlock dwelt. 
 And glory claimed the Bay.— 
 
 And so to all the garden’s hues 
 Some fair conceit was given. 
 
 By which young Cupid’s bonds might be 
 Locked closer still, or riven. 
 
170 
 
 Now, to the Ladye Edith oft 
 Sir Rupert had told o’er 
 
 The emblem of each glowing bud 
 In this quaint graceful lore :— 
 
 But Edith (as dames mostly do), 
 Liked Learning less than Love; 
 
 The owl of Pallas she would shun 
 To seek Cytherea’s dove. 
 
 And so it chanced that she forgot 
 Full many a fancy sweet. 
 
 And sometimes gave, in careless mood. 
 Flowers for the time unmeet. 
 
 The eve I tell of ’gan to close. 
 
 Fast fell the soft twilight; 
 
 And the young moon amid the leaves 
 Peeped forth, all chaste and bright. 
 
 So very innocent she looked. 
 
 As if she ne’er had seen 
 
 Lovers before, and curious, strove 
 To hide behind a screen 
 
 Of leaves,—which Zephyr waved 
 That she might peer between. 
 
 And o’er the shut and sleepy flowers 
 ’Gan weep the Summer-dew; 
 
177 
 
 And o’er the lakelet’s breast there glow’d 
 A yet intenser blue. 
 
 As from the breast of heaven looked out 
 The few and timid rays 
 
 Of the first stars that venture forth 
 After the Sun-god’s blaze. 
 
 And our fond Lovers twain must part — 
 The Ladye Edith sighed— 
 
 And whispered—“Here again, my Love, 
 We meet at even-tide ? ”— 
 
 Sir Rupert smiled—and from the bank 
 A Pink then gather’d he. 
 
 And said—“ Sweet Ladye of my love, 
 Edith—take this, from me.'” 
 
 Now ye who read this tale, perchance. 
 Than Edith know no more 
 
 The language that fair flower would speak. 
 In Flora’s emblem-lore ? 
 
 Ladyes — take heed how ye refuse, 
 
 And Knights — to whom ye bring 
 
 That mystic flower—for the next gift 
 Should be — a plain gold ring. 
 
 Now Edith knew its meaning not, 
 
 Or had forgotten ([uite; 
 
 A A 
 
178 
 
 And all unconsciously she thus 
 Grieved her own true Knight: — 
 
 “ And is the paltry pink the flower 
 That I must wear for thee ? — 
 
 III find a brighter, fitter one, 
 
 That thou shalt take from me. ’ 
 
 Then, where the deep Carnations showed 
 Their rich and glowing hues. 
 
 And filled the air with spicy scent. 
 
 Hied she a flower to choose. 
 
 And once again she sighed-—" Farewell! 
 
 The Knight alone was left— 
 
 And in his hand the token-flower— 
 
 Fair Edith’s parting gift. 
 
 The Pink, by Knight to Ladye given. 
 Prays her to be his Bride— 
 
 The proud Carnation answering tells 
 That fervent prayer's denied. 
 
 Now ye who know what ’tis to love, 
 
 Think what Sir Rupert felt. 
 
 As on that flower, with wond’ring grief 
 His eyes still sadly dwelt. 
 
 He dreamed not that twas idly done. 
 
 In careless sportive freak; 
 
179 
 
 To him that token-flower brought 
 Woe more than words could speak; 
 
 And the brave Rupert’s true heart seemed 
 Full even as ’twould break. 
 
 The Ladye to her Father’s Hall 
 Went gaily hounding back : 
 
 More pensively Sir Rupert paced 
 Along his homeward track. 
 
 And welcome was a gallant guest 
 Who that night sat him by; 
 
 They had been friends in early youth. 
 Brothers in chivalrie. 
 
 “ What aileth thee,” Sir Maurice said, 
 
 “ That thou dost shun the bowl ? 
 
 That cloud upon thy brow bespeaks 
 A soiTow on thy soul — 
 
 Ha! is it Love ? that thou dost wear 
 Yon token on thy breast?” 
 
 For now the fatal flower peeped out 
 From Rupert’s broidered vest. 
 
 And all the tale of woe is told — 
 
 And all Love’s misery — 
 
 And Maurice cried, “ The morrow’s morn 
 Thou shalt away with me — 
 
 A A 2 
 
180 
 
 I go to join a gallant band 
 I’llie merry fields of France; 
 
 Thou shalt along — and once again 
 In tournay break a lance. 
 
 Now, out upon thy Ladye-Love, 
 
 Who’s falser far than fair; 
 
 I’ll show to thee a lovelier one 
 Whose favours thou shalt wear. 
 
 My own sweet sister—she shall weave 
 A scarf to grace her Knight, 
 
 And glad thee with her laughing eyes,— 
 Those eyes so blue and bright. 
 
 And if thou can’st e’en then be sad. 
 
 She’ll take her harp, and sing. 
 
 And music for thy weighty woes 
 Shall make each one a wing. 
 
 And bid all sadness fly away— 
 
 Nay, I will have it so. 
 
 And forth at morning’s early beam. 
 
 All bravely dight we go.” 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Ere long in battle’s dread aiTay 
 Fought bravely side by side 
 These Knights—alas! that e’er should hap 
 What did one eventide! 
 
181 
 
 The battle’s strife was well nigh o’er; 
 
 When an archer, slight and slim. 
 
 At Rupert aiming twanged his bow — 
 
 Fate sped the shaft to him. 
 
 From off his steed down sunk the Knight; 
 
 The Archer-youth looked on 
 A moment’s space—then bow and shafts 
 Flung from him every one. 
 
 And by the wounded Rupert knelt — 
 
 ’Twas strange to see a foe 
 Striving all tenderly to staunch 
 The blood he caused to flow! 
 
 ’Twas stranger yet to mark the tears, 
 
 That in a quick warm shower. 
 
 Streamed from that archer’s eyes, when fell 
 A crushed long-faded flower 
 
 From Rupert’s vest.—It seemed, in sooth. 
 Some charm of wizard pow'er. 
 
 Which thus that Archer’s spirit quelled 
 In such a stirring hour. 
 
 Stranger and yet more strange it seemed, 
 When cap and waving plume 
 Unheeded from his brow fell down, 
 
182 
 
 And i’ the sun, like shining gold. 
 
 Rich wavy hair in many a fold 
 
 Shaded his cheek’s soft bloom. 
 
 His cheeks! —No —Rupert, as he gazed, 
 Knew well that clear fair brow. 
 
 And wond’ring, murmured faintly forth, 
 
 “My Edith!—is it thou?”— 
 
 ***** 
 
 And it was woman’s love or hate— 
 
 Call it whate’er ye will— 
 
 Had braved the Ladye to the field. 
 
 Her own true Knight to kill. 
 
 He deemed her false—and she soon knew 
 Herself and love forsaken ; 
 
 And with a woman’s recklessness. 
 
 This wild revenge had taken. 
 
 “And could’st thou dream thine Edith false 
 Who was so true to thee ? 
 
 Oh 1 that a whim should seem to break 
 Vows kept so faithfully — 
 
 And thou hast wooed another love — 
 
 Her favour decks thy crest. ’ 
 
 “Hush thee, mine Edith —who wast gave 
 The flower found next my breast? 
 
183 
 
 Even that fatal flower was kept 
 By this fond heart of mine ; 
 
 ’Twas the last gift I ever had 
 From that dear hand of thine. 
 
 And now, mine Edith — we will still 
 In sport use floral lore. 
 
 But never. Love, in sober truth. 
 
 Trust such frail einblems more. 
 
 And oft again when loit’ring late 
 In garden or in grove. 
 
 We’ll wreath our brows with woodbine sweet. 
 That fragi’ant ' tie of Love; ’ 
 
 And when, with orange blossoms crowned. 
 
 My Edith walks a bride. 
 
 Her pathway shall be strewn with flowers. 
 
 In all their rainbow pride.” 
 
 And so they talked—these lovers twain — 
 And pleased themselves fidl well — 
 
 But few, methinks, will wish that I 
 Their talk again should tell. 
 
 For though, no doubt, each pretty word 
 To them was music sweet, 
 
 I ne’er yet found a third who thought 
 Such converse any treat. 
 
184 
 
 The Ladye Constance — so was called 
 Sir Maurice’ sister fair — 
 
 On Rupert had bestowed a scarf, 
 
 And a ring of dark brown hair. 
 
 She smiled upon his moody brow. 
 
 And at his downcast eye; 
 
 But ne’er did love for Rupert cost 
 Gay Constance one light sigh. 
 
 She gave to him the broidered scarf— 
 She gave the glossy hair — 
 
 But they were cheated sore, who thought 
 The maiden’s heart was there. 
 
 And while Sir Maurice fought in France, 
 Gay Constance hied away 
 
 With her young Chieftain to his Tower, 
 High o’er the salt sea spray. 
 
 Sir Maurice vowed that woman kind 
 Too changeful were for him — 
 
 But may be he’ll be changing too. 
 
 Ere many moons he dim. 
 
185 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Now, Ladye—when a Cavalier 
 Presents a chequered Pink, 
 ’Tis time to ascertain, my dear. 
 His rent-roll you may think; 
 And then — provided his estate 
 Don’t meet your approbation. 
 It cannot, surely, be too late 
 To cut—with a Carnation. 
 
 B B 
 
186 
 
 THE CHIME OF THE HAREBELLS. 
 
 Over the moorland, over the lea, 
 
 Dancing airily, there are we; 
 
 Sometimes, mounted on stems aloft, 
 
 We wave o’er Broom and Heather, 
 To meet the kiss of the zephyr soil: 
 
 Sometimes, close together. 
 
 Tired of dancing, tired of peeping. 
 
 Under the whin you’ll find us sleeping : 
 Nodding about and dreaming too ; 
 Dreaming of fairy cups of dew 
 Dreaming of music, soft and low 
 As the melodies that flow 
 In tiniest ripples along the pool. 
 
 In Summer twilights dim. 
 
 When the night-wind’s breath is cool. 
 
 And downy owlets skim 
 Ifif^htlv along from shore to shore. 
 
 Flitting about, as if they bore 
 Upon their trembling wings 
 (That ne’er are seen by day) 
 Dreams and visions, fantastic things. 
 That people the Lily’s slumberings 
 With a shadowy array 
 
\ 
 
 V 
 
187 
 
 Of forms that Flowers know and see 
 Wlien they are dreaming, e’en as we 
 Meny Harebells do 
 On the heathery lea. 
 
 Maiden—do not you 
 Often wish you were a Flower, 
 Spending one or two 
 Meny days in greenwood bower. 
 
 As the Harebells do; 
 
 Dancing, and waving, and ringing in glee. 
 Over the moorland and over the lea? 
 
 Daintily bend we our honeyed bells 
 While the gossiping bee her story tells. 
 
 And drowsily hums and murmurs on 
 Of the wealth to her waxen storehouse gone. 
 And though she gathers our sweets the while. 
 We welcome her in with a nod and a smile. 
 
 Darting about 
 Now in, now out. 
 
 Aloft, adown, in angles, rings. 
 
 And every form of swiftest flight. 
 
 Like arrows, guided by glittering wings. 
 
 The dragon-flies play in the sunshine bright 
 That tinges their forms of chamelion hue 
 With emerald, ruby, amber, and blue. 
 
 B B 2 
 
188 
 
 You’d fancy the rainbow’s painted dome 
 A fitting home 
 
 For creatures so airy, so light, so gay. 
 
 As the dragon-flies all in the breeze at play. 
 And, poised on the tips 
 Of their tiny feet. 
 
 They steal from our lips 
 A kiss so fleet, 
 
 That, ere our delicate heads are tost 
 In feigned anger, the thief is lost. 
 
