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FLORAL GEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY HOWITT. 
 
 AND OTHERS. 
 
 “ Brin" flowers—bright flowers.”- Mrs. Humana. 
 
 I 
 
 kew-tokk: 
 
 HUEST1S & COZANS, 104 NASSAU ST 
 
 CORNER O F ANN. 
 
 185 ]. 
 
VPt£i-T 
 
 UU .DER 
 
 ?N 
 
 (,H0 
 
 Ft 
 
 1*5? 
 
THE USE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 God might have bade the earth bring forth 
 Enough for great and small. 
 
 The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, 
 
 Without a flower at all. 
 
 We might have had enough, enough 
 
 For every want of ours, / 
 
 For luxury, medicine and toil, 
 
 And yet have had no flowers. 
 
 The ore within the mountain mine 
 Requireth none to grow ; 
 
 Nor doth it need the lotus-flower 
 To make the river flow. 
 
 The clouds might give abundant rain ; 
 
 The nightly dews might fall, 
 
 And the herb that keepeth life in man 
 Might yet have drunk them all. 
 
4 
 
 THE GARDEN. 
 
 Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, 
 All dyed with rainbow-light, 
 
 All fashioned with supremest grace 
 Unspringing day and night:— 
 
 Springing in valleys green and low, 
 
 And on the mountains high, 
 
 And in the silent wilderness 
 Where no man passes by ? 
 
 Our outward life requires them not— 
 
 Then wherefore had they birth ?— 
 
 To minister delight to man, 
 
 To beautify the earth ; 
 
 To comfort man—to whisper hope, 
 
 „ Whene’er his faith is dim. 
 
 For who so careth for the flowers 
 Will much more care for him ! 
 
 THE GARDEN. 
 
 I had a Garden when a child; 
 
 I kept it all in order ; 
 
 ’Twas full of flowers as it could be, 
 And London-pride was its border. 
 
THE GARDEN. 
 
 5 
 
 And soon as came the pleasant Spring, 
 
 The singing birds built in it; 
 
 The Blackbird and the Throstle-cock, 
 
 The Woodlark and the Linnet. 
 
 /And all within my Garden ran 
 \ A labyrinth-walk so mazy; 
 
 In the middle there grew a yellow Rose; 
 At each end a Michaelmas Daisy. 
 
 I had a tree of Southern Wood, 
 
 And two of bright Mezereon ; 
 
 A Peony root, a snow-white Phlox, 
 
 And a bunch of red Valerian; 
 
 A Lilac tree, and a Guelder-Rose; 
 
 A Broom, and a Tiger-lily; 
 
 And I walked a dozen miles to find 
 The true wild Daffodilly. 
 
 I had Columbines, both pink and blue, 
 
 And Thalictrum like a feather; 
 
 And the bright Goat’s-beard, that shuts its 
 leaves 
 
 Before a change of weather. 
 
 I had Marigolds, and Gilliflowers, 
 
 And Pinks all Pinks exceeding; 
 
 I’d a noble root of Love-in-a-mist, 
 
 And plenty of Love-lies-bleeding. 
 
6 THE GARDEN. 
 
 I’d Jacob’s Ladder, Aaron’s Rod, 
 
 And the Peacock-Gentianella; 
 
 I had Asters, more than I can tell. 
 
 And Lupins blue and yellow. 
 
 I set a grain of Indian Corn, 
 
 One day in an idle humour, 
 
 And the grain sprung up six feet or more, 
 My glory for a summer. 
 
 I found far off in the pleasant fields, 
 
 More flowers than I can mention ; 
 
 I found the English Asphodel, 
 
 And the spring and autumn Gentian. 
 
 I found the Orchis, fly and bee, 
 
 And the Cistus of the mountain; 
 
 And the Money-wort, and the Adder’s tongue. 
 Besides an old wood fountain. 
 
 I found within another wood, 
 
 The rare Pyrola blowing: v 
 
 For wherever there was a curious flower 
 I was sure to find it growing. 
 
 I set them in my garden beds, 
 
 Those beds I loved so dearly, 
 
 Where I laboured after set of sun, 
 
 And in summer mornings early. 
 
THE GARDEN. ■ 
 
 O my pleasant garden-plot !— 
 
 A shrubbery was beside it, 
 
 And an old and mossy Apple-tree, 
 
 With a Woodbine wreathed to hide it. 
 
 There was a bower in my garden-plot, 
 
 A Spiraa grew before it; 
 
 Behind it was a Laburnum tree, 
 
 And a wild Hop clambered o’er it. 
 
 Ofttimes I sat within my bower. 
 
 Like a king in all his glory ; 
 
 Ofttimes I read, and read for hours, 
 
 Some pleasant, wondrous story. 
 
 I read of Gardens in old times, 
 
 Old, stately Gardens, kingly, 
 
 Where people walked in gorgeous crowds. 
 Or for silent musing, singly. 
 
 I raised up visions in my brain, 
 
 The noblest and the fairest; 
 
 But still I loved my Garden best, 
 
 And thought it far the rarest. 
 
 And all among my flowers I walked. 
 
 Like a miser ’mid his treasure ; 
 
 For that pleasant (dot of Garden ground 
 Was a world of endless pleasure. 
 
THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 '1 
 
 I 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Put up thy work, dear mother; 
 
 Dear mother come with me, 
 
 For I’ve found within the garden, 
 
 The beautiful sweet-pea! 
 
 And rows of stately hollyhocks 
 Down by the garden-wall, 
 
 All yellow, white, and crimson, 
 
 So many-bued and tall! 
 
 And bending on their stalks, mother, 
 
 Are roses white and red ; 
 
 And pale-stemmed balSams all a-blow. 
 
 On every garden-bed. 
 
 Put up thy work, I pray thee, 
 
 And come out, mother dear! 
 
 We used to buy these flowers. 
 
 But they are growing here ! 
 
 Oh, mother ! little Amy 
 
 Would have loved these flowers to see;— 
 
 Dost remember how vve tried to get 
 For her a pink sweet-pea ? 
 
SUMMER WOODS. 
 
 9 
 
 1 
 
 Dost remember how she loved 
 
 Those rose-leaves pale and sere? 
 I wish she had but lived to see 
 The lovely roses here ! 
 
 Put up thy work, dear mother, 
 
 And wipe those tears away! 
 
 And come into the garden 
 Before ’tis set of day ! 
 
 SUMMER WOODS. 
 
 Come ye into the summer-woods; 
 
 There entereth no annoy ; 
 
 All greenly wave the chesnut leaves, 
 And the earth is full of joy. 
 
 I cannot te-ll you half the sights 
 Of beauty you may see, 
 
 The bursts of golden sunshine, 
 
 And many a shady tree. 
 
 There, lightly swung, in bowery glades. 
 The honey-suckles twine; 
 
 There blooms the rose-red campion. 
 And the dark-blue columbine. 
 
10 
 
 SUMMER WOODS. 
 
 There grows the four-leaved plant “ true 
 love,” 
 
 In some dusk woodland spot ; 
 
 There grows the enchanter’s night-shade. 
 And the wood forget-me-not. 
 
 And many a merry bird is there, 
 
 Unscared by lawless men ; 
 
 The blue-winged jay, the wood-pecker, 
 And the golden-crested wren. 
 
 Come down and ye shall see them all. 
 
 The timid and the bold; 
 
 For their sweet life of pleasantness, 
 
 It is not to be told. 
 
 And far within lhat summer-wood, 
 
 Among the leaves so green, 
 
 There flows a little gurgling brook, 
 
 The brightest e’er was seen. 
 
 There comes the little gentle birds, 
 Without a fear of ill; 
 
 Down to .the murmuring water’s edge, 
 
 And freely drink their fill! 
 
 And dash about and splash about, 
 
 The merry little things : 
 
 And look askance with bright black eyes, 
 And flirt their dripping wings. 
 
SUMMER WOODS. 
 
 I’ve seen the freakish squirril drop 
 Down from their leafy tree. 
 
 The little squirrils with the old— 
 
 Great joy it was to me! 
 
 And down unto the running brook, 
 
 I’ve seen them nimbly go ; 
 
 And the bright water seemed to speak 
 A welcome kind and low. 
 
 The nodding plants they bowed their heads, 
 As if, in heartsome cheer. 
 
 They spake unto those little things, 
 
 “ ’Tis merry living here !” 
 
 Oh, how my heart ran o’er with joy ! 
 
 I saw that all was good, 
 
 And how we might glean up delight 
 All round us, if we would ! 
 
 And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there, 
 Beneath the old wood-shade, 
 
 And all day long has work to do, 
 
 Nor is, of aught, afraid. 
 
 The green shoots grow above their heads, 
 And roots so fresh and fine, 
 
 Beneath their feet, nor is there strife 
 ’Mong them for mine and thine. 
 
12 
 
 HARVEST-FIELD FLOWERS. 
 
 There is enough for every one, 
 And they lovingly agree ; 
 
 We might learn a lesson, all of us. 
 Beneath the green-wood tree! 
 
 HARVEST-FIELD FLOWERS. 
 
 Come down into the harvest-fields 
 This autumn morn with me ; 
 
 For in the pleasant autumn-fields 
 There’s much to hear and see ; 
 
 On yellow slopes of waving corn 
 
 The autumn sun shines clearly, 
 
 And’t is joy to walk, on days like this. 
 Among the bearded barley. 
 
 Within the sunny harvest-fields 
 We’ll gather flowers enowj 
 
 The poppy red, the marigold, 
 
 The bugles brightly blue ; 
 
 We’ll gather the white convolvulus 
 That opes in the morning early ; 
 
 With a cluster of nuts, an ear of wheat. 
 And an ear of the bearded barley. 
 
 Bright over the golden fields of corn 
 Doth shine the autumn sky ; 
 
THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN. 
 
 13 
 
 So let’s be merry while we may, 
 
 For time goes harrying by. 
 
 They took down the sickle from the wall 
 When morning dew shone pearly ; 
 And the mower whets the ringing scythe 
 To cut the bearded barley. 
 
 Come then into the harvest-fields ; 
 
 The robin sings his song; 
 
 The corn stands yellow on the hills, 
 
 And autumn stays not long. 
 
 They’ll carry the sheaves of corn away ; 
 
 They carried to-day so early, 
 
 Along the lanes, with a rustling sound, 
 Their loads of the bearded barley. 
 
 THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN. 
 
 Ah yes, the poor man’s garden ! 
 
 It is great joy to me, 
 
 This little, precious piece of ground 
 Before his door to see ! 
 
 The rich man has his gardeners— 
 His gardeners young and old ; 
 He never takes a spade in hand, 
 Nor worketh in the mould. 
 
14 THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN. 
 
 It is not with the poor man so— 
 Wealth, servants, he has none ; 
 
 And all the work that’s done for him 
 Must by himself be done. 
 
 All day upon some weary task 
 He toileth with good will; 
 
 And back he comes, at set of sun, 
 
 His garden-plot to till. 
 
 The rich man in his garden walks, 
 
 And ’neath his garden trees ; 
 
 Wrapped in a dream of other things. 
 
 He seems to take his ease. 
 
 One moment he beholds his flowers, 
 The next they are forgot: 
 
 He eateth of his rarest fruits 
 As though he ate them not. 
 
 It is not with the poor man so :— 
 
 He knows each inch of ground, 
 
 And every single plant and flower 
 That grows within its bound. 
 
 He knows where grow nis wall flowers, 
 And when they will be out; 
 
 His moss-rose, and convolulus 
 That twines his pales about. 
 
THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN. 15 
 
 lie knows his red sweet-williams ; 
 
 And the stocks that cost him dear— 
 
 That well-set row of crimson stocks, 
 
 For he bought the seed last year. 
 
 And though unto the rich man 
 
 The cost of flowers is nought, 
 
 A sixpence to a poor man 
 
 Is toil, and care, and thought. 
 
 And here is his potatoe-bed, 
 
 All well-grown, strong, and green; 
 
 How could a rich man’s heart leap up 
 At anything so mean! 
 
 But he, the poor man, sees his crop, 
 
 And a thankful man is he, 
 
 For he thinks all through the winter 
 How rich his board will be. 
 
 And how his merry little ones 
 Beside the fire will stand, 
 
 Each with a large potatoe 
 
 In a round and rosy hand. 
 
 The rich man has his wall-fruits, 
 
 And his delicious vines; 
 
 His fruit for every season ! 
 
 , His melons and his pine3. 
 
16 the poor man’s garden. 
 
 The poor man has his gooseberries ; 
 His currants white and red ; 
 
 His apple and his damson tree, 
 
 And a little strawberry-bed. 
 
 A happy man he thinks himself, 
 
 A man that’s passing well— 
 
 To have some fruit for the children. 
 And some besides to sell. 
 
 Around the rich man’s trellissed bower 
 Gay, costly creepers run ; 
 
 The poor man has his scarlet-beans 
 To screen him from the sun. 
 
 And there before the little bench, 
 O’ershadowed by the bower, 
 
 Grow southern-wood and lemon-thyme, 
 Sweet-pea and gilliflower; 
 
 And pinks and clove-carnations. 
 Rich-scented side by side; 
 
 And at each end a holly-hock, 
 
 With an edge of London-pride. 
 
 And here comes the old grandmother. 
 When her day’s work is done ; 
 
 And here they bring the sickly babe 
 To cheer it in the sun. 
 
THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN. 17 
 
 And here, on Sabbath-mornings, 
 
 The good man conies to get 
 
 His Sunday nosegay, moss-rose bud, 
 
 White pink, and mignonette. 
 
 And here, on Sabbath-evenings, 
 
 Until the stars are out, 
 
 With a little one in either hand. 
 
 He walketh all about. 
 
 For though his garden-plot is small, 
 
 Him doth it satisfy ; 
 
 For there’s no inch of all his ground 
 That does not fill his eye. 
 
 It is not with the rich man thus : 
 
 For though his grounds are wide. 
 
 He looks beyond, and yet beyond, 
 
 With soul unsatisfied. 
 
 Yes ! in the poor man’s garden grow 
 
 Far more than herbs and flowers;— 
 
 Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, 
 And joy for weary hours. 
 
 2 
 
18 
 
 SELECT POEMS ON LOVE FOR. FLOWERS. 
 
 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 Beautiful children of the woods and 
 fields! 
 
 That bloom by mountain streamlets ’mid 
 the heather, 
 
 Or into clusters ’neath the hazels gather— 
 
 Or where by hoary rocks you make your 
 bields, 
 
 And sweetly flourish on through summer 
 weather— 
 
 I love ye all! 
 
 Beautiful flowers ! to me ye fresher seem 
 
 From the Almighty hand that fashioned 
 all, 
 
 Than those that flourish by a garden-wall; 
 
 And I can image you, as in a dream. 
 
 Fair, modest maidens, nursed in hamlets 
 small— 
 
 I love ye all! 
 
 Beautiful gems ! that on the brovt' of earth 
 
 Are fixed as in a queenly diadem: 
 
WILD FLOWERS. 19 
 
 Though lowly ye, and most without a 
 name, 
 
 Young hearts rejoice to see your buds come 
 forth, 
 
 As light erevvhile into the world came— 
 I love ye all! 
 
 Beautiful things ye are, where’er ye grow ! 
 
 The wild red rose—the speedwell’s peep¬ 
 ing eyes— 
 
 Our own blue-bell—the daisy, that doth 
 rise 
 
 Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow; 
 
 And thousands more, of blessed forms and 
 dyes— 
 
 I love ye all! 
 
 Beautiful nurslings of the early dew ! 
 
 Fanned in your loveliness by every 
 breeze, 
 
 And shaded o’er by green and arching 
 trees: 
 
 I often wish that I were one of you, 
 
 Dwelling afar upon the grassy leas— 
 
 1 love ye all! 
 
 Beautiful watchers! day and night ye wake ! 
 
 That evening star grows dim and fades 
 away. 
 
20 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 And morning comes and goes, and then 
 the day 
 
 Within the arms of night its rest doth take ; 
 
 But ye are watchful wheresoe’er we 
 stray— 
 
 I love ye all! 
 
 Beautiful objects of the wild bee’s love ! 
 
 The wild-bird joys your opening bloom 
 to see, 
 
 And in your native woods and wilds to be. 
 
 All hearts, to Nature true, ye strangely 
 move; 
 
 Ye are so passing fair—so passing free— 
 
 I love ye all! 
 
 Beautiful children of the glen and dell— 
 
 The dingle deep—the moorland stretch¬ 
 ing wide. 
 
 And of the mossy fountain’s sedgy side ! 
 
 Ye o’er my heart have thrown a lovesome 
 spell; 
 
 And though the worldling, scorning, may 
 deride— 
 
 I love ye all! 
 
 —Niooll. 
 
LET US GO TO THE WOODS. 21 
 
 LET US GO TO THE WOODS. 
 
 Let us go to the woods—’tis a bright sunny 
 day : 
 
 They are mowing the grass, and at work 
 with the hay. 
 