 Gone—flitting along o’er moor and lea. 
 
 Where the thistle-down sails so airily. 
 
 How soft in the gloaming 
 
 \ 
 
 Our melody floats. 
 
 When night-winds are roaming 
 And wafting our notes 
 Around and about in cadence sweet ! 
 
 Oft, when this breezy strain ye meet. 
 
 Ye gaze around. 
 
 Chasing the sound. 
 
 And, marvelling whence the strain is springing. 
 Murmur, “ how softly the wind is singing! ” 
 We chime too gently for ye to tell 
 The silvery voice of the little Harebell. 
 
 No rock is too high — no vale too low— 
 
 For our fragile and tremulous forms to grow: 
 
189 
 
 Sometimes we crown 
 The castle’s dizziest tower, and look 
 Laughingly down 
 
 On the pigmy men in the world below. 
 
 Wearily wandering to and fro. 
 
 Sometimes we dwell on the cragged crest 
 Of moimtain high ; 
 
 And the ruddy sun, from the blue sea’s breast 
 Climbing the sky. 
 
 Looks fi'om his couch of glory up. 
 
 And lights the dew in the Harebell’s cup. 
 
 We are crowning the mountain 
 With azure bells. 
 
 Or decking the fountain 
 In forest dells, 
 
 Or wreathing the ruin with clusters gay. 
 
 And nodding and laughing the live-long day. 
 
 Then chiming our lullaby, tired with play. 
 
 Are we not beautiful ? Oh! are not we 
 
 The darlings of mountain, and moorland and lea ? 
 
 Plunge in the forest—are we not fair? 
 
 Go to the high road—we’ll meet ye there. 
 
 Oh ! where is the flower that content may tell 
 Like the. laughing, and nodding, and dancing Hare¬ 
 bell ? 
 
190 
 
 FOXGLOVES AND FERN. 
 
 The Foxgloves and the Fern, 
 
 Flow gracefully they grow 
 With grand old oaks above them, 
 And wavy gi’ass below ! 
 
 The stately trees stand round 
 Like columns fair and high. 
 
 And the spreading branches bear 
 A glorious canopy 
 Of leaves, that rustling wave 
 In the whispering summer air. 
 And gaily greet the sunbeams 
 That are falling brightly there. 
 The miser-leaves! — they suder 
 Not a gleam to twinkle through. 
 And in the Foxglove’s hairy cup. 
 
 At noonday, drops of dew 
 Are hanging round like tears 
 Of sorrow, that the sun 
 Gives to other flowers his kisses 
 But to her soft lips not one — 
 Yet are they wondrous sweet. 
 
 As the honey-bee knows well, 
 When murmuring all busily. 
 
 Hid in each purple bell 
 
I 
 
 ■ y 
 
 1 
 
191 
 
 That, drooping, clusters round 
 The tall and spiral stem. 
 
 Each one bedecked and broidered 
 With many a fairy gem : 
 
 Why Foxgloves are they bight P 
 They’re Fairy-caps, I ween ■— 
 
 Oft in the moony light 
 The elfin folk are seen 
 Trooping and frisking out. 
 
 With tiny silv’ry shout. 
 
 Forth to the circlet green ; 
 
 And trumpet-notes, through woodbine florets blown. 
 
 Herald King Oberon, whose royal throne 
 
 Poised on a snow-white mushroom straight appears; 
 
 His retinue, well armed with keen grass spears. 
 
 Proud Foxglove helms, and daisy shields, stand round. 
 
 Like strange flowers, spell-called from the dew-bright gi'ound. 
 Queen Mab and her gay fairy-maidens trace 
 A measure on the turf, with airy gi’ace: 
 
 Their music the soft Harebell’s silv’ry peals. 
 
 And distant rippling of the brook, that steals 
 Through the dim forest shade. Such lairies be, 
 
 Creatures of fancy, joy, and revelrie. 
 
 The green and graceful Fern, 
 
 How beautiful it is! 
 
 There’s not a leaf in all the land 
 
 So wonderl’ul, I wis. 
 
192 
 
 Have ye ever watched it budding. 
 
 With each stem and leaf wrapped small. 
 Coiled np within each other 
 Like a roimd and hairy ball ? 
 
 Have ye watched that ball unfolding 
 Each closely nestling curl. 
 
 And its fair and feathery leaflets 
 Their spreading forms unfurl ? 
 
 Oh ! then most gracefully they wave 
 In the forest, like a sea. 
 
 And dear as they are beautiful 
 Are those Fern leaves to me. 
 
 For all of early childhood — 
 
 Those past and blessed years 
 To which we ever wistfully 
 
 Look back through memory’s tears — 
 The sports and fancies then my own, 
 Those Fern-leaves dear and wild. 
 
 Bring back to my delighted heart— 
 
 I am once more a child — 
 
 “ Oh ! cull the tallest, fairest branch, 
 
 My banner it shall be. 
 
 And twine a ch’clet for my brow,— 
 
 Crown me all royally: 
 
 A Foxglove sceptre my right hand 
 So gi'avely shall sustain:” — 
 
 Oh! blessings on the bonny Fern — 
 
 1 am a child again I 
 
193 
 
 CONVOLVULI AND MIGNONETTE. 
 (beauty and sweetness.) 
 
 How well two maidens may be imaged here ! 
 
 One in Convolvula’s all-beauteous face. 
 
 That with the richest colour deeply glows, 
 Conscious and proud of her gi'eat loveliness: — 
 And then in Mignonette’s meek humble form. 
 Without one tint upon her modest gai’b 
 To draw the idle stare of wandering eyes. 
 
 Which greedily the other’s beauty drink. 
 
 How well the young and fair are here shown forth 
 For some—aye, many, prize a rosy cheek, 
 
 A spai’kling eye—or lip where rubies strive 
 With coral the bright mastery to gain. 
 
 Above all other wealth. E’en like this flower. 
 
 The gay Convolvulus, which spreads her form 
 Of fragile short-lived loveliness before 
 The flattering beams of the deceitful sun. 
 
 And basks her in his light, and thinks, poor bud 
 Of foolish vanity — that such will last: — 
 
 But soon the noontide glare falls scorchingly 
 Upon her waning charms—she hangs her head — 
 
 c c 
 
194 
 
 Her boasted beauty shrivels and decays. 
 
 And outward show, her only gift, is gone. 
 
 Now look ye on the plain and modest guise 
 Of yon unlovely ^owex—^inlovely P —no — 
 
 Not beautiful, ’tis true—not touched with hues 
 Like her’s we late have gazed on; but so rich 
 In precious fragi'ance is that lowly one. 
 
 So loved for her sweet qualities, that I 
 Should woo her first amid a world of flowers; 
 
 For she is like some few beloved ones here. 
 
 Whom eyes, perchance, might slightingly pass o’er, 
 But whose ti’ue wisdom, gentleness, and worth. 
 Unchanging friendship, ever-faithful love. 
 
 And countless minor beauties of the mind. 
 
 Attach our hearts in deep affection still. 
 
195 
 
 LOVE AND THE THISTLE 
 
 As Cupid was flying about one day. 
 
 With the flowers and zephyrs in wanton play. 
 He ’spied in the air. 
 
 Floating here and there, 
 
 A winged seed of the Thistle-flower, 
 
 And inen-ily chased it from bower to bower. 
 
 And yonng Love cried to his playmates, “ See, 
 I’ve found the true emblem-flower for me. 
 
 For I am as light 
 In my wavering flight 
 As this feathery star of soft Thistle-down, 
 Which by each of you zephyrs about is blown. 
 
 See, how from a Rose’s soft warm blush 
 It flies, to be caught in a bramble bush ; — 
 And as oft do I, 
 
 In my wanderings,- hie 
 
 From beanty to those who have none I trow; 
 Reckless as Thistle-down, on I go.” 
 
 So the sly little God still flits away 
 Mid earth’s loveliest flow’rets, day by day ; 
 
 c c 2 
 
196 
 
 And oh ! maidens fair. 
 
 Never ^Yeep, nor care 
 
 When his light wings waft him beyond your power. 
 Think—’tis only the down of the Thistle-flower! 
 

 
 
197 
 
 FLOWER-FANTASIES. 
 
 (lobelia EULGENS-CAKDINAL FLOWER.) 
 
 Can ye whose eyes now rest upon my page 
 Read souls in flowers ? 
 
 Do ye delight to fancihilly trace, 
 
 In the bright bowers 
 
 Of clustered blossoms that in gardens are. 
 
 Semblance of things as radiant and fair ? 
 
 Ye should be “ high fantastical,” to feel. 
 
 With perfect zest, 
 
 All the fine subtle fancies, that like dreams 
 Softly invest 
 
 The thought and memory of each bright hud 
 
 That we do cull in forest, field, or flood. 
 
 Oh! there is music to the spirit’s ear 
 In every sigh 
 
 Heaved by the rose’s bosom to the air 
 That winnows by; 
 
 And there is poetry in every leaf. 
 
 Whose blush speaks pleasure, or whose tears tell grief. 
 
198 
 
 There is romance in every stem that bends 
 In motion soft 
 
 Beneath the wind that rustles in the tall 
 Tree-tops aloft. 
 
 And mid their branches whistlingly doth blow. 
 
 While it but fans the flowers that sleep below. 
 
 We know they sleep; at eve the daisy small 
 Foldeth all up 
 
 Her blush-tipped rays; and the wave’s empress* hides 
 Her star-lit cup: 
 
 And each fair flower, though some with open eye. 
 
 Listens and yields to nature’s lullaby. 
 
 The nodding Foxglove slumbers on her stalk; 
 
 And fan-like ferns 
 
 Seem poised still and sleepily, until 
 The morn returns 
 
 With singing birds and beams of rosy light. 
 
 To bid them dance and frolic in delight. 
 
 The drowsy Poppy, who has all the day 
 Proudly outspread 
 
 His scarlet mantle, folds it closely now 
 Around his head; 
 
 And, lulled by soothing balm that his own leaves distil. 
 
 Sleeps, while the night dews fall upon the moonlit hill. 
 
 * The Water-lily. 
 
199 
 
 Now, rocked upon her fragile trembling stem. 
 
 The soft Harebell 
 
 Is slumbering light and dreamily j — for sure 
 Bright dreams may well 
 
 Be thought to visit things so pure and fair. 
 
 Whose deaths no anguish have, whose lives no care. 
 
 Oh ! that I were a flower to slumber so! 
 
 To wake at morn 
 
 E’en with as lithe a spirit; and to die, 
 
 As these return 
 
 Unto their mother-earth, when air and sky 
 
 Have caught their od’rous immortality. 
 
 The fragrance is the spirit of the flower. 
 
 E’en as the soul 
 
 Is our ethereal portion. We can ne’er 
 Hold or control 
 
 One more than other. Passing sweet must be 
 
 The visions, gentle things, that visit ye! 
 
 How happily ye live in the pure light 
 Of loveliness; — 
 
 Do ye not feel how deeply — wondrously — 
 
 Ye cheer and bless 
 
 Our chequered sojourn on this weary earth, 
 
 Whose wildest, dreariest spots to flowers have given birth ? 
 
‘200 
 
 Do ye not joy to know the pure delight 
 With which we gaze 
 
 Upon your glorious forms ?—Are ye not glad 
 E’en in the praise 
 
 Which our enraptured wonder ever tells 
 
 While poring o’er the wealth that in ye dwells;— 
 
 That wealth of thought, of beauty, and of love, 
 Which may be found 
 
 In each small common herb that springs from out 
 The teeming ground ? 
 
 Do ye not feel that ye do deeply bless 
 
 Our harsher souls by your dear loveliness ? 
 
 Oh ! if ’tis given unto ye to know 
 The thrilling power 
 
 Of memories and thoughts that can be read 
 E’en in a flower. 
 
 How ye must all rejoice beneath each look 
 
 Which reads your beauty like an open book! 
 
 We love its silent language: strong, though still, 
 Is that unheard 
 
 But all-pervading harmony: — it breathes 
 No uttered word. 
 
 But floats around us, as, in happy dream. 
 
 We feel the soft sigh of a waveless stream. 
 
201 
 
 And when once listened, it is ne’er forgot, 
 
 But thenceforth forms 
 
 A part and parcel of our being ; for not all 
 Eai’th’s jaiTing storms 
 
 Can scare that gentle music from the heart 
 
 It once hath entered: ne’er doth it depart. 
 
 But dwelleth like a fount within a cave 
 Or forest deep. 
 
 Answering to each light breeze whose gentle wing 
 Doth o’er it sweep. 
 
 And making doubly bright each tender beam 
 
 Of star or sun-light that doth o’er it gleam. 
 
 So, love of nature’s harmony can bless 
 And gladden ever 
 
 The heart and fancy, as pellucid wave 
 Of fount or river 
 
 Flings back more bright what bright doth on it fall. 
 
 And its own radiance lends where else were none at all. 
 
 But I, in wandering rhymes, too long have chased 
 The shadowy things 
 
 Which oft-times flit before fantastic thought 
 On fancy’s wings; 
 
 And though I well love dreamy themes like these. 
 Wend we now nearer to realities. 
 
 I) D 
 
202 
 
 Turn ye, kind reader, a few pages back. 
 
 And deign to gaze 
 
 Upon the portrait-flowers that there ye meet; — 
 One, in such blaze 
 
 Of brilliant beauty and of gorgeous glow. 
 
 That ye ne’er saw an Empress robed so. 
 
 With proud disdain how she uproars her stein. 
 Unbending, tall; 
 
 As if she arrogantly, vainly said — 
 
 “ What are ye all 
 
 Pale, paltry buds, that trail and creep around. 
 
 Scarce rising from the base and sordid ground ? 
 
 See, how the butterflies, with gay-plumed wings 
 On me alight — 
 
 Attracted by my tow’ring, stately stem. 
 
 And colours bright— 
 
 None in mij presence cast a thought on you — 
 
 Their homage paid to me, away they go.” 
 
 So seemed this gaudy flower to discourse 
 Unto the fair. 
 
 Humble, and lowly buds, which all around 
 Disposed were; 
 
 And much her scorn on their mean rank was bent; 
 Which scorn, howe’er, brought them no discontent. 
 
203 
 
 But even wliile I watched these flowers, tlie queen 
 Began to droop, 
 
 Her proud array flagged quickly, her high head 
 Low, low, did stoop. 
 
 And soon the cause of this I could descry; 
 
 The vase, whose waters fed her pride, was dry.* 
 
 And she, deprived of this distinctive wealth. 
 
 No more might rank 
 
 Among the great, or beautiful, or proud. 
 
 But dimly sank. 
 
 In loathsome dusk deformity, beside 
 
 The very things o’er whom her swollen pride 
 
 Had been most arrogant. And when I saw 
 Her swift decay. 
 
 And marked the giddy flies on other flowers 
 As fondly play. 
 
 As they had toyed with her so lately lost, 
 
 Methought how false was all her haughty boast! 
 
 How vain that pride of birth, or wealth, or state. 
 
 Or fleeting power. 
 
 Which blots the vaunted reason of our race. 
 
 To whom this flower 
 
 * The Lobelia fulgens, or Cardinal-flower, here alluded to, requires a constant 
 and plentiful supply of water;—if deprived of it, the long stem bends to the 
 ground, the flowers flag—and, unless soon indulged with its wonted libations, 
 the plant dies. 
 
 n T) 2 
 
204 
 
 May read a wholesome lesson,—Are not they 
 As soon forgot when wealth doth pass away ? 
 
 Do not their flattering pai’asites desert 
 The drooping stem ? — 
 
 How long in soitow will the courtly crowd 
 Hover round them ? 
 
 Are they not all forgotten in the hour 
 Of dark dishonour—like my garish flower? 
 
 Oh ! bid them learn that beauty, riches, state. 
 And noble birth 
 
 Are but choice accidents that do befall 
 A few on earth— 
 
 And bid them less haught and conceited be. 
 Who have drawn prizes in this lottery. 
 
205 
 
 THE LADYE, THE LOVER, AND THE CROCUS. 
 
 A LEGEND OF LOVE. 
 
 The Ladye was fair as Ladye could be. 
 
 And had lands both broad and fine. 
 
 And was wooed by bold Bai'ons of high degree. 
 
 Yet blushed at a suit like mine. 
 
 She lent to them all a ready ear. 
 
 Joined hands with them in the dance; 
 
 And each deemed himself to her most dear. 
 
 While cheered by her sunny glance. 
 
 Her voice was gay, and her stejj was light 
 Mid them, in hall and bower. 
 
 But soon ’neath my gaze she shrunk, as a blight 
 Withers the summer-flowei’. 
 
 And then she shunned me, as the dove. 
 
 When the hawk soars, shuns her fate : 
 
 And I — I deemed not this was Love, 
 
 That looked so much like hate. 
 
206 
 
 I seemed a shadow in her patli, 
 
 A cloud upon her sky, 
 
 I deemed it scorn, perchance e’en wrath. 
 
 In her averted eye. 
 
 ****** 
 
 It was her natal day. A crowd 
 Of cringing nothings came— 
 
 / call them nothings—for they showed 
 Nought noble save a name. 
 
 And flowers were offered — and I brought 
 Mine from the brook’s bright rim, 
 With Autumn’s Crocuses: not wrought 
 Into a garland ti'im. 
 
 But they were wild, and fresh, and sweet. 
 And innocent and fair 
 As she whom others sought to greet 
 With off’rings rich and rare. 
 
 Yet a rose-wreath her brow entwined. 
 
 By daring suitor placed ; 
 
 A gay exotic was enshrined 
 
 Close by her girdled waist. 
 
207 
 
 My humbler offering she took, 
 
 Red, trembling, as in sconi. 
 
 Nor deigned vouchsafe me e’en a look — 
 And ’twas her birth-day morn ! 
 
 Oh! had her angel eye the power 
 To kill, or turn to stone. 
 
 I’d better borne such glance that hour 
 Than that averted one. 
 
 And forth I wandered — and I vowed 
 My fond wild dream was o’er; — 
 
 I would but mingle in the crowd 
 And gaze on her once more. 
 
 'X- x- -x- * * 
 
 It was the evening of that day. 
 
 That day when laughter glad 
 
 Rang out, mid dance tmd mirthful play. 
 From some—while I was sad. 
 
 ’Twas evening, and the crowded hall 
 Mocked the less dazzling day; 
 
 And rainbow-like the hues that all 
 Shone in that festal ray. 
 
208 
 
 And when the minstrel-melody 
 Rang out in cadence loud, 
 
 Then with a heavy heart did I 
 Mingle in that gay crowd: 
 
 For all were then so deep intent 
 Upon their own delight, 
 
 That not one curious glance was bent 
 On me—poor woe-eyed wight ! 
 
 I looked the gay ranks through; but not 
 A sight of her could gain— 
 
 I gazed and gazed—and, lest a spot 
 Escaped, looked through again. 
 
 She was not there — and then the Hall 
 Before so bright, seemed dim ; 
 
 Alas! in Lover’s eye, what change 
 One form doth make to him. 
 
 And on I passed through gay saloons 
 Where guests by three and two 
 Were list’ning to the softened tones 
 O’ the music, and some few, 
 
 Methought, were whispering words which they. 
 No doubt, far sweeter knew. 
 
•209 
 
 And passing by these whisp’rers, I 
 Yet farther might have gone 
 
 But that within an oriel sat 
 A Ladye—only one. 
 
 A wreath of roses lay flung by 
 Her feet, upon the floor, 
 
 And choicer buds, whose smell, I ween. 
 And loveliness were ’er. 
 
 She did not hear my coming stej). 
 
 And I might watch her take 
 
 Flowers from her bosom,—happy they 
 Who such a home might make! 
 
 She took a drooping cluster thence 
 Not rich and rai'e like those 
 
 Which, spurned, were lying at her feet. 
 But such as nature shows, 
 
 And spreads with lavish hand 
 
 O’er bank and moor and field; 
 
 No cultured gai'den’s glittering wealth 
 Those treasured ones did yield. 
 
 Oh, joy! they were the same I gave ! 
 
 I saw her kiss them o’er — 
 
 I saw her place them whence they came. 
 And I was mute no more. 
 
 E E 
 
210 
 
 I told her all my love, and sure 
 Joy made me eloquent. 
 
 For though her blush was deep, her brow 
 No frown upon me bent. 
 
 Little she spoke, but her small hand 
 Was not withdrawn from mine. 
 
 And the bright tear which I might see 
 Under the eyelash shine. 
 
 Told not of sorrow, but deep joy; 
 
 And soon a smile o’erspread 
 tier blushing face, that chased away 
 The tear-drop ere ’twas shed. 
 
 Together joined we that gay throng 
 That happy birth-day eve ; 
 
 Our loneliness had passed away, 
 
 As ye may well believe. 
 
 Such was the story told by one 
 Who well might love to gaze 
 Upon the lowly hud that bore 
 Such dreams of earlier days. 
 
 But ever does that humble flower 
 That gems the aging year. 
 
‘211 
 
 Pale Autumn’s purple Crocus, seem 
 Than other flowers more dear. 
 
 I meet it on the cold bleak hill 
 When sunshine there is none. 
 
 And 'all the Summer darlings have 
 Departed, every one, 
 
 I look upon its outward form 
 So delicate and frail; 
 
 And wonder how so slight a thing 
 May breast the boisterous gale. 
 
 But it is humble; o’er its head 
 The blast that rends the oak 
 
 Passes all harmless, though the flower 
 A fairy’s foot had broke. 
 
 I gaze into its vase-like cup 
 Of amethyst, where low 
 
 A star of deep rich gold doth round 
 Fling a wanii yellow glow. 
 
 Hid from the spendthrift breeze, the flowers 
 Their wealth all meekly keep. 
 
 Till they who know the treasure’s worth 
 The golden harvest reap.* 
 
 * Saffron is made from the yellow anthers of the Autumn Crocus, 
 
 K E 2 
 
212 
 
 Oh! many a glorious flower there gi’ows 
 In far and richer lands : 
 
 But high in my affection e’er 
 The Autumn Crocus stands. 
 
 I love their faces, when, by one 
 
 And two, they’re looking out:— 
 
 I love them, when the spreading field 
 Is purple all about. 
 
 I loved them in the by-gone years 
 
 Of childhood’s thoughtless laughter. 
 
 When I marvelled why the flowers came first. 
 And the leaves the season after. 
 
 I loved them then, I love them now. 
 
 The gentle and the bright; 
 
 I love them for the thoughts they bring 
 Of Spring’s returning light; ' 
 
 When, first-born of the waking earth. 
 
 Their kindred gay appear. 
 
 And, with the Snowdrop, usher in 
 The hope-invested year. 
 
 But they are passing from us now. 
 
 And round each frail white stem 
 
 The purple petals faded droop; 
 
 Winter will chase e’en them. 
 
213 
 
 So farewell to the Crocus, which 
 In amethyst is dight. 
 
 And may we live to welcome hack 
 The yellow and the white! 
 
214 
 
 THE ARBUTUS. 
 
 Some deep empurpled as the hyacine, 
 
 Some, as the rubine laughing sweetly red. 
 