 Come over the meadow and scent the fresh 
 air, 
 
 For the pure mountain breezes are every¬ 
 where. 
 
 We’ll follow this winding path up to the hills, 
 
 And spring with a lightsome fool, over the 
 rills. 
 
 Up, up—it grows sweeter the higher we get, 
 
 With the flowers of the season that linger 
 here yet. 
 
 Nay, pause not to gaze at the landscape now; 
 
 It is finer when seen from the high hill’s 
 brow. 
 
 We will gather all curious flowers as we go; 
 
 The sweet and the scentless, and those that 
 bend low; 
 
 The pale and the gaudy, the tiny, the tall, 
 
 From the vine, from the shrub, we will 
 gather them all. 
 
 Now here’s the Clematis, all graceful and 
 fair ; 
 
22 LET US GO TO THE WOODS. 
 
 You may set it like pearls in the folds of 
 your- hair. 
 
 And if for your bosom you’d have a bouquet, 
 
 Here’s the Meadow-pink sweet, and the 
 Touch-me-not gay. 
 
 Here’s the full-blown Azalea, perfuming 
 the air, 
 
 Here’s the Cardinal-flower, that a princess 
 might wear. 
 
 And the wild mountain Phlox, pink and pur¬ 
 ple and blue, 
 
 And star-flowers both of white and of gol¬ 
 den hue. 
 
 And here’s a bright blossom, a gay one in¬ 
 deed, 
 
 Our mountain-maids name it the Butterfly- 
 weed ; 
 
 So gorgeous its colours, one scarcely can 
 tell 
 
 If the flower or the insect in beauty excel. 
 
 Here’s the low dwarf Acacia, that droops as 
 it grows, 
 
 And its leaves, as you gather them, tremble 
 and close. 
 
 And near us, I know by her breath on the 
 
 gale, 
 
 Is the tall yellow Primrose, so pretty and 
 pale. 
 
LET US GO TO THE WOODS. 
 
 23 
 
 Here’s the Pigeon-pea, fit for a fairy’s 
 bowers, 
 
 And the purple Thrift, straightest and prim¬ 
 mest of flowers. 
 
 Here is Privet, no prettier shrub have we 
 met; 
 
 And the Midsummer-daisy is hiding here 
 yet. 
 
 But stay—we are now on the high hill’s 
 brow! 
 
 How bright lie the fields in the sunlight 
 below! 
 
 Do you see those white chimneys that peep 
 o’er the grove 1 
 
 I ’Tis your own little cottage, the home that 
 you love; 
 
 Let us go by the fields where the Chinqua¬ 
 pins are, 
 
 ! And through the long lane where the Chest¬ 
 nuts hang fair, 
 
 They are scarcely yet ripe, but their tender 
 green 
 
 Looks lovely the dark clustering foliage 
 between : 
 
 And we’ll stop at the nest that we found in 
 the wood. 
 
 And see if the blackbird hath flown with 
 her brood: 
 
24 THE DAFFODILS. 
 
 And \v “’ll list to the mocking-bird, wonder¬ 
 ing thereat, 
 
 Till he pauses, as if to ask, “ Who can do 
 that ?’’ 
 
 We will listen and gaze, for the lowliest 
 thing 
 
 Some lesson of worth to the mind can bring. 
 
 If we read Nature’s book with a serious eye, 
 
 Not a leaf but some precious thought on it 
 doth lie: 
 
 And ’tis good to go forth among scenes like 
 these, 
 
 Amid music and sunshine, and flowers and 
 trees, 
 
 If ’twere only to waken the deep love that 
 springs 
 
 At the sight of all lovely and innocent things. 
 
 Al»ONVMO0S. 
 
 DAFFODILS. 
 
 Fair daffodils, we weep to see 
 You haste away so soon ; 
 
 As yet the early-rising sun 
 Has not attained his noon: 
 Stay, stay, 
 
 Until the hastening day 
 
THE SWEET-BRIER. 25 
 
 Has run 
 
 But to the even-song; 
 
 And having prayed together, we 
 Will go 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 anything : 
 
 We die, 
 
 As your hours do ; and dry 
 Away 
 
 Like to the summer’s rain, 
 
 Or as the pearls of morning dew, 
 
 Ne’er to be found again. 
 
 —Herrick, 1648. 
 
 THE SWEET-BRIER. 
 
 Oxjr sweet autumnal western-scented 
 wind 
 
 Robs of its odours none so sweet a flower. 
 In all the blooming waste it left behind, 
 As that the sweet-brier yields it j and the 
 shower 
 
 Wets not a rose that buds in beauty’s 
 bower 
 
26 
 
 THE FLOWER GIRL. 
 
 One half so lovely ; yet it grows along 
 
 The poor gill’s pathway, by the poor 
 man’s door. 
 
 Such are the simple folks it dwells among; 
 And humble as the bud, so humble be the 
 song. 
 
 I love it, for it takes its untouched stand 
 
 Not in the vase that sculptors decorate; 
 
 Its sweetness all is of my native land; 
 
 And e’en its fragrant leaf has not its mate 
 
 Among the perfumes which the rich and 
 great 
 
 Buy from the odours of the spicy East. 
 
 You love your flowers and plants, and will 
 you hate 
 
 The little four-leaved rose that I love best, 
 That freshest will awake, and sweetest go 
 to rest ? 
 
 —Bkainard. 
 
 THE FLOWER GIRL. 
 
 Come buy, come buy my mystic flowers, 
 All ranged with due consideration. 
 And culled in fancy’s fairy bowers, 
 
 To suit each age and every station. 
 
THE FLOWER GIRL. 
 
 27 
 
 For those who late in life would tarry, 
 
 I’ve Snowdrops, winter’s children cold ; 
 
 And those who seek for wealth to marry, 
 May buy the flaunting Marigold. 
 
 I’ve Ragwort, Ragged Robbins too, 
 
 Cheap flowers for those of low condition; 
 
 For Bachelors I’ve Buttons blue ; 
 
 And Crown Imperials for ambition. 
 
 For sportsmen keen, who range the lea, 
 I’ve Pheasant’s Eye and sprigs of Heather; 
 
 For courtiers with the supple knee. 
 
 I’ve Parasites and Prince’s Feather. 
 
 For this tall fops I keep the Rush, 
 
 For peasants still am Nightshade weed¬ 
 ing ; 
 
 For rakes, I’ve Devil-in-the-Bush, 
 
 Por sighing Strephons, Love-lies-Bleed- 
 ing. 
 
 But fairest blooms affection’s hand 
 For constancy and worth disposes. 
 
 And gladly weaves at your command 
 A wreath of Amaranths and Roses. 
 
 —Mrs. Corbold. 
 
28 THE YELLOW VIOLET. 
 
 THE YELLOW VIOLET. 
 
 When beechen buds begin to swell. 
 
 And woods the blue-bird’s warble know, 
 The yellow violet’s modest bell 
 Peeps from the last year’s leaves below. 
 
 Ere russet fields their green resume, 
 
 Sweet flower ! I love in forest bare 
 To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
 Alone is in the virgin air. 
 
 Of all her train, the hands of Spring 
 First plant thee in the watery mould. 
 And I have seen thee blossoming 
 Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold. 
 
 Thy parent sun, who bade thee view 
 Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, 
 Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, 
 And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. 
 
 Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, 
 
 And earthward bent tby gentle eye. 
 Unapt the passing view to meet, 
 
 When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. 
 
THE DAISY. 
 
 29 
 
 Oft, in the sunless April day. 
 
 Thy early smile has stayed my walk, 
 
 But ’midst the gorgeous blooms of may, 
 
 I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 
 
 So they who climb to wealth, forget 
 The friends in darker fortunes tried; 
 
 I copied them—but I regret 
 
 That I should ape the ways of pride. 
 
 And when again the genial hour 
 Awakes the painted tribes of light, 
 
 I’ll not o’erlook the modest flower 
 
 That made the woods of April bright. 
 
 —Bryant. 
 
 THE DAISY. 
 
 Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deep, 
 Need we to prove a God is here; 
 
 The daisy, fresh from Nature’s sleep. 
 
 Tells of His hand in lines as clear. 
 
 For who but He who arched the skies. 
 And pours the day-spring’s Uving-flood, 
 Wondrous alike in all He tries, 
 
 Could raise the daisy’s purple bud ! 
 
30 
 
 THE HOLLY TREE. 
 
 Mould its green cup, its wiry stern, 
 
 Its fringed border nicely spin, 
 
 And cut the gold-embossed gem, 
 
 That, set in silver, gleams within ! 
 
 And fling it, unrestrained and free, 
 O’er hill and dale, and desert sod, 
 That man, where’er he walks, may see 
 In every step the stamp of God. 
 