 Some like faire emerauds, not yet well ripened: 
 
 And them emongst were some of burnisht gold, 
 Which did themselves amongst the leaves enfold. 
 
 As lurking from the vew of covetous guest. 
 
 That the weake boughes with so rich load opprest 
 Did bow adowne as overburdened. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 Like faithful Lovers, that full true are seen 
 Though fickle fortune frown, and work them woe. 
 
 So those fair trees still wear their summer-green. 
 
 When Autumn’s breath hath yellowed, and laid low 
 The vesture of the bare and shivering grove. 
 
 Where Winter’s bitter winds might all unhindered rove. 
 
 Why should we grieve, that to the chilly air 
 Of our beloved, yet dim and wintery land 
 The luxuries of other climes deny 
 
 Their stately growth ?—What though we may not roam 
 ’Mid groves where orange-blossoms perfume breathe 
 From the same branch where hangs the golden fruit; 
 Have we not, even ’neath our bleakest sky, 
 
 A tree as beautiful—whom snow, nor frost. 
 
 Nor the loud-chiding, many-voiced wind 
 May e’er afiright or wither?—Know ye not 
 The verdant Arbutus? — which, ever fair 
 The whole four seasons round, is loveliest now. 
 
 When Winter’s scowling brow hath driven all 
 The frailer blossoms from the leaf-strewn earth. 
 

215 
 
 See, like a ladye in a festal garb, 
 
 How gaily decked she waits the Christmas time ! 
 Her robe of living emerald, that waves 
 And, shining, rustles in the frost-bright air. 
 
 Is garlanded with bunches of small flowers,— 
 
 Small bell-shaped flowers, each of an orient pearl 
 Most delicately modelled, and just tinged 
 With faintest yellow, as if, lit within. 
 
 There hung a fairy torch in each lamp-flower. 
 
 Some have a pinky hue, soft as a shell 
 Painted by Amphitrite’s hands ; for they, less white 
 Than Lilies when they ope, blush e’en to know 
 That Summer hath a flower more pure than they. 
 Nor are her pearls the only wealth displayed 
 By this fair Winter Queen; for, all around. 
 
 Among those bead-like wreaths, do gleam and glow 
 Jewels of many hues; globes of rich gold 
 Hanging beside the pale green chrysophrase; 
 
 And those contrasted by the ruby’s light. 
 
 Or coral, snatched from out some sea-maid’s cell; 
 Against which amber soft and palely shines. 
 
 Fast deep’ning to the hue the topaz wears. 
 
 And these, with ceaseless changefulness of shade, 
 Broider that Ladye’s pearl-enwi'eathed robe 
 Of vernal emerald.—When chilling stonns 
 Howl dismally around, and Winter shakes. 
 
 Wide spreading to the blast, his hoary locks. 
 
 Till they array the frozen earth in snow. 
 
216 
 
 E’en then her beauty wanes not—for she wears 
 The white and glittering vesture like a veil 
 Over her festal robe, and when the breeze 
 Ruffles the silv’ry folds, coquettish peeps. 
 
 Smiling and blushing, from her cold, chaste screen. 
 

 
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217 
 
 A NOVEMBER STROLL. 
 
 ’Twas ill late Autumn, that I rambled lone 
 Along a country path — nay, ’twas a road — 
 
 A common tumjiike road; — that thing so far 
 From landscape loveliness, as Poets deem ; 
 
 Yet I could find that myriad beauties lay 
 E ’en in that beaten track: — beauties to me, 
 
 Though hundreds daily passed along, to whom 
 The things I gloried in were all miknown. 
 
 Unseen—unloved; and, doubtless, I must seem 
 A strange, odd, uncouth being unto them — 
 
 Because I sought delightful lore in books 
 
 Whose language they knew not; while foreign tongues. 
 
 And fashion’s erudition, they would strive. 
 
 Ambitious, to acquire. Had they e’er read 
 One page of Nature, with the love devout 
 Which some are blessed withal, they would not think 
 That mind distraught, which could delight itself 
 In contemplation of the smallest weed. 
 
 Pebble — leaf—insect—which the lap of earth 
 Holds in exhaustless wealth. Envy they might 
 In their small spirits suffer to arise. 
 
 Could they conceive the pleasures, high, refined. 
 
 F !'■ 
 
218 
 
 Derivable from things so plenteous, — 
 
 Pleasures not bought with gold—nor giving toil 
 Nor pain to living creature. 
 
 Oh! that all 
 
 Partook the feelings which companioned me 
 That bright Autumnal morning! The clear sky 
 Was blue unbroken, save by one or two 
 Small downy clouds of silvery white, that served 
 (In artist-phrase) to tell the azure’s depth. 
 
 And sailed along so silently and soft. 
 
 That I did long to be a cloud myself, 
 
 Soaring beside them:—and the Sun’s warm rays 
 Fell kindly on the eai'th, whose fading garb. 
 
 Though torn by recent storms that had nigh stripped 
 The woodlands of their leavy wealth, looked gay. 
 
 I wandered on — along the beaten path. 
 
 Musing most happily; — and often paused 
 Beside the ragged hedgerow, picking out 
 From the rough tangled mass, despite the thorns 
 (Which, sooth,to say, defended their charge well). 
 Bunches of wild red berries, faded leaves,— 
 
 And straggling nettle-tops. Sometimes a stick. 
 
 O’er which the pale-green Lichen manthng, wi'ought 
 A forest-scene in miniature. Now, a long. 
 Far-creeping, many-angled stalk of that fair plant. 
 Fair-seeming, yet oft treach’rous, woody nightshade: — 
 
219 
 
 The few keen frosts had nipped its verdant leaves, 
 And most of them had fallen; some remained. 
 
 But they were yellow, and the footstalks small 
 So brittle, that they dropped off at a touch; 
 
 But the bright luscious-looking berries hung 
 In bunches of rich crimson, juicy, ripe. 
 
 And tempting e’en to those who know their bale, 
 Much more to childish lips!—yet those might find 
 A better treat upon a neighb’ring spray. 
 
 That long, arched, prickly streamer, which bent o’er, 
 Down fi’om the hedge’s top, its garland rough. 
 Bearing the loved Black-berries — : though these now 
 Were “few and far between,” and tasteless, too: 
 
 Yet fi’ost, which steals the sweetness from the fruit. 
 Gives to the leaf sti’ange beauty—tinting it 
 With every various hue, from healthy green 
 To sickliest yellow—and from that again 
 Through every soft and brilliant shade that ’longs 
 To flaming scarlet—richer crimson — brown, 
 
 In all its myriad grades—purple—and that 
 Dappled again with black. Oh I I have culled 
 An hundred of these painted leaves, and gazed. 
 
 And, wondering, looked again upon them all. 
 
 Yet ne’er found one whose form of shade or hue. 
 Resembled any other—all unlike; 
 
 And then the mider surfaces of each 
 
 Are white, and smooth, and downy, as if wind. 
 
 And frost, and rain, did never come to them. 
 
 V F 2 
 
All o’er the hedge — as if some wealthy nymph 
 From Neptune’s ocean-palace had flung forth 
 A shower of coral—gleam the polished hyps, 
 
 In many a smiling cluster, and we read 
 An ever-welcome message in their smile; — 
 
 It tells us that where they on naked stems. 
 Leafless and winter-worn, do greet us now. 
 
 Summer again will spread her lavish bloom. 
 
 And, ’neath the blue sky, bid the roses blush. 
 
 Near these, in dark, rich crimson all yclad. 
 With a soft, velvet bloom upon their cheek. 
 
 The Hawthorn’s winter progeny are seen. 
 
 In groups of fruit, which, flavourless to us. 
 
 Is a kind harvest to the hungiy birds. 
 
 And small field mice, who other sustenance 
 In wintry weather may full seldom find. 
 
 So, every thing in Nature hath some end 
 Of good and useful to achieve—though we 
 In our small knowledge of her mystic laws 
 Discern not clearly her appointed path. 
 
 Half hid in grass and its own broad bright leaves, 
 A Summer-flower is lingering e’en yet 
 Upon the moist hedge-bank—and timidly, 
 
 As if it marvelled at its own brave act. 
 
 Looks out from its close bower; a prized gem. 
 Now that its gayer rivals all are gone; 
 
 And lovingly we greet the Mallow-flower, 
 
 With its striped purple garb and humble mien. 
 
221 
 
 All these were haj^py meetings unto me — 
 
 The leaves, weeds, berries with their lively tints. 
 
 Pale flowers, and pleasant musings. But ere long 
 A dearer and more joyous form than all 
 Came hojjping friskily about. ’Twas he. 
 
 The wintry warbler — poor Robin Red-breast, 
 
 As blithe and brisk, and merry as his wont. 
 
 Singing and chin’uping, as by my side 
 In kind companionship he skipped along. 
 
 Or flew from tree to tree. And as he sung, 
 
 Methought his gay notes shaped themselves to sense — 
 Language like ours; and thus my fancy framed. 
 
 From his sweet music, immelodious words. 
 
 Farewell to Autumn! She’s passing away. 
 
 Silently, swiftly going— 
 
 She is shaking the last brown leaves from the spray. 
 And they fall on the earth, where the Sun’s slant ray 
 Finds only damp moss growing. 
 
 Autumn is parting; mute and fast 
 
 Her few faint flowers are dying; 
 
 The noon of the year is gone and past. 
 
 And every moaning and muttering blast 
 The Summer’s dirge is crying. 
 
222 
 
 But let us be merry—though Summer is gone. 
 And Autumn away is gliding; 
 
 And hoary Winter, now hunying on, 
 
 With storms and snows, will be here anon, 
 
 ’Mid winds all loudly chiding. 
 
 Still, ever be meny, as I am now. 
 
 Thorough the wintry weather; 
 
 For ye have the bright hearth’s cheering glow. 
 While for me the ruddy hedge-ben'ies grow. 
 
 So let us be gay together! 
 
 Oh! ever be meny !—what do ye gain 
 
 By murmuring, fretting, sighing? — 
 Why ever strive to discover pain ? 
 
 Why court the things of which ye complain P 
 Why on life’s dark side be prying P 
 
 Cease — cease, and be merry; — Oh come to me. 
 E’en a bird shall teach ye reason — 
 Shall show ye how gaily and happily 
 Poor Robin can sing in a leafless tree. 
 
 And love e’en the dreariest season. 
 
 Then ever be meny — a lesson take now, 
 
 That well ye may aye remember; 
 
 A contented heart and a cloudless brow 
 Can light life’s shadowy path with a glow. 
 
 Like sunshine in dim November. 
 
2*23 
 
 AUTUMN SCENES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 To the mind accustomed to contemplate and enjoy Nature, 
 every season is so full of beauty, that in describing or alluding 
 to them successiv'ely, we unconsciously give to each a seeming 
 preference. 
 
 “ The flowering Spring, the Summer’s ardent strength. 
 And sober Autumn, fading into age,” 
 
 each in its turn calls forth our loving praise. To Spring 
 and Summer we have already paid all the brief tribute which 
 the limits of these pages allow :—and brown Autumn must 
 now succeed her more brilliant, but not more beautiful sisters. 
 
 Thomson’s opening lines in this season are too finely 
 descriptive to be forgotten here : — 
 
 Crown’d with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf. 
 While Autumn, nodding o’er the yellow plain, 
 Comes jovial on, the Doric reed once more. 
 
 Well pleased, I tune. Whate’er the Wintery frost 
 Nitrous prepared; the various-blossomed Spring 
 Put in white promise forth; and Summer suns 
 Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view. 
 Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme — 
 
 4 
 
•224 
 
 From Heav’n’s high cope tlie fierce effulgence shook 
 Of parting Summer, a serener blue, 
 
 With golden light enliven’d, wide invests 
 The happy w^orld. Attemper’d suns arise. 
 