 —Dr. Good. 
 
 THE HOLLY TREE. 
 
 0 reader ! hast thou ever stood to see 
 The holly tree ? 
 
 The eye that contemplates it well perceives 
 Its glossy leaves. 
 
 Ordered by an Intelligence so wise 
 As might confound the atheist’s sophistries. 
 
 Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 
 Wrinkled and keen; 
 
 No grazing cattle, through their prickly 
 round. 
 
 Can reach to wound ; 
 
 But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
 Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves 
 appear. 
 
THE HOLLY TREE. 
 
 31 
 
 I love to view these things with curious 
 eyes, 
 
 And moralise: 
 
 And in this wisdom of the holly tree 
 Can emblems see 
 
 Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant 
 rhyme, 
 
 One which may profit in the after-time 
 
 Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might 
 appear 
 
 Harsh and austere; 
 
 To those who on my leisure would intrude, 
 Reserved and rude; 
 
 Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be, 
 Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 
 
 And should my youth, as youth is apt, I 
 know r , 
 
 Some harshness show. 
 
 All vain asperities, I, day by day, 
 
 Would w'ear away; 
 
 Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
 Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 
 
 And as, when all the summer trees are seen 
 So bright and green. 
 
 The holly leaves their fadeless hues display 
 Less bright than they; 
 
:i2 
 
 THE WEE FLOWER. 
 
 But when the bare and wintry woods we see J 
 What then so cheerful as the holly tree ? ’! 
 
 So serious should my youth appear among 
 The thoughtless throng; 
 
 So would I seem, amid the young and gay, 
 
 _ More grave than tiiey ; 
 
 That in my age as cheerful I might be 
 
 As the green winter of the holly tree 
 —Southey. 
 
 TI-IE WEE FLOWER. 
 
 A bonnie wee flower grew green in the 
 wuds, 
 
 Like a twinkling wee star amang the cluds ; 
 
 And the langer it leevit, the greener it grew. 
 
 For ’twas lulled by the winds, and fed by 
 the dew. 
 
 Oh, fresh was the air where it reared its 
 head, 
 
 Wi’ the radiance and odours its young leaves 
 shed. 
 
 When the morning sun rose frae his east¬ 
 ern ha’, 
 
 This bonnie wee flower was the earliest of a’ 
 
THE WEE FLOWER. 
 
 33 
 
 To open its cups sealed up in the dew, 
 
 And spread out its leaves o’ the yellow and 
 blue. 
 
 When the winds were still, and the sun 
 rode high. 
 
 And the clear mountain stream ran v/im- 
 plin* by, 
 
 When the wee birds sang, and the wilder¬ 
 ness bee 
 
 Was floating awa’, like a clud ower the sea, 
 
 This bonnie wee flower was blooming un¬ 
 seen— 
 
 The sweet child of summer—in its rockely 
 green. 
 
 And when the night clud grew dark on the 
 plain. 
 
 When the stars were out, and the moon in 
 the wane, 
 
 When the bird and the bee had gane to rest, 
 
 And the dews of the night the green earth 
 pressed, 
 
 This bonnie wee flower lay smiling asleep, 
 
 Like a beautiful pearl in the dark green deep. 
 
 And when autumn came, and the summer 
 had passed, 
 
 And the wan leaves were strewn on the 
 swirling blast, 
 
 3 
 
34 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 This bonnie wee flower grew naked and 
 hare, 
 
 And its wee leaves shrank in the frozen air; 
 
 Wild darnel and nettle sprang rank from the 
 ground. 
 
 But the rose and white lilies were drooping 
 around ; 
 
 And this bonnie blue flower hung doon its 
 wee head, 
 
 And the bright morning sun flung his beams 
 on its bed, 
 
 And the pale stars looked forth—but the 
 wee flower was dead. 
 
 —Anders on. 
 
 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, 
 
 And they tell in a garland their loves and 
 cares; 
 
 Each blossom that blooms in their garden 
 bowers, 
 
 On its leaves a mystic language bears. 
 
 The rose is a sign of joy and love— 
 
 Young blushing love in its earliest dawn ; 
 And the mildness that suits the gentle dove. 
 From the Myrtle’s snowy flower is drawn. 
 
I 
 
 THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 35 
 
 Innocence shines in the Lily’s bell, 
 
 Pure as the heart in its native heaven; 
 
 Fame’s bright star and glory’s swell. 
 
 In the glossy leaf of the Bay are given. 
 
 The silent, soft, and humble heart, 
 
 In the Violet’s hidden sweetness breathes ; 
 
 And the tender soul that cannot part, 
 
 A twine of Evergreen fondly wreathes. 
 
 The Cypress that daily shades the grave, 
 
 Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot; 
 
 And faith that a thousand ills can brave, 
 Speaks in thy blue leaves, Forget-me-not. 
 
 Then gather a wreath from the garden 
 bowers, 
 
 And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers. 
 
 —Pkrcival. 
 
 THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 The milk-white blossoms of the thorn 
 Are waving o’er the pool, 
 
 Moved by the wind that breathes along 
 So sweetly and so cool. 
 
36 
 
 THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 The hawthorn clusters bloom above. 
 The primrose hides below, 
 
 And on the lonely passer-by 
 A modest glance doth throw ! 
 
 The humble primrose’ b'onnie face 
 I meet it everywhere ; 
 
 Where other flowers disdain to bloom. 
 
 It comes and nestles there. 
 
 Like God’s own light, on every place 
 In glory it doth fall: 
 
 And where its dwelling-place is made, 
 
 It straightway hallows all! 
 
 Where’er the green-winged linnet sings, 
 The primrose bloorneth lone ; 
 
 And love it wins—deep love—from all 
 Who gaze its sweetness on. 
 
 On field-paths narrow, and in woods, 
 
 We meet thee near and far. 
 
 Till thou becotnest prized and loved. 
 
 As things familiar are ! 
 
 The stars are sweet at eventide, 
 
 But cold, and far away; 
 
 The clouds are saft in summer time, 
 
 But all unstable they : 
 
 The rose is rich—but pride of place 
 Is far too high for me— 
 
FIELD FLOWERS. 
 
 37 
 
 God’s simple common things I love— 
 My primrose, such as thee ! 
 
 I love the fireside of my home, 
 Because all sympathies, 
 
 The feelings fond of every day 
 Around its circle rise. 
 
 And while admiring all the flowers 
 That summer suns can give, 
 
 Within my heart the primrose sweet. 
 In lowly love doth live 1 
 —Nicoll. 
 
 FIELD FLOWERS. 
 
 Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 
 ’tis true. 
 
 Yet, wildings of Nature,I dote upon you. 
 For ye waft me to summers of old, 
 
 When the earth teemed around me with 
 fairy delight, 
 
 And when daisies and buttercups gladdened 
 my sight. 
 
 Like treasures of silver and gold. 
 
 I love you for lulling me back into dreams 
 
 Of the blue Highland mountains and echo¬ 
 ing streams, 
 
38 FIELD FLOWERS. 
 
 And of broken glades breathing their 
 balm, 
 
 While the deer was seen glancing in sun¬ 
 shine remote, 
 
 And the deep mellow crush of the wood- 
 pigeon’s note 
 
 Made music that sweetened the calm. 
 
 Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune 
 
 Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings 
 of June : 
 
 Of old ruinous castles ye tell. 
 
 Where I thought it delightful your beauties 
 to find. 
 
 When the magic of Nature first breathed on 
 my mind, 
 
 And your blossoms were part of her 
 spell. 
 
 Even now, what affections the violet awakes; 
 
 What loved little islands, twice seen in 
 their lakes, 
 
 Can the wild water-lily restore : 
 
 What landscapes I read in the primrose’s 
 looks, 
 
 And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy 
 brooks 
 
 In the vetches that tangled their shore. 
 
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 30 
 
 Earth’s cultureless buds, to ray heart ye 
 were dear, 
 
 Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear, 
 Had scathed iny existence’s bloom ; 
 Once I welcome you more, in life’s passion¬ 
 less stage, _ . 
 
 With the visions of youth to revisit my age, 
 And I wish you to grow on my tomb. 
 
 —Thomas Campbell. 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 
 
 ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH 
 
 in afh.il 1786. 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
 Thou’s met me in an evil hour; 
 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 Thy slender stem: 
 
 To spare thee now is past my power, 
 Thou bonnie gem. 
 
 Alas ! it’s no thy neebor sweet, 
 
 The bonnie lark, companion meet, 
 Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet! 
 
 Wi’ speckled breast, 
 When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 
 The purpling east. 
 
40 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
 Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
 
 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
 Amid the storm, 
 
 Scarce reared above the parent earth 
 Thy tender, form. 
 
 The flaunting flowers our garden yield. 
 High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield: 
 But thou, beneath the random bield 
 O’ clod or stane, 
 
 Adorns the histie stibbie-field, 
 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 There, in tliy scanty mantle clad. 
 
 Thou snawie bosom sunward spread. 
 
 Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
 In humble guise; 
 
 But now the share uptears thy bed. 
 
 And low thou lies ! 
 
 Such is the fate of artless maid, 
 
 Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
 
 By love’s simplicity betrayed, 
 
 And guileless trust. 
 
 Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 
 Low i’ the dust. 
 
 Such is the fate of simple bard, 
 
 On life’s rough ocean luckless starred : 
 
PRECEPTS OF FLOWERS. 
 
 41 
 
 Unskilful he to note the card 
 Of prudent >ore, 
 
 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
 
 And whelm him o’er! 
 
 Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
 
 Who long with wants and woes has striven ; 
 
 By human pride or cunning driven. 
 
 To misery’s brink, 
 
 Tiil wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 
 He, ruined, sink ! 
 
 Even thou who mourn’st the daisy’s fate, 
 
 That fate is thine—no distant date ; 
 
 Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives elate, 
 
 Full on thy bloom, 
 
 Till crushed beneath the furrow’s weight, 
 Shall be thy doom ! 
 
 PRECEPTS OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Flowers of the field, how meet ye seem 
 Man’s frailly to portray. 
 
 Blooming so fair in morning’s beam, 
 Passing at eve away; 
 
42 PRECEPTS OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Teach this, and, oh ! though brief your 
 reign, 
 
 Sweet flowers ye shall not live in vain. 
 
 Go, form a monitory wreath 
 For youth’s unthinking brow ; 
 
 Go, and to busy mankind breathe 
 What most he fears to know; 
 
 Go, strew the path where age doth tread. 
 
 And tell him of the silent dead. 
 
 But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay, 
 
 Ye breathe these truths severe, 
 
 To those who droop in pale decay, 
 
 Have ye no words of cheer ? 
 
 Oh yes ! ye weave a double spell, 
 
 And death and life betoken well. 
 
 Go, then, where wrapt in fear and gloom, 
 Fond hearts and true are sighing, 
 
 And deck with emblamatic bloom 
 The pillow of the dying ; 
 
 And softly speak, nor speak in vain, 
 
 Of the long sleep and broken chain ; 
 
 And say, that He who from the dust 
 Recalls the slumbering flower, 
 
 Will surely visit those who trust 
 His mercy and his power; 
 
THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 43 
 
 Will mark where sleeps their peaceful clay, 
 And roll, ere long, the stone away. 
 
 — Blackwood’s Magazine. 
 
 THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 
 
 Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows. 
 Wild bramble of the brake ! 
 
 So, put thou forth thy small white rose; 
 
 I love it for his sake. 
 
 Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 
 O’er all the fragrant bowers, 
 
 Thou need’st not be ashamed to show 
 Thy satin-threaded flowers; 
 
 For dull the eye, the heart is dull, 
 
 That cannot feel how fair, 
 
 Amid all beauty beautiful, 
 
 Thy tender blossoms are ! 
 
 How delicate thy gauzy frill! 
 
 How rich thy branchy stem ! 
 
 How soft thy voice when woods are still. 
 And thou sing’st hymns to them ; 
 
 While silent showers are falling slow, 
 And, ’mid the general hush, 
 
 A sweet air lifts the little bough, 
 
 Lone whispering through the bush ! 
 
44 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 The primrose to the grave is gone; 
 
 The hawthorn flower is dead ; 
 
 The violet by the mossed gray stone 
 Hath laid her weary head ; 
 
 But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring, 
 In all their beauteous power. 
 
 The fresh green days of life’s fair spring, 
 And boyhood’s blossomy hour. 
 
 Scorned bramble of the brake ! once more 
 Thou bidd’st me be a boy, 
 
 To gad with thee the woodlands o’er, 
 
 In freedom and in joy. 
 
 —Elliott. 
 
 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 Fair flower, that lapt in lowly glade 
 Dost hide beneath the greenwood shade, 
 Than whom the vernal gale 
 None fairer wakes on bank or spray, 
 
 Our England’s lily of the may, 
 
 Our lily of the vale. 
 
 Art thou that ‘ lily of the field,’ 
 
 Which, when the Saviour sought to shield 
 The heart from blank despair. 
 
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 45 
 
 He showed to our mistrustful kind, 
 
 An emblem to the thoughtful mind 
 Of God’s paternal care 1 
 
 Eut not the less, sweet springtide’s flower. 
 Dost thou display the Maker’s power, 
 
 His skill and handiwork, 
 
 Our western valley’s humbler child ; 
 
 Where in green nook of woodland wild. 
 Thy modest blossoms lurk. 
 
 What though nor care nor art be thine, 
 
 The loom to ply, the thread to twine; 
 
 Yet, born to bloom and fade. 
 
 Thee, too, a lovelier robe arrays. 
 
 Than e’er in Israel’s brightest days 
 Her wealthiest king arrayed. 
 
 Of thy twin leaves th’ embowered screen 
 Which wraps thee in thy shroud of green; 
 
 Thy Eden-breathing smell; 
 
 Thy arched and purple-vested stem, 
 Whence pendant many a pearly gem, 
 Displays a milk-white bell • 
 
 Instinct with life thy fibrous root. 
 
 Which sends from earth the ascending shoot. 
 As rising from the dead. 
 
46 
 
 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 And fills thy veins with verdant juice. 
 Charged thy fair blossoms to produce, 
 
 And berries scarlet red ; 
 
 The triple cell, the twofold seed, 
 
 A ceaseless treasure-house decreed. 
 
 Whence aye thy race may grow. 
 
 As from creation they have grown, 
 
 While spring shall weave her flowery crown. 
 Or vernal breezes blow:— 
 
 Who forms thee thus with unseen hand, . 
 Who at creation gave command, 
 
 And willed thee thus to be, 
 
 And keeps thee still in being through 
 Age after age revolving, who 
 But the Great God is He ? 
 
 Omnipotent to work his will; 
 
 Wise, who contrives each part to fill 
 The post to each assigned ; 
 
 Still provident, with sleepless care 
 To keep; to make the sweet and fair 
 For man’s enjoyment kind ! 
 
 “ There is no God,” the senseless say :— 
 
 “ Oh God, why cast’st thou us away 1” 
 
 Of feeble faith and frail 
 The mourner breathes his anxious thought, 
 By thee a better lesson taught. 
 
 Sweet lily of the vale. 
 
BRING FLOWERS. 47 
 
 Yes! He who made and fosters thee, 
 
 In reason’s eye perforce must be 
 Of majesty divine; 
 
 Nor deems she that his guardian care 
 Will he in man’s support forbear, 
 
 Who thus provides for thine. 
 
 —Field Naturalist’s Magazine. 
 
 BRING FLOWERS. 
 
 Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal 
 board, 
 
 To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour’d ; 
 
 Bring flower? ! they are springing in wood 
 and vale, 
 
 Their breath floats out on the southern gale, 
 
 And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked 
 the rose, 
 
 To deck the hall where the bright wine 
 flows. 
 
 Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror’s 
 path— 
 
 He hath shaken thrones with his stormy 
 wrath ! 
 
 He comes with the spoils of nations back, 
 
 The vines he crush’d in his chariot’s track, 
 
4S BRING FLOWERS. 
 
 The turf looks red where he won the day— 
 
 Bring flowers to die in the conqueror’s 
 way !— 
 
 Bring flowers to the captive’s lonely cell, 
 
 They have tales of the jdyous woods to tell; 
 
 Of the free blue streams, and the glowing 
 sky. 
 
 And the Bright world shut from his languid 
 eye; 
 
 They will bear him a thought of the sunny 
 hours, 
 
 And a dream of his youth—bring him flow- 
 eis, wild flowers. 
 
 Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride 
 to wear ! 
 
 They were born to blush in her shining 
 hair. 
 
 She is leaving the home of her childhood’s 
 mirth, 
 
 She hath bid farewell to her father’s hearth. 
 
 Her place is now by another’s side— 
 
 Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young 
 bride. 
 
 Bring flowers, pale flowers, o’er the bier to 
 shed, 
 
 A crown for the brow of the early dead 1 
 
 ! 
 
the FLOWER DIAL. 4a 
 
 For this through its leaves hath the wild 
 rose burst, 
 
 For this in the woods was the violet nursed. 
 