 Sweet-beamed, and shedding oft through lucid clouds 
 A pleasing calm; while broad and browm below. 
 
 Extensive harvests hang the heavy head. 
 
 Rich, silent, deep they stand, for not a gale 
 Rolls its light billows o’er the bending plain: 
 
 A calm of plenty! till the ruffled air 
 
 Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow. 
 
 Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky; 
 
 The clouds fly different; and the sudden Sun, 
 
 By fits effulgent, gilds th’ illumined field. 
 
 And black by fits the shadows sweep along. 
 
 A gaily-chequer’d, heart-expanding view. 
 
 Far as the circling eye can shoot around 
 Unbounding tossing in a flood of corn. 
 
 Autumn in England is a joyous and a glorious season, 
 the time when nature’s wealth of field and tree is most 
 lavishly displayed, and gathered with thankful merriment. 
 How richly, glowingly beautiful are corn-fields now! — with 
 their troops of reapers, gleaners, and country maidens — 
 heavily-laden waggons, sleek, sturdy horses, and gambolling 
 children. 
 
 Herrick’s “ Hock-cart, or Harvest-home,” well describes 
 such scenes, though he seems to allude to ceremonies not 
 now in use at that festive time — 
 
 Come, sons of Summer, by whose toile 
 We are the lords of wine and oile; 
 
 By whose tough labours and rough hands. 
 
 We rip up first, then reap our lands. 
 
‘ 2-25 
 
 Crown’d with the ears of corn, now come, 
 
 And, to the pipe, sing Harvest-home. 
 
 Come forth, my lord, and see the cart 
 Drest up with all the country art. 
 
 See here a maukin, there a sheet. 
 
 As spotlesse pure as it is sweete ; 
 
 The horses, mares, and frisking fillies. 
 
 Clad all in linen white as lilies. 
 
 The harvest swains and wenches bound 
 For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown’d. 
 
 About the cart heare how the rout 
 Of rural younglings raise the shout. 
 
 Pressing before, some coming after. 
 
 Those with a shout, and these with laughter. 
 
 Some blesse the cart, some kisse the sheaves. 
 
 Some pranke them up with oaken leaves: 
 
 Some cross the fill horse, some with great 
 Devotion stroak the home-borne wheat. 
 
 The younger portion of the Harvest-throng find abundant 
 employment in searching the hedges for the favourite and 
 refreshing fruit of the Blackberry — and we see them standing- 
 in groups in lanes and fields, with their plump, rosy faces 
 dyed, in no very becoming style it is true, with the dark 
 purjde juice • while many a wofid rent in frock and pinafore 
 tells of their exploits among the tangled and prickly briars. 
 In the woods, too, both blackbeny-gathering and nutting 
 may now be enjoyed to perfection; and in autumn’s Forest 
 scenery the Poet and Painter find her greatest glory. Every 
 tree, aye, almost every leaf has a different tint, and the dis¬ 
 tant woody landscape is touched with every hue of the 
 painter s palette, laid on by the delicate and harmonious 
 finger of Natm-e. Few spots can display this magnificent 
 
 G G 
 
‘226 
 
 effect so perfectly, as the scenery on the Wye. The lofty 
 hills which rise on either side of the river’s bed, some gra¬ 
 dually swelling upwards and others abruptly lifting their 
 craggy summits towards the sky are clothed with rich hang¬ 
 ing woods, composed of all varieties of trees ; and which, from 
 the different forms of the ground catching the sunlight and 
 shadow in every shade and position, offer an unceasing and 
 ever beautiful change of effect; heightened materially by the 
 yew and fir trees, which are irregularly distributed through 
 the woods, and with their steady sombre hues enhance the 
 brilliant beauty of the rest. Beneath, the water reflects the 
 magical scene, and high above the wooded hanks, rise 
 distant mountains, mingling their proud cloud-capped heads 
 with the sky; iir such scenes Autumn is truly glorious. 
 
 All evergreens are now strikingly beautiful by contrast; 
 for while most of the leavy trees, such as the Oak, Elm, 
 Beech, Sycamore, Chestnut, &c., are decked out in red, 
 yellow, purple, and orange, the majestic Cedar looks grandly 
 around,—the stoic of the forest—disdaining to suffer the 
 Summer’s drought or the Autumn breeze to scatter his dark 
 attire, or even discompose his stately demeanour. 
 
 The Fir waves his blackening crest against the sunset 
 clouds, as if conscious how greatly he adds to the pictorial 
 beauty of the landscape; and, indeed, few trees can do so 
 much towards making a picture. Its tall trank, springing 
 so high without foliage, hides none of the earthward view, 
 while the deep mass of its shadowy crest often “ comes in” 
 most happily to break the uniformity of the .sky-tint. The 
 
227 
 
 Yew’s sombre, darksome branches seem always to have been 
 deemed emblematical of death and mourning. Heii’ick thus 
 plaintively addresses the Yew and Cypresse. 
 
 Both you two have 
 Relation to the grave; 
 
 And where 
 
 The fun’rale trump sounds, you are there. 
 
 I shall be made 
 Ere long a fleeting shade; 
 
 Pray come 
 
 And doe some honour to my tomb. 
 
 Do not deny 
 My last request, for I 
 Will be 
 
 Thankful to you, or friends for me. 
 
 With far gladder feelings and memories do we meet the 
 Holly’s glossy and shining leaves; they tell us of Christmas 
 merry-makings and kindly greetings; and though too many 
 of the gleesome old customs have passed away, yet Christmas 
 is still a festive season. The Laurel, too, is both an Autumn 
 friend and a Christmas guest. We will quote Henick again ; 
 he wished a Laurel-tree to grow upon his grave. 
 
 A funerale stone 
 Or verse I covet none; 
 
 But only crave 
 Of you that I may have 
 A sacred laurel springing from my grave; 
 
 G G 2 
 
•228 
 
 Which being seen 
 Blest with perpetual greene, 
 
 May grow to be 
 Not so much call’d a tree, 
 
 As the eternal monument of me. 
 
 The Ivy, the last flowering plant of the waning year, 
 now puts forth its plentiful clusters of pale blossoms, the 
 ben’ies of which become ripe the ensuing Spring. 
 
 The Ivy, that staunchest and firmest friend. 
 
 That hastens its succouring arm to lend 
 To the ruined fane, where in youth it sprung 
 And its pliant tendrils in sport were flung. 
 
 When the sinking buttress and mouldering tower 
 Seem only the spectres of former power. 
 
 Then the Ivy clusters around the wall. 
 
 And for tapestry hangs in the moss-grown haU, 
 Striving in beauty and youth to dress 
 The desolate place in its loneliness; — 
 
 In all seasons the Ivy is green and bright. 
 
 Bring garlands of Ivy for Christmas night! 
 
 Mosses, Lichens, and the strange, fantastic Fungi, are now 
 in full perfection, and in forests may be studied in all their 
 wonderful varieties of form, size, and colour. But we must 
 now turn to our more especial subjects—Flowers—and going 
 back to the corn-field, we see myriads of bright scarlet Pop¬ 
 pies, Blue-bottles, and other lovely wild flowers fall beneath 
 
229 
 
 the keen glittering sickle. Foxgloves, Ferns, Thistles, and the 
 delicate Harebells adorn bank, lane, moorland, and forest, 
 filling the covetous, grasping hands of little wanderers with 
 magnificent nosegays, among which may sometimes be de¬ 
 tected the luscious sweetness and pallid tint of a lingering 
 Honeysuckle. 
 
 On the glorious hills of our Mountain-land, Wales, I have 
 gathered myriads of minute and exquisite Autumn flowers, 
 among which the sweet wild Thyme is eminently beautiful. 
 How often have I exclaimed in the language of Shakspeare— 
 “ I know a bank whereon the wild Thyme grows,” where 
 it covers the dark rock with large soft beds of its delicious 
 purple clusters, “ lulled in whose bowers” the Fairy Queen 
 nright well repose, while its aromatic perfume would greet 
 her with delicate incense. 
 
 In the garden we have many gay and popular favourites. 
 The giant Sunflower, so contradictorily alluded to by Poets, 
 sometimes as a parasite, sometimes as a constant lover, turns 
 to the deity-king of heaven its yellow ray-like petals and 
 broad brown disk, where the busy bees are ever creeping 
 about and humming, as they draw the sweets fi-om its 
 multitude of florets. The splendid and infinitely various 
 Dahlia raises its luxuriant form, crowned with modelled 
 flowers of every imaginable shade of colour. The double 
 Dahlias have, in my opinion, too entirely superseded their 
 single ancestors, whose deep-gold, powdery centres were so 
 very beautiful, I cannot partake the great admiration 
 bestowed by fancy-florists upon all double monstrosities. 
 
230 
 
 Double flowers are showy, and all very well as varieties; 
 but when the original is single, it should never be so entirely 
 lost sight of, as is now generally the case. I always marvel 
 how any one can prefer seeing the cup-like corolla of the 
 Snowdrop or Dafibdil, crammed with a multitude of petals 
 crushed and squeezed out of all form and beauty, with the 
 central ai'rangement of the flower, the stamens, anther, &c., 
 wholly hidden from sight.* 
 
 The elegant, veined flowers of the Hibiscus ai-e among 
 our Autumn darlings; and the China-asters look cheerfully 
 out from their many-leaved calyces. The Sweet Peas still 
 adorn the trellis with their winged blossoms, and the gay 
 Golden-rod bears aloft its rich yellow crown. The pink and 
 lilac Michaelmas Daisies, though favourite guests, are sad 
 ones, fr'om the presage they bring of the departure of all 
 their fair companion-flowers. But a mere enumeration of 
 these garden inmates has little interest — we will proceed to 
 look more closely at the subject of the Autumn illustrations. 
 
 “ The year growing ancient — 
 
 Nor yet on Summer’s death, nor on the birth 
 Of trembling Winter, the fairest flowers o’ the season 
 Are our Carnations.’’— 
 
 So says our Shakspeare’s lovely Perdita, when, “ playing 
 as she had seen them do in Whitsun pastorals,” she dis¬ 
 tributes her token flowers to Polixenes and Camillo: and 
 
 • Since -writing the above, I have heard of a double Pansy!—Are these refined 
 barbarians, the “ fashionable” florists, to have no bounds set to their enormities ? 
 
‘231 
 
 in truth, for fragi'auce and beauty, too, the Carnation is 
 the first for fame among our Autumn flowers, and well 
 merits the proud name bestowed on it by Linnaeus, of 
 Dianthus, or flower of Jove. All the varieties of the richly- 
 perfumed Clove Carnation, are derived from our native Clove 
 Pink (Dianthus caryophillus), sometimes found growing luxu¬ 
 riantly on ruins, and adding its spicy breath to the luscious 
 sweetness of the Wall-flower. Two of these wild Pinks are 
 introduced on the right of the large Carnation in the illus¬ 
 trative group. The smaller ones on the left are the Chinese 
 Pinks (Dianthus Chinensis). 
 
 Spenser and Ben Jonson generally mention the Cai-nations 
 by the fanciful name, popular in their day, of " Sops in 
 wane,” it being customaiy to put the flowers into wine by 
 way of improving its flavour by their sjjicy properties. In 
 Colin’s song, in Spenser’s “ Shepheard’s Calendar,” they are 
 thus grouped among a variety of other flowers — 
 
 Bring hether the pinke aud purple cullambine 
 With gelliflowers j 
 
 Bring Coronations and Sops in wine, 
 
 Worn of Paramoures ; 
 
 Strowe me the grounds with daffadowndillies, 
 
 And cowslips, and kingcups, and loved lillies: 
 
 The pretie pannce 
 And the chivisaunce 
 Shall match with the fayre flowerdelice. 
 