 Though they smile in vain for what once 
 was ours, 
 
 They are love’s last gift—bring ye flowers, 
 pale flowers!— 
 
 Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel 
 in prayer. 
 
 They are Nature’s offering, their place is 
 there! 
 
 They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 
 
 With a voice of promise they come and part, 
 
 They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, 
 
 They break forth in glory—bring flowers, 
 bright flowers! 
 
 —Mas. Hemans. 
 
 THE FLOWER-DIAL. 
 
 ’Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours, 
 As they floated in light away, 
 
 By the opening and the folding flowers, 
 That laugh to the summer’s day. 
 
 Thus had each moment its own rich hue. 
 And its graceful cup and bell, 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 THE FLOWER DIAL. 
 
 In whose colour’d vase might sleep the dew,! 
 Like a pearl in an ocean shell. 
 
 To such sweet signs might the time have! 
 flow’d 
 
 In a golden current on, 
 
 Ere from the garden, man’s first abode, 
 
 The glorious guests were gone 
 
 So might the days have been brightly told— 
 Those days of song and dreams— 
 
 When shepherds gather’d their flocks of old. 
 By the blue Arcadian streams. 
 
 So in those isles of delight, that rest 
 Far off in a breezeless main, 
 
 Which many a bark, with a weary quest, 
 Has sought, but still in vain 
 
 Yet is not life, in its real flight, 
 
 Mark’d thus—even thus—on earth, 
 
 By the closing of one hope’s delight, 
 
 And another’s gentle birth ? 
 
 Oh ! let us live so that flower by flower. 
 Shutting in turn, may leave 
 A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 
 
 A charm for the shaded eve. 
 
 —Mrs. Hkmans. 
 
THE BROKEN FLOWER. 
 
 51 
 
 THE BROKEN FLOWER. 
 
 Oh i wear h on thy heart, my love ! 
 
 Stili, still a little while ! 
 
 Sweetness is lingering in its leaves, 
 Though faded be their smile. 
 
 Yet, for the sake of what hath been, 
 
 Oh ! cast it not away ! 
 
 ’Twas born to grace a summer scene, 
 
 A long, bright, golden day, 
 
 My love, 
 
 A long, bright, golden day ! 
 
 A little while around thee, love ! 
 
 Its fragrance yet shall cling, 
 
 •Telling that on thy heart hath lain, 
 
 A fair though faded thing. 
 
 But not even that warm heart hath power 
 To win it back from fate:— 
 
 Oh ! Iam like thy broken flower. 
 Cherish’d too late, too late, 
 
 My love ! 
 
 Cherish’d, alas ! too late ! 
 
 —Mrs. II MW an s. 
 
52 A SONG OF THE HOSE. 
 
 A SONG OF THE ROSE. 
 
 Rose ! what dost thou here ? 
 
 Bridal, royal rose? 
 
 How, ’midst grief and fear, 
 
 Canst thou thus disclose 
 That fervid tyre of love, which to thy heart- 
 leaf glows ? 
 
 Rose ! too much array’d 
 For triumphal hours, 
 
 Look’st thou through the shade 
 Of these mortal bowers. 
 
 Not to disturb my soul, thou crown’d one 
 of all flowers ! 
 
 As an eagle soaring 
 Through a sunny sky. 
 
 As a clarion pouring 
 Notes of victory, 
 
 So dost thou kindle thoughts, for earthly 
 life too high— 
 
 Thoughts of rapture, flushing 
 Youthful poets cheek, 
 
 Thoughts of glory rushing 
 Forth in song to break, 
 
 But finding the spring-tide of rapid song 
 too weak. 
 
A SONG CF THE ROSE. 
 
 Yet, oh ! festal rose, 
 
 I have seen thee lying 
 
 In thv bright repose 
 
 Pillow’d with the dying, 
 
 Thy crimson by the life’s quick blood was 
 flying. 
 
 Summer, hope, and love 
 O’er that bed of pain, 
 
 Met in thee, yet wove 
 Too, too frail a claim 
 
 In its embracing links the lovely to detain. 
 
 Smil’st thou, gorgeous flower ?— 
 
 Oh ! within the spells 
 
 Of thy beauty’s power 
 Something dimly dwells, 
 
 At variance with a world of sorrows and 
 farewells. 
 
 AH the soul forth flowing 
 In that rich perfume, 
 
 All the proud life glowing 
 
 In that radiant bloom, ? 
 
 Have they no place but here, beneath th 
 o’ershadowing tomb! 
 
 Crown’st thou but the daughters 
 Of our tearful race ?— 
 
] 54 
 
 HE VOICE OF SPRING. 
 
 Heaven’s own purest waters 
 Well might bear the trace 
 Of thy consummate form, melting to softer 
 grace. 
 
 Will that clime enfold thee 
 With immortal air? 
 
 Shall we not behold thee 
 Bright and deathless there ? 
 
 In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendently more 
 fair ? 
 
 Yes! my fancy sees thee 
 In that light disclose, 
 
 And its dream thus frees thee 
 From the mist of woes, 
 
 Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal 
 royal rose. 
 
 —Mrs. Homans. 
 
 THE VOICE OF SPRING. 
 
 I come, I come ! ye have call’d me long; 
 
 1 come o’er the mountains with light and 
 song! 
 
 Ye may trace my steps o’er the wak’ning 
 earth, 
 
 By the winds that tell of the violet’s birth, 
 
THE VOICE OF SPRING. 
 
 55 
 
 By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, 
 
 By the green leaves, opening as I pass. 
 
 I have breathed on the South, and the ches- 
 nut flowers 
 
 By thousands have burst from the forest 
 bowers.; 
 
 And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, 
 
 Are veil’d with wreaths on Italian plains. 
 
 But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
 
 To speak of the ruin of the tomb ! 
 
 I have pass’d o’er the hills of the stormy 
 North, 
 
 And the larch has hung all his tassels forth ; 
 
 The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 
 
 And the rein-deer bounds through the pas¬ 
 ture free, 
 
 And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 
 
 And the moss looks bright where my step 
 hath been. 
 
 I have sent through the path-woods a gen¬ 
 tle sigh, 
 
 And call’d out each voice of the deep-blue 
 sky— 
 
 From the night-bird’s lay through the starry 
 time, 
 
 In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
 
56 
 
 the voice OF SPRING. 
 
 To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland 
 lakes, 
 
 When the dark fir bough into verdure 
 breaks. 
 
 From the streams and founts I have loosed 
 the chain — 
 
 They are sweeping on to the silvery main 
 
 Ihey are flashing down from the mountain 
 brows, 
 
 They are flinging spray on the forest boughs 
 
 They are bursting fresh from their starry 
 caves, J 
 
 And the earth resounds with the joy of 
 waves. 
 
 Come forth, 0 ye children of gladness, come 
 Where the violets lie may be now 
 home; 
 
 your 
 
 Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye 
 And the bounding footstep, to me fly • * 
 
 With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joy¬ 
 ous lay, J } 
 
 Come forth to the sunshine : I may not stay ! 
 
 Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
 Ihe wateis are sparkling in the wild wood 
 glen— 
 
THE ORANGE-BOUGH. 57 
 
 Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, 
 The young leaves are dancing in breezy 
 mirth. 
 
 Their light stems thrill to the wild wood 
 strains. 
 
 And Youth is abroad in my green domains. 
 —Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 THE ORANGE-BOUGH. 
 
 Oh ! bring me one sweet Orange-bough, 
 To fan my cheek, to cool my brow; 
 
 One bough, with pearly blossoms drest. 
 And bind it, Mother ! on my breast 1 
 
 Go seek the grove along the shore, 
 
 Whose odours I must breathe no more. 
 The grove where every scented tree 
 Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 
 
 Oh ! Love’s fond sighs, and fervent prayer, 
 And wild farewell, are lingering there. 
 Each leaf’s light-whisper hath a tone, 
 
 My faint heart, even in death, would own. 
 
 Then hear me thence one bough, to shed 
 Life’s parting sweeting round my head. 
 
58 THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS. 
 
 And bind, it Mother ! on my breast 
 When I am laid in lonely rest. 
 
 —Mrs. Hkmans. 
 
 THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS. 
 
 “ T desire, as I look on these, the ornaments and 
 children of Earth, to know whether, indeed, such 
 things I shall see no more ? whether they have no 
 likeness, no archetype in the world in which my 
 future home is to be cast? or whether they have 
 their images above, only wrought in a more won¬ 
 drous and delightful mould .' 5 —Conversations with 
 an Ambitious Student in ill health. 
 