 Herrick addresses “to Carnations” a pretty little song, 
 which is as full of tune, as if every w’ord were a note of 
 music ; it is an air of itself. 
 
232 
 
 Stay while ye will, or goe. 
 
 And leave no scent behind ye ; 
 
 Yet trust me, I shall know 
 
 The place where I may find ye. 
 
 Within my Lucia’s cheeke. 
 
 Whose livery ye weare. 
 
 Play ye at hide or seeke. 
 
 I’m sure to find ye there. 
 
 In another coinplimentaiy poem the same Bard thus intro¬ 
 duces the Clove Pink — 
 
 So smell those odours that do rise 
 From out the wealthy spiceries ; 
 
 So smells the flower of blooming Clove 
 Or roses smother’d in the stove; 
 
 So smells the air of spiced wine 
 Or essences of Jessamine. 
 
 In the following dialogue poem, by the same writer, are 
 so many sweet thoughts, I shall quote it entire — 
 
 Among the mirtles as I walk’t. 
 
 Love and my sighs thus intertalk’t; 
 
 Tell me, said I, in deep distresse. 
 
 Where I may find my Shepheardesse. 
 
 Thou foole, said Love, know’st thou not this ? 
 
 In every thing that’s sweet she is. 
 
 In yond’ Carnation goe and seek. 
 
 There thou shalt find her lip and cheeke; 
 
 In that ennamell’d pansie by. 
 
 There thou shalt have her curious eye; 
 
 In bloom of peech, and rose’s bud. 
 
 There waves the streamer of her blood. 
 
 ’Tis true, said I, and thereupon 
 I went to pluck them one by one. 
 
233 
 
 To make of parts an union, 
 
 But on a sudden all were gone, 
 
 At which I stopt; said Love, these be 
 The true resemblances of thee; 
 
 For as these flowers, thy joyes must die. 
 
 And in the turning of an eye; 
 
 And all thy hopes of her must wither 
 Like those short sweets ere knit together. 
 
 Though so similar in nature and appearance, yet Pinks 
 and Carnations are expressive of very opposite sentiments in 
 floral language. A Pink, presented by a gentleman to a 
 lady, is an offer of marriage:—a Carnation, given by a lady 
 to a gentleman, signifies her refusal of his addresses. On 
 this very important point rest the chief events of the illus¬ 
 trative romance which accompanies the plate. 
 
 The simple, delicate, and fragile Harebell (Camfamda 
 rotundifolia) is a very common way-side flower, as well as 
 a constant guest in the more lonely scenery of the momitain 
 and moorland. It does not shun even the dusty turnpike 
 roads, but suflers its excpiisitely formed bells of twilight blue 
 to gleam out, and tremble and wave over the oft-trodden 
 ])ath as gTaccfully as in the still solitude of the heathery 
 moor. The extreme thinness of the stems, and their buoyant 
 elasticity, give a bounding, dancing effect to the flowers 
 when stirred by the lightest breeze; and they do, indeed, 
 seem “ to a fanciful ” eye, to be ringing out a merry peal 
 of fairy-like music : — 
 
 Have ye ever heard, in the twilight dim, 
 
 A low soft strain, 
 
 H H 
 
234 
 
 That ye fancied a distant vesper hymn. 
 
 Borne o’er the plain 
 
 By the Zephyrs that rise on perfumed wing 
 
 When the sun’s last glances are glimmering ? 
 
 Have ye heard that music with cadence sweet. 
 
 And merry peal. 
 
 Ring out like the echoes of fairy-feet 
 O’er flowers that steal ? 
 
 And did ye deem that each trembling tone 
 
 Was the distant vesper-chime alone ? 
 
 The source of that whispering strain I’ll tell. 
 
 For I’ve listened oft 
 
 To the music faint of the Blue Harebell, 
 
 In the gloaming soft. 
 
 ’Tis the gay faiiy-folk that peal who ring 
 
 At even-time for their hanquetting. 
 
 And gaily the trembling hells peal out 
 With gentle tongue. 
 
 While elves and fairies cai'eer about 
 ’Mid dance and song. 
 
 Oh! roses and lilies are fair to see. 
 
 But the wild Blue Bell is the flower for me! 
 
 None of our garden Campanulas approach this habitant of 
 the heaths in delicacy and beauty. The small white Cam¬ 
 panula is an elegant little gem, but its dwarfish growth renders 
 
235 
 
 it very inferior to the sjn'ingy—pliant—waving and ever 
 graceful wild Harebell. And wild flowers are so much dearer 
 than cultivated ones,—at least I find them so—having been 
 ever fonder of seeking chance beauties in the field, lane, and 
 woodland, than of contemplating the gayer tribes of the 
 garden. It is such a delightful surprise to discover one of 
 one’s darhng wild flowers in a spot and season when we 
 dreamed not of meeting it; it is an unlooked-for boon of 
 nature: hut in gardens we expect to find abundance of fair 
 things,—and very rai'ely does the disposal of the flowers, or 
 the general an’angement, please my fancy; though a wild 
 hedge-bank, or a heathy moor, leave me nothing to wish for. 
 
 Where is the Garden-guest that may outshine the stately, 
 tall, magnificent Foxglove ? This is as remarkable for its 
 majestic, lofty demeanour, as the light, lithe Harebell for 
 its modest playfulness. The tall spiral stem, springing up 
 from the gi’oup of broad leaves, and thickly hung with the 
 beautiful purple blossoms, gradually lessening in size from 
 the large open bells on the lower portion of the stalk, to 
 the little buds on the summit, still wrapped up in their 
 close gi’een calices, is an object so strikingly beautiful, 
 that I should think any person who had once given it an 
 attentive observance must inevitably be a lover of flowers to 
 the end of his days. I know many of my readers will say 
 I am an enthusiast in my affection for them; but I ought 
 to add that my enthusiasm is the result of love and admi¬ 
 ration, little aided by scientific knowledge as yet; though 
 I gladly anticii)ate the time when a better acquaintance with 
 
 H H 2 
 
236 
 
 the fascinating study of Botany will unfold to me many myriad 
 beauties now unobserved, even in the fair fonns of my most 
 familiar favourites. The extreme beauty of each bell of the 
 Foxglove will well repay a minute examination: even a 
 cursory glance tells us how gracefully swelling is its outline, 
 and how rich its colour; but look within, where the vari¬ 
 ously-shaped markings of deep marone, like the spots on 
 a leopard’s skin, ai'e edged with a lighter bordering than 
 the ground-colour of the corolla, showing the pattern more 
 distinctly. Then, attached to the upper side of the bells, 
 and so hidden from us, as they hang round the stem and 
 look modestly down, are the long white filaments, with 
 their fine yellow anthers, so placed as to be in no danger of 
 receiving injury from rain, to avoid which many flowers are 
 endowed with the power of closing the corolla, such as the 
 Daisy, Pimpernel, Maiygold, &c., and thereby preserving 
 their various minute organs of fructification unhurt; but the 
 arrangement of the Foxglove’s stamens renders this beautiful 
 precaution needless; they lie safely nestling beneath their 
 rich piu’ple dome-like canopy, curtained from wind and stonn. 
 There is something very curious, too, in the manner the 
 mouths of the Foxglove bells are pursed up before expand¬ 
 ing;— they look as if compelled to keep a secret against 
 their own inclination, and ready to burst to divulge it; yet, 
 full of swelling importance and sedate wisdom, merely nod 
 their clever heads, with a look of “I could an’ I would;” 
 and then some sun-shiny day, the lips that have been 
 gTowing brighter and brighter, and pouting with yet more 
 
237 
 
 consequential expression, are unsealed, and the bells gossip 
 of their honey secrets to every wandering wind. 
 
 “ The green and gi’aceful Fern ” I have grouped with the 
 Foxglove in the illustrative plate; for where we meet one^ 
 we generally find the other. Foxgloves and Fern have so 
 constantly been associated in my Autumn garlands, that I 
 never think of dissolving their partnership of beanty: indeed, 
 both would suffer by separation. Dearly as I have, from 
 childhood, loved the Fern, yet now it is yet more welcome; 
 for it always recalls to my mind’s eye a magnificent scene, 
 to which it added peculiar beauty. 
 
 In the neighbourhood of a friend’s house at which I was 
 visiting, in Bedfordshire, was (and I hope still is) a grand 
 oak wood. The trees, of unusual height in England, were 
 remarkably erect and pillar-like, as if gi'own “ to be the 
 masts of some great ammirals.” They sprung into the air, 
 seeming to support the very clouds; and with their dense 
 mass of foliage spread like a roof above, and stately ti'unks, 
 like columns standing round, with here and there a distant 
 avenue offering a peep of sunlit meadow scenery, the place 
 might well appear a glorious temple framed by Natures 
 hand. Beneath waved an ocean of Fern, so high, that when 
 walking on the ground we had a verdant wall, or rather 
 arcade, on each side, reaching far above the head of an 
 ordinary-sized person. But in some places ttees had recently 
 been felled, and by climbing upon their prostrate trunks and 
 branches, and looking over the Fern, we gained a scene of 
 
238 
 
 surpassing beauty. The wind, rustling in the lofty trees 
 above, seemed to glide lightly over the fan-leaves of the 
 Fern, among which the deer were sportively bounding about, 
 tossing their antlered heads, and chasing each other through 
 the wavy sea of verdure. Squirrels were scampering about 
 the trees, whisking their bushy tails, and playing a thousand 
 merry antics; while the more timid rabbits jjeeped from 
 their burrows among the Fern roots, with their long sleek 
 ears attentively bent to catch the least suspicious sound, which 
 would send them springing home again. Nor were birds want¬ 
 ing to complete the picture; the “ deep mellow crush of the 
 wood-pigeon’s note” was heard in the trees, besides other 
 more shrill voices. Altogether, the spot, season, and inci¬ 
 dents were so beautiful, that I should cherish the Fern, were 
 it only for its bringing me the memory of feelings so deli¬ 
 cious as those I then enjoyed. 
 
 Before the curious fructification of the Fern was under¬ 
 stood, many superstitious fancies were afloat respecting it; 
 one of which was, that the possession of Feni seed, gathered 
 under jjeculiar circumstances of time, place, incantation, &c., 
 rendered the wearer invisible— 
 
 “ We have the receipt of fern-seed—we walk invisible.” 
 
 A kind of divination, too, is wrought by its means, for 
 the same purpose as that served by the Hallow-e’en mysteries, 
 and by so many other experiments of credulous minds, 
 namely, the all-important one of ascertaining the inquirer’s 
 destiny in love inatters. 
 
239 
 
 The Fern I have drawn, and hitherto alluded to, is a very 
 common kind; but many of our native Ferns are very 
 diminutive, rare, and flourish only in peculiar situations. 
 The singular one called Maiden-hair, may often be found 
 on ruins; and old stone walls are frequently very productive 
 of other small kinds. The curiously coiled up ball in which 
 the Fern first springs from the ground, and its gi'adual 
 gi’owth and expansion, are among some of Nature’s most 
 interesting phenomena. I well remember the exti’eme de¬ 
 light with which I first examined one of the rough brown 
 knobs, when told that it contained the gi'aceful leaves of the 
 j)lant I loved so much. 
 