 Bear them not from grassy dells, 
 Where wild bees have honey-cells, 
 Not from where sweet water-sounds 
 Thrill the greenwood to its bounds: 
 Not to waste their scented breath 
 On the silent room of Death 1 
 
 Kindred to the breeze they are, 
 
 And the glow-worm’s emerald star, 
 And the bird, whose song is free, 
 And the many-whispering tree : 
 
 Oh 1 too deep a love, and fain. 
 
 They would win to earth again. 
 
THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS. 59 
 
 Spread them not before the eyes, 
 
 Closing fast on summer skies ! 
 
 Woo thou not the spirit back. 
 
 From its lone and viewless track, 
 
 With the bright things which have birth 
 Wide o’er all the colour’d earth ! 
 
 With the violet’s breath would rise 
 Thoughts too sad for her who dies] 
 
 From the lily’s pearl-cup shed, 
 
 Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed; 
 Dreams of youth—of spring-time eves— 
 Music—beauty—all she leaves ! 
 
 Hush ! ’tis thou that dreaming art, 
 
 Calmer is her gentle heart. 
 
 Yes ! o’er fountain, vale, and grove, 
 
 Leaf and flower, hath gush’d her love; 
 
 But that passion, deep and true, 
 
 Knows not of a last adieu. 
 
 Types of lovelier forms than these, 
 
 In their fragile mould she sees ; 
 
 Shadows of yet richer things, 
 
 Born beside immortal springs, 
 
 Into fuller glory wrought, 
 
 Kindled by surpassing thought! 
 
 Therefore in the lily’s leaf 
 She can read no word of grief; 
 
60 
 
 THE LILY AND THE ROSE. 
 
 O’er the woodbine she can dwell, 
 Murmuring not—Farewell! farewell! 
 And her dim yet speaking eye. 
 
 Greets the violet solemnly. 
 
 Therefore, once, and yet again, 
 
 Strew them o’er her bed of pain ; 
 From her chamber take the gloom, 
 With a light and flush of bloom: 
 
 So should one depart, who goes 
 Where no death can touch the rose ! 
 —Mrs. Hemams. 
 
 THE LILY AND THE ROSE. 
 
 The nymph must lose her female friend 
 If more admired than she— 
 
 But where will fierce contention end, 
 
 If flowers can disagree ? 
 
 Within the garden’s peaceful scene 
 Appear’d two lovely foes. 
 
 Aspiring to the rank of queen, 
 
 The Lily and the Rose. 
 
 The Rose soon redden’d into rage, 
 
 And swelling with disdain. 
 
THE IVY-SONG. 61 
 
 Appeal’d to many a poet’s page 
 To prove her right to reign. 
 
 The Lily’s height bespoke command, 
 
 A fair imperial flower ; 
 
 She seem’d design’d for Flora’s hand, 
 
 The sceptre of her power. 
 
 This civil bickering and debate 
 The goddess chanced to hear ; 
 
 And flew to save, ere yet too late 
 The pride of the parterre. 
 
 “ Yours is,” she said, “ the noblest hue, 
 And yours the statelier mien; 
 
 And, till a third surpasses you, 
 
 Let each be deem’d a queen.” 
 
 Thus soothed and reconciled, each seek 
 The fairest British fair; 
 
 The seat of empire is her cheek 
 They reign united there. 
 
 —COWTER. 
 
 THE IVY-SONG. 
 
 Oh! how could fancy crown with tnee 
 In ancient days the god of wine, 
 And bid thee at the banquet be 
 Companion of the vine ! 
 
62 
 
 THE IVY-SONG. 
 
 Ivy ! thy home is where each sound 
 Of revelry hath long been o’er, 
 
 Where song and beaker once went round, 
 But now are known no more. 
 
 Where long-fallen gods recline, 
 There the place is thine. 
 
 The Roman on his battle plains, 
 
 Where kings before his eagles bent, 
 
 With thee, amidst exulting strains, 
 Shadow’d the victor's tent; 
 
 Though shining there in deathless green, 
 Triumphally thy boughs might wave. 
 Belter thou lovest the silent scene 
 Around the victor’s grave. 
 
 Urn and sculpture half-divine 
 Yield their place to thine. 
 
 The cold halls of the regal dead, 
 
 Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, 
 Where hollow sounds the lightest tread— 
 Ivy ! they know thee well! 
 
 And far above the festal vine, 
 
 Thou wav’st where once proud banners 
 hung, 
 
 Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine, 
 —The Rhine, still fresh and young ! 
 
 Tower and rampart o’er the Rhine, 
 Ivy ! all are thine ! 
 
THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 63 
 
 High from the fields of air look down 
 Those eyries of a vanish’d race, 
 
 Where harp, and battle, and renown, 
 
 Have pass’d, and left no trace. 
 
 But thou art there ! serenely bright, 
 
 Meeting the mountain storms with bloom. 
 Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, 
 
 Or crown the lowliest tomb ! 
 
 Ivy, Ivy ! all are thine, 
 
 Palace, hearth, and shrine. 
 
 ’Tis still the same ; our pilgrim tread 
 O’er classic plains, through deserts free. 
 On the mute path of ages fled, 
 
 Still meets decay and thee. 
 
 And still let man his fabrics rear, 
 
 August in beauty, stern in power, 
 
 —Days pass—thou Ivy never sere ! 
 
 And thou shalt have thy dower. 
 
 All are thine, or must be thine ! 
 
 —Temple, piliar, shrine ! 
 
 —Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 
 
 Thou’rt bearing hence thy roses, 
 Glad summer, fare thee well! 
 
64 
 
 THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 
 
 Thou’rt singing thy last melodies 
 In every wood and dell. 
 
 But ere the golden sunset 
 Of thy latest lingering day, 
 
 Oh ! tell me, o’er this chequer’d earth. 
 
 How hast thou pass’d away 1 
 
 Brightly, sweet summer ! brightly 
 Thine hours have floated by, 
 
 To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs. 
 The rangers of the sky. 
 
 And brightly in the forests. 
 
 To the wild deer wandering free ; 
 
 And brightly,’midst the garden flowers 
 To the happy murmuring bee; 
 
 But how to human bosoms, 
 
 With all their hopes and fears, 
 
 And thoughts that make them eagle-wings, 
 To pierce the unborn years ? 
 
 Sweet summer! to the captive 
 
 Thou hast flown in burning dreams 
 Of the woods, with all their whispering 
 
 leaves, 
 
 And the blue rejoicing streams ;— 
 
THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 65 
 
 To the wasted and the weary 
 On the bed of sickness bound. 
 
 In swift delirious fantasies, 
 
 That changed with every sound ; 
 
 To the sailor on the billows. 
 
 In longings, wild and vain, 
 
 For the gushing founts and breezy hills 
 And the homes of earth again ! 
 
 And unto me, glad summer ! 
 
 How hast thou flown to me 1 
 My chainless footstep nought hath kept 
 From thy haunts of song and glee. 
 
 Thou hast flown in wayward visions. 
 
 In memories of the dead— 
 
 In shadows from a troubled heart, 
 
 O’er thy sunny pathway shed: 
 
 In brief and sudden strivings 
 To fling a weight aside— 
 
 ’Midst these thy melodies have ceased, 
 
 And all thy roses died. 
 
 But oh ! thou gentle Summer, 
 
 If I greet thy flowers once more, 
 
 Bring me again the buoyancy 
 Wherewith my soul should soar! 
 
 5 
 
66 the cypress wreath. 
 
 Give me to hail thy sunshine. 
 With song and spirit free ; 
 
 Or in a purer air than this 
 May that next meeting be! 
 
 —Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 THE CYPRESS WREATH. 
 
 0 lady, twine no wreath for me, 
 
 Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! 
 
 Too lively glow the lilies light, 
 
 The varnish’d holly’s all too bright, 
 The May-flower and the eglantine 
 May shade a brow less sad than mine; 
 But, lady, weave no wreath for me. 
 
 Or weave it of the cypress-tree. 
 
 Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine 
 With tendrils of the laughing vine; 
 The manly oak, the pensive yew, 
 
 To patriot and to sage be due ; 
 
 The 'nvrtle bough bids lovers live. 
 
 But tha. Matilda will not give ; 
 
 Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
 Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 
 
/ 
 
 THE CFRESS WREATH. 0 
 
 Let merry England proudly rear 
 Her blended roses, bought so dear; 
 
 Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 
 
 With heath and harebell dipp’d in dew; 
 
 On favour’d Erin’s crest be seen 
 
 The flower she loves of emerald green— 
 
 But, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
 
 Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 
 
 Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare 
 The ivy meet for minstrel’s bair; 
 
 And while his crown of lautel leaves 
 With bloody hand the victor weaves, 
 
 Let the loud trump his triumph tell; 
 
 But when you hear the passing bell. 
 Then, lady, twine a wreath for me, 
 
 And twine it of the cypress-tree. 
 