 The “ little darling” Mignonette is too familiar and dear 
 a friend to need a formal introduction to any company in 
 which we may chance to find her. Her homes are as 
 various as ours who cherish her. From the royal garden, 
 the stately terrace, or the boudoir-balcony, to the small 
 flower-bed of the cottager,—and the naiTOw, dark, patched 
 window of the poor town artisan, where an old broken jar, 
 or rough box holds the petted plant,—we find Mignonette 
 an unfailing guest. And right worthy is her modest form 
 and exquisite fiagi'ance of such universal love. 
 
 Shelley alludes to it in these few sweet lines “To E. V.”— 
 
 Madonna, wherefore hast thou sent to me 
 Sweet basil and mignonette; 
 
 Embleming Love and Health, which never yet 
 
 In the same w'reath might be. 
 
 Alas, and they are wet! 
 
 Is it witli thy kisses or thy tears ? 
 
240 
 
 For never rain or dew 
 Such fragrance drew 
 
 From plant or flower — the very doubt endears 
 My sadness ever new. 
 
 The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed for thee. 
 
 Mignonette owes nothing of its fame to outward show or 
 splendour of attire, few flowers being robed more soberly : 
 but the uncloying sweetness of its perfume, and its abundant 
 growth, render it one of our best garden treasures. It should 
 be the emblem of those whose beauty and excellence are 
 found in the mind instead of the face. 
 
 External loveliness may well be imaged by the gay and 
 brilliant flowers with which the modest Mignonette is 
 grouped in the illustration. The Major Convolvulus is one 
 of the most elegant of om- common annuals ; but it is devoid 
 of fragrance, and is of very short duration. A summer’s day 
 finds it withered ere noon; and each morning decks it with 
 new blossoms, to bask a few brief hours in the sunshine, 
 then shrivel, fall, and pass away. But it would ill become 
 me to disparage the beauty of this fair and favomite flower; 
 the great profusion and luxm-iance of its blossoms amply 
 compensating for their short-lived beauty; and when many 
 stems are intertwined, the variety of colom' is extremely 
 gay and ornamental. 
 
 My own fond love for Wild Flowers is by this time so 
 well known by my readers, that they will not marvel when 
 I mention the common White Bind-weed as being, in my 
 estimation, the most beautiful of all the Convolvuli. It is 
 so very graceful—so lavish of both bloom and foliage so 
 
241 
 
 elegant, yet so wild and free. Frequently its fine large 
 leaves hang in a curtain or drapery of verdure over the 
 ragged hedgerow, or spring in festoons from tree to tree, 
 with myriads of the purely white tent-shaped bells lying on 
 the foliage in wreaths of the most graceful and fanciful 
 forms. The leaves are far more beautiful m shape than the 
 cultivated ones, being aiTovvy instead of round; and the 
 calyx is also more ornamental. Like most wild flowers, when 
 gathered, they quickly fade, though when immediately ])laced 
 in water, I have had yards of the chaplet tendrils last 
 several days in great freshness and beauty. 
 
 Most persons hav^e some sort of acquaintance with Ihe 
 Thistle family, and divers are the feelings with which its 
 members are regarded. When seized by fair cullers of wild 
 buds, albeit with well gloved hands, the sturdy mountaineer 
 generally leaves a few sharp spines behind him, to remind 
 the assailing fingers he may not be attacked with impunity; 
 and this veiy natural self-defence gains him the character of 
 a rough pugnacious personage, not fit for gentle company. 
 The agriculturist considers him as an intrusive “ne’er do 
 weel,” whose acquaintance he is especially desirous to cut 
 altogether. The Naturalist and the Poet—and the terms 
 oiight to be synonymous, for the true source of all their 
 inspiration is the same—spend many an hour in examining 
 the curious and beautiful arrangement of the seeds, and their 
 gradually developed wings of delicate downy filaments, which, 
 when ri])e and expanded, fly away with the tiny genus of the 
 
 I I 
 
24‘2 
 
 young plants to an almost incredible distance. These seeds 
 are very beautiful, too, as well as curious. Floating about in 
 the air, and so light as to be seen scudding along before a 
 breeze so soft that you can scarcely feel it upon your 
 cheek, they form one of the great beauties of Autumn. 
 Who has not in childhood chased the hairy Thistle-down ? 
 for it furnishes much better sport than a feather, from its 
 extreme lightness; and being spread out in a globular form, 
 rolls along like a fairy-wheel upon the air. Were I to build 
 a chariot for Queen Mab, I would certainly employ the 
 Thistle-down for wheels. 
 
 As an emblem-flower of bonny Scotland, too, the Thistle 
 has acquired no small degi-ee of notoriety. And over many a 
 kindly missive of gentle and loving words do seals keep 
 guard, bearing the impression of a Thistle, and the posy, 
 
 Dinna Forget.” For my own part, I think a finely 
 grown tall Thistle-plant, with its chevaux-de-frise’d leaves, 
 and bright purple flowers, swelling out from the bristling 
 calyx, like a full petticoat from under a green boddice, a 
 very handsome and ornamental addition either in field or 
 garden (I am no farmer ); and the evident relish with 
 which I have seen poor hedge-feeding donkies crunching its 
 rough stalks and leaves, is to me a very conclusive argument 
 in favour of the persecuted Thistle-tribe; which seems to 
 occupy a similar position in the race of flowers to that held 
 by the Gypsies in our own. 
 
 The illustrative drawing represents the Holy Thistle 
 (Carduus Benediclus), which is more remarkable for the 
 
243 
 
 beauty of its variegated leaf, than its blossom. In Shakspeare’s 
 " Much Ado about Nothing,” the following mention is 
 made of the plant, by way of quizzery to Beatrice, on her 
 suspected regard for Benedict. 
 
 Beatrice. By my troth, I am exceedingly ill, hey ho! 
 ♦*#*#*# 
 
 By my troth, I am sick. 
 
 Margaret. Get you some of this distilled Carduus Benedictus, 
 and lay it to your heart, it is the only thing for 
 a qualm. 
 
 Hero. There thou prick’st her with a Thistle. 
 
 Beatrice. Benedictus !—Why Benedictus?—you have some 
 moral in this Benedictus. 
 
 Margaret. No, by my troth, I meant plain Holy-Thistle. 
 
 The little creeping Cinque-foil, sketched with the Thistle, 
 is common in most parts of the kmgdom, enlivening the 
 grass amongst which it creeps with its gay and prettily 
 formed flowers of bright yellow. 
 
 We find the originals of our next group in the garden or 
 conservatory. The Lobelia, or Cardinal-flower, as from its 
 scarlet attire, it is fi’equently termed, exhibits one of the most 
 brilliant and intense colours of any among Flora’s exquisite 
 hues. It is positively dazzling, when intently looked upon, 
 and baffles every attempt at imitation. Being naturally an 
 aquatic plant, it requires a great supply of water, which 
 circumstance has contributed to the morale of mv poem. 
 The small blue Lobelia is delicately beautiful, and easily 
 cultivated. I have often fancied these flowers admirable 
 portraits of two sisters; the one, proudly beautiful, haughty. 
 
 I I 2 
 
244 
 
 and receiving admiration as a right; the other, gentle, 
 unaffected, humble, and blessed with all the unobtrusive 
 loveliness of simplicity and innocence. Every Flower may he 
 so read; nor is the study an idle or unprofitable one, for it 
 induces us to read Nature, that God-wiitten hook, open to 
 every eye, creed, and comprehension-—that universal language, 
 in which the Creator addresses his creatures—that eternal 
 and exhaustless source of knowledge, devotion, and enjoyment, 
 whose study is a labour of love, which no adverse circumstances 
 can wholly inteiTupt. 
 
 The showy and magnificent flower of the large Tiger- 
 lily occupies the chief place in the following plate, and both 
 the grand outline of its fine form, and its very brilliant colour, 
 deserve our admiration. The great length of the filaments, and 
 their elegant shape, with their dark powdery anthers, add a re¬ 
 markable feature to this superb flower, which is more beautifully 
 spotted than any other of its tribe, and each mark being 
 raised from the surface of the curved petal in a kind of bas- 
 relief gives it a singularly rich appearance. 
 
 The Autumn Crocus, whose modest tint of lilac is a 
 striking contrast to the splendid Lily, is now one of our wild 
 flowers. It is supposed to have been brought originally from 
 the East, where its bulbous roots are in high esteem as eat¬ 
 ables. It was introduced into England by Sir Thomas 
 Smith in the reign of Edward the Third, and first planted 
 at Walden in Essex, which, from the rpiantity of saffron 
 
245 
 
 manufactured there from the pointals of the Crocus, has 
 acquired the name of Saffron Walden. 
 
 This delicate flower is now generally distributed over 
 England, though in many parts it flourishes in far greater- 
 luxuriance than irr otlrers. In sonre districts of Herefordshire 
 arrd Shropshire (as I am infornred by a frierrd, whose 
 Autumn rambles led him among much of the picturesque 
 scenery of both counties), this Crocus grows irr such pro¬ 
 fusion, as to clothe the fields and hills in orre beautiful robe 
 of amethyst. Nor is it to be disregarded, even when flower¬ 
 ing less abundantly, for in our meadows and gardens a few 
 groirps of its delicate bells for-rn at this season a precious 
 treasure. 
 
 The econonry of the Autrrnrn Crocus is extremely ciir-ious. 
 The flowers appearing so late in the year, when the seeds 
 could not be ripened by ex]rosure to the sun and air, an 
 entirely diflererrt organization is adopted by nature for the 
 propagation of the plant; the fructificatiorr takes place under 
 ground, and the following Spring the seed vessels rise to the 
 surface, accompanied by leaves, which do not apjDear with 
 the flower in Autumn. 
 
 Spenser weaves in the Saffron Crocus very gi-acefully, in 
 the following group of flowers in his translation of “Vu-gil’s 
 Gnat:”— 
 
 And round about he taught sweet floures to growe; 
 The rose engrained in pure scarlet die; 
 
 The Lilly fresh; and Violet belowe; 
 
 The Marigold; and cheerful Rosemarie; 
 
246 
 
 The Spartan Mirtle, whence sweete gumb does flowe; 
 
 The purple Hyacinthe, and fresh Costmarie; 
 
 And Saffron, sought for in Cicilian soyle; 
 
 And Lawrell th’ ornament of Phoebus’ toyle. 
 
 Fresh Rhododaphne; and the Sabine flower, 
 
 Matching the wealth of th’ ancient Frankincence ; 
 
 And pallied Yvie, building his own boure; 
 
 And Box, yet mindful of his olde offence j 
 Red Amaranth us, lucklesse Paramoure; 
 
 Oxeye still green, and bitter Patience; 
 
 Ne wants there pale Narcisse, that, in a well 
 Seeing his beauty, in love with it fell. 
 
 The flower and firuit of the Arbutus, or Strawbeny-tree, 
 are rejjresented in the following plate. We have few shrubs 
 which contribute so much and so constantly to the adorn¬ 
 ment of our gai-dens and lawns as this. Its deep glossy 
 ever-green leaves ai-e alone beautiful; but when in Autumn 
 these are gemmed with its clusters of delicate flowers, and 
 the richly-hued ripening fruit (which is a year in attaining 
 maturity, and so appears with the succeeding blossoms), I 
 know few objects so beautiful as a fine Arbutus. At the 
 famed lakes of Killarney, the abundance and magnitude of 
 these splendid trees constitutes one of the great channs of 
 that fairy region. 
 
 The spray, from which my illustration was made, ripened 
 its many-tinted berries under the shelter of Warwick Castle, 
 where the Arbutus trees, in the gi’eat court, are truly mag¬ 
 nificent. 
 
 The last subjects of my pencil, in this small portrait- 
 
247 
 
 gallery of Nature’s beauties, are mere memories of flowers, 
 the offspring of our Summer friends, who possess our lore, 
 rather for the sake of their parents than their own love¬ 
 able qualities. But the Blackberry claims much of our 
 affection on its own account, were it only for the happy 
 scenes of childhood which it can bring back to our mind’s 
 eye. I always have loved it— and do yet as dearly as 
 ever; and during a ineny day’s rambling last Autumn, was 
 fairly immersed in a Blackbeny-dingle j whence my extri¬ 
 cation was matter of some hazard and difficulty. There are 
 few out-door childish amusements which are not as welcome 
 to me now as they ever were, and I think they will retain 
 their charm to the end of my earthly pilgrimage; I do not 
 like to hear people say, when speaking of countiy strolls 
 and scrambles, “ Oh ! I am too old to enjoy such things,”— 
 “ it is all very well for children, but quite unbecoming in 
 jiersons of my age, &c.” If people would but be ivise 
 enough, through life, to derive enjopnent from such inno¬ 
 cent pleasines as delighted them in childhood, we should 
 find far few’er sour tempers, cold hearts, and narrow minds 
 in the world. All, except positive idiots, are endowed by 
 God with a portion of that beautiful poetry of existence 
 which in childhood is so conspicuously evident, teaching 
 even the infant in the nurse’s arms to snatch at flow^ers, and 
 laugh in the sunshine. But as men and women grow up, the 
 capability of deriving pleasure from such sources is gradually 
 destroyed instead of developed; inherent love of all created 
 things is changed to selfishness and cruelty; admiration to 
 
248 
 
 indifference; eager curiosity and enquiry are chilled by the 
 present seini-barharous systems of “ educationtrue, natural 
 devotion choked and often uprooted by bigotry and fanaticism; 
 and that glorious work of Ai.mighty God —reasonable and 
 gifted Man, reduced to a mere mechanical automaton, pro¬ 
 gressing along life's ever-changeful, and, so often, beautiful 
 path, without turning an eye to the right or left in observance 
 of the wondrous works so lavishly spread around, and only 
 intent on sweeping on, and accumulating a heap of rich dust, 
 which may in a moment be scattered to the winds, and 
 which he must at last leave behind. Fortunately for the 
 rising generation the study of Natural History is be¬ 
 come “ fashionable,” and heartily do I pray that to he 
 natural in heart, mind, and feeling may become “ fashion¬ 
 able” too. 
 
 But to return.-1 would counsel every one, but especially 
 
 the young, and of my own sex, never to suffer that poetry 
 of childhood to be effaced from their hearts;—never to fancy 
 with ridiculous pride, “ Oh ! I am gi'owing up now; I shall 
 soon be a woman, and it is childish to gather daisies, and to 
 run about the fields; I rDUSt walk straight along the turnpike 
 road, look right before me, and be lady-like !” Perhaps few 
 say this; but rrrarry, many a yoirng heart thinks it, and is 
 taught to think it by teachers more ignorarrt than their victim 
 pupils. Oh ! for an educational revolutiorr, or reform at least! 
 which, however, could not well make my country rambles 
 more erratic than they are, though it might give me the 
 
249 
 
 liapjjiness of seeing others as childish as myself—and as 
 unladylike too, if active enjoyment in pleasure-giving scenes 
 merits that dreaded epithet. I rememher that when perched 
 on the top of a high and somewhat steep hank, in the act of 
 gathering the branch of Gorse which I have drawn in this 
 work, a party of most con-ect looking promenaders passed 
 along the road below me, and hearing a rustling in the bushes, 
 looked up with no small astonishment on beholding a figure, 
 they were accustomed to see walking in the town with infinite 
 staidness and propriety, perched up at a height that implied 
 a necessity for most resolute scrambling. My amusement 
 far exceeded their surprise; but I have no douht my flower-love 
 in this instance gained me the character of a most uncouth 
 young person,—Be it so—I had my reward, in the pleasure 
 of possessing, and in some degi’ee, perpetuating the beauty of 
 my prickly prize; and I much doubt if the line-and-rule 
 saunter of the astonished fashionables was half as serviceable to 
 their mmds or bodies as I found my wild scramble. But 
 I have again left my Blackberries ! however, they occupy so 
 large a space in the versified ramble annexed to the ^fiate 
 that I need say little of them here. The infinite vai’iety 
 of brilliant colours displayed in the Autumnal tinting of their 
 leaves must have attracted the notice of the most careless 
 observer. 
 
 The hedge-rows at this season are very beautiful, adorned 
 with the bright polished coral of the Dog-rose Hips, the 
 deep, rich bloom of the Haws, and here and there, in the 
 most graceful festoons, hang the not quite leafless sprays of 
 
 K K 
 
‘250 
 
 the Woody Nightshade, with its treacherous berries looking 
 lusciously crimson and juicy. The illustrative poem being 
 “a fact, literally rendered,” I need give no prose descrip¬ 
 tion of the same scene. The Blackbenies, Haws, Hips, and 
 the clustered Nightshade berries are represented in the 
 plate. 
 
 Here must end my third and last sociable gossip—for such 
 these chapters seem to me, rather than formal deeds of author¬ 
 ship, and such I would fain have them appear to my readers. 
 My book cannot play the part of a literary and scientific 
 omnibus, and transport its friends at once into the Fairy- 
 realm of Nature’s Romance ; hut if it only serves as an hum¬ 
 ble finger-post on the road, pointing towards the clime its 
 author loves so well, her effort will not have been a vain 
 one, nor unproductive of some degree of good to her fellow 
 sojourners in this proverbially “ matter of fact” world. We 
 have abundance of books published for the pui-pose of making 
 us xviser: My ambition would be, that mankind—in which 
 icoman-kind is ever prominently ranked—should be made 
 happier by some fortunate work of mine :—and if by any 
 added associations of thought or fancy, I have in these pages 
 enhanced the pleasure with which one person contemplates a 
 ffower, “ e’en though the meanest bud that bears the name,”— 
 I shall have attained a step nearer to my object. 
 
251 
 
 THE ICE-KING. 
 
 The wrathful Winter prochynge on a pace, 
 
 With blust’ring blastes had al ybared the treen, 
 An old Saturnus with his frosty face 
 With chilling colde had pearst the tender green ; 
 The mantles rent wherein enwrapped been 
 The gladsom groves that nowe longe overthrowen, 
 The tapets torn, and every blome down blowen. 
 
 The soyle that earst so semely was to seen. 
 
 Was all despoyled of her beauties hewe : 
 
 And soote freshe flowers (wherewith the summer’s queen 
 Had clad the earth) now Boreas blastes downe blewe. 
 And small fowles flocking in their song did rewe 
 The winter’s wrath, wherewith eche thing defaste 
 In woful wise bewayled the summer past. 
 
 Hawthorne had lost his motley lyverye, 
 
 The naked twigges were shivering all for colde; 
 
 And dropping down the teares abundantly; 
 
 Eche thing (me thought), with weping eye me tolde 
 The cruell season, bidding me with-holde 
 My selfe within, for I was gotten out 
 Into the feldes, wheras I walkte about. 
 
 Sackville. 
 
 Scowling Winter looked grimly out 
 From the gate of his icy Hall; 
 
 But the Forest trees were still wrapped about 
 In their painted splendour, and in the route 
 Of the merry breeze waved they all. 
 
 Too gay and bright 
 Seemed their garb to him. 
 
 K K 2 
 
25-2 
 
 Whose array is chill, and dark, and dim — 
 
 It irked his sight. 
 
 And he longed to hold 
 His stem, harsh, cold 
 Dominion o’er all the shivering land. 
 
 And grasp it tight in his frosty hand. 
 
 He threw o’er the earth a wrathful look; 
 
 The Sun grew pale, and the strong ti'ees shook. 
 At the icy glance of his withering eye; 
 
 And then his loud voice came rushing by. 
 
 Calling to Autumn; he bade her fling 
 Prone to the earth each verdant thing 
 That bloomed in the path of the cold Ice-king. 
 “Thy reign is o’er”—he sternly cried, 
 
 “ Passing away are thy power and pride. 
 
 Thy golden throne 
 
 Is carried away from the bare hill side; 
 
 Thy flowers all flown 
 
 From fleld, wood, moorland, garden, and lea. 
 Then yield up thy desolate realm to me. 
 
 Yet, ere thou go 
 
 Shake the last brown leaves from the forest tree. 
 And lay them low; 
 
 Lay them low, as a carpet spread 
 On the mossy ground — 
 
 Strew them around. 
 
 Beneath my feet—not o’er my head; 
 
253 
 
 “For I shall bring 
 Curtains all wove of the silvery snow. 
 
 And drop them around—above—below. 
 While not a thing 
 
 That thou hast cherished its face shall show. 
 Fling away all 
 
 Thy fluttering leaves and faded flowers; 
 
 Too slight—too small 
 
 Their forms would seem in my lofty bowers; 
 For wreaths and garlands are sculptured there 
 Like marble, yet whiter than ever were 
 The chisel’s triumphs — and all so light. 
 
 Like down, or gossamer streamers slight. 
 
 That a breeze can shake the branches bare. 
 
 “ Oft in the night. 
 
 When wearied mortals lie warmly sleeping, 
 
 I 0 er the world through the air am sweeping 
 Roaming about 
 And tricking out 
 
 Each familiar scene like a Fairy land; 
 Hanging pendants of icicles clear 
 From roof, shed, window—there and here. 
 
 In many a crystal and diamond spear; 
 
 And flinging pearls with a lavish hand 
 O’er hedge, field, fence, hush, grove, and tree. 
 All set in a silvery filagree. 
 
•254 
 
 And my feats are ever so silently done 
 They’re all unguessed, till the morning sun 
 Ruddy and round, ’mid vapours tost 
 Looks on a kingdom of white hoar-frost. 
 
 These are my sports—and oft I fling 
 
 A glassy floor from rim to rim 
 
 Of the lake that shines i’ the valley low; 
 
 And then—how merrily, swiftly go 
 
 The skaiters along! —They dart—they skim — 
 
 Or circle in many a mazy ring; 
 
 Oh! these are the sports of the cold Ice-king. 
 
 And what hast thou to show. 
 
 In thy russet bower and leavy pall. 
 
 Can match with my boundless and glittering Hall ? 
 
 Queen of the sober shroud. 
 
 Haste thee away—begone — 
 
 For the Ice-king hunyeth on: 
 
 He travels along on a swift black cloud; 
 
 The strong winds his coursers ai’e; 
 
 He travels along—and their roar so loud 
 Before him rolls afar— 
 
 He comes — and the leafless woods bend down 
 Before the King of the Icy crown. 
 
 He comes in terror, and wrath, and dread; 
 
 Around him the stonu and the blast outspread 
 Their awful wings—and the darken d sky 
 Frowns on the earth most gloomily 
 
255 
 
 Oh ! the Ice-king’s reign is dreary ! 
 
 But though dreary without—’tis glad within, 
 For now the Christmas sports begin. 
 
 With merry meetings of kith and kin. 
 
 And hearts so light and cheery — 
 
 The wintry eves we will e’en prolong 
 With the hounding dance, and the festive song. 
 And the ancient gohlin-stoiy: 
 
 The gi’eat yule-log on the hearth shall blaze. 
 And old gossips chat of their by-gone days. 
 
 And England’s Christmas glory; 
 
 The Holly’s bright leaves and benies red 
 In wreaths o’er the picture-frames bespread. 
 
 And the Mistletoe-bough above them. 
 For maidens who covet, yet seem to dread, 
 
 A kiss from the lips that love them. 
 
 Farewell to the year!—the fair young Spring 
 In Summer’s glow did vanish ; 
 
 Autumn fled from the stem Ice-king, 
 
 Whom Spring again will banish. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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