 Yes! twine for me the cypress bough; 
 But, 0 Matilda, twine not now— 
 
 Stay till a few brief months are past, 
 
 And I have look’d and loved my last! 
 When villagers my shroud bestrew 
 With pansies, rosemary, and rue— 
 
 Then,lady, weave a wreath for me, 
 
 And weave it of the cypress-tree. 
 
 —Sir W. Scott. 
 
6 8 THE GARLAND. 
 
 the garland. 
 
 The pride of every grove I chose, 
 
 The violet sweet, the lily fair, 
 
 The dappled pink and blushing rose, 
 
 To deck my charming Chloe’s hair. 
 
 At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place 
 Upon her brow the various wreath ; 
 
 The flow T ers less blooming than her face. 
 The scent less fragrant than her breath. 
 
 The flowers she wore along the day : 
 
 And every nymph and shepherd said. 
 
 That in her hair they look’d more gay 
 Than glowing in their native bed. 
 
 Undress’d at evening, when she found 
 Their odours lost, their colours past; 
 
 She changed her look, and on the ground 
 Her garland and her eye she cast. 
 
 That eye dropp’d sense distinct and clear, 
 As any Muse’s tongue could speak, 
 
 When from its lid a pearly tear 
 
 Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. 
 
 Dissembling what I knew too well, 
 
 My love, my life, said I, explain 
 
THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 69 
 
 This change of humour : pr’ythee tell: 
 That falling tear—what does it mean 1 
 
 She sigh’d: she smiled: and to the flowers 
 Pointing, the lovely moralist said— 
 
 See, friend, in some few fleeting hours, 
 
 See yonder, what a change is made. 
 
 Ah me! the blooming pride of May, 
 
 And that of beauty, are but one : 
 
 At morn both flourish bright and gay ; 
 Both fade at evening, pale, and gone. 
 
 At dawn poor Stella danced and sung, 
 
 The amorous youth around her bow’d: 
 At night her fatal knell was rung ; 
 
 I saw, and kiss’d her in her shroud. 
 
 Such as she is, who died to-day, 
 
 Such I, alas ! may be to-morrow ; 
 
 Go, Damon, bid the Muse display 
 The justice of thy Chloe’s sorrow. 
 
 —Prior. 
 
 THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 What nature, alas! has denied 
 To the delicate growth of our isle. 
 
70 THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 Art has in a measure supplied, 
 
 And Winter is deck’d with a smile. 
 
 See, Mary, what beauties I bring 
 From the shelter of that sunny shed, 
 Where the flowers have the charms of the 
 spring, 
 
 Though abroad they are frozen and dead. 
 
 ’Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets, 
 
 Where Flora is still in her prime, 
 
 A fortress to which she retreats 
 
 From the cruel assaults of the clime. 
 While earth wears a mantle of snow, 
 These pinks are as fresh and as gay 
 As the fairest and sweetest that blow 
 On the beautiful bosom of May. 
 
 See how they have safely survived 
 The powers of a sky so severe ; 
 
 Such Mary’s true love, that has lived 
 Through many a turbulent year. 
 
 The charms of the late-blowing rose 
 Seem graced with a livelier hue, 
 
 And the winter of sorrow best shows 
 The truth of a friend such as you. 
 
 —Cowper. 
 
EMBLEMS OF FLOWERS. 
 
 71 
 
 EMBLEMS OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
 
 To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ; 
 
 Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
 
 Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 
 
 The daisy amused my fond fancy. 
 
 So artless, so simple, so wild ; 
 
 Thou emblem, said I, o’ my Phillis, 
 
 For she is simplicity’s child. 
 
 The rose-bud’s the blush o’ my charmer, 
 Her sweet balmy lip when ’tis prest: 
 
 How fair and how pure is the lily, 
 
 But fairer and purer her breast. 
 
 Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
 
 I They ne’er wi’ my Phillis can vie : 
 
 I tier breath is the breath of the woodbine. 
 Its dew-drop o’ diamond her eye. 
 
 Her voice is the song of the morning 
 
 That wakes through the green-spreading 
 grove, 
 
 When Phcebus peeps over the mountains, 
 On music, and pleasure, and love. 
 
12 TO THE UVA URSI. 
 
 But beauty how frail and how fleeting, 
 The bloom of a fine summer’s day ! 
 While worth in the mind o’ my Phillis 
 Will flourish without a decay. 
 
 —Burns. 
 
 TO THE UVA URSI. 
 
 How modest, sweet, and bright, 
 
 Your clust’ring flowers appear; 
 
 Above the leaves to hail the light, 
 
 And meet the sunshine there ! 
 
 But when the summer’s sun is sped, 
 Where will your bloom be found ? 
 
 Your blossoms gone, your leaves all dead, 
 And scattered on the ground. 
 
 Yet when next June’s bright sun is high, 
 Your modest flowers will spring 
 
 In all their beauty to the sky, 
 
 And leaves around you bring. 
 
 Just such is youth of virtuous breast: 
 He’ll fade, but yet to bloom; 
 
 And in his Saviour’s bosom rest, 
 
 When risen from the tomb. 
 
 —Mrs. IIkmans. 
 
hearts’s ease 73 
 
 HEART’S-EASE. 
 
 I used to love thee, simple flower, 
 
 To love thee dearly when a boy; 
 
 For thou didst seem in childhood’s hour 
 The smiling type of childhood’s joy. 
 
 But now thou only work’st my grief, 
 
 By waking thoughts of pleasures fled- 
 
 Give me—give me the wither’d leaf, 
 
 That falls on Autumn’s bosom dead. 
 
 For that ne’er tells of what has been, 
 
 But warns me what I soon shall be ; 
 
 It looks not back on pleasure’s scene, 
 
 But points unto futurity. 
 
 I love thee Hot, thou simple flower, 
 
 For thou art gay, and I am lone; 
 
 Thy beauty died with childhood’s hour— 
 The Heart’s-ease from my path is gone. 
 
 —Waller. 
 
 SWEET LAVENDER. 
 
 Sweet lavender! I love thy flower 
 Of meek and modest blue, 
 
74 
 
 sweet lavender. 
 
 Which meets the morn and evening hour, 
 Ihe storm, the sunshine, and the shower, 
 And changeth not its hue. 
 
 In cottage-maid’s parterre thou’rt seen. 
 
 In simple touching grace ; 
 
 And in the garden of the queen, 
 
 costly plants and blossoms sheen, 
 Thou also hast a place. 
 
 The rose, with bright and peerless bloom, 
 Attracted many eyes; 
 
 But while her glories and perfume 
 
 Expire before brief summer’s doom, 
 
 Thy fragrance never dies. 
 
 Thou art not like the fickle train 
 Our adverse fates estrange ; 
 
 Who, in the day of grief and pain, 
 
 Are found deceitful, light, and vain, 
 
 For thou dost neverchange. 
 
 But thou art emblem of the friend, 
 
 Who, whatsoe’er our lot. 
 
 The balm of faithful love will lend 
 
 And, true and constant to the end, 
 
 May die, but alters not. 
 
 —Mm Strickland. 
 
THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 
 
 75 
 
 THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 
 
 Fair flower, that shunn’st the glare of day, 
 Yet lov’st to open, meekly bold, 
 
 To evening hues of sober grey, 
 
 Thy cup of paly gold ; 
 
 Be thine the offering, owing long, 
 
 To thee, and to this pensive hour, 
 
 Of the brief tributary song. 
 
 Though transient as thy flower. 
 
 I love to watch at silent eve 
 
 Thy scatter’d blossoms’ lonely light; 
 
 And have my inmost heart receive 
 The influence of that sight. 
 
 I love, at such an hour, to mark 
 
 Their beauty greet the light breeze chill, 
 
 And shine,’mid shadows gathering dark. 
 The garden’s glory still. 
 
 For such, ’tis sweet to think the while, 
 When cares and griefs the breast invade, 
 
 Is friendship’s animating smile, 
 
 In sorrow’s dark’ning shade. 
 
76 TO THE SNOW-DROP. 
 
 Thus it bursts forth like thy pale cup, 
 Glist’ning amid its dewy tears, 
 
 And bears the sinking spirit up 
 Amid its chilling fears ; 
 
 But still more animating far. 
 
 If meek religion’s eye may trace. 
 
 Even in thy glimrn’ring earth-born star. 
 The holier hope of grace ! 
 
 The hope that, as thy beauteous bloom 
 Expands to glad the close of day, 
 
 So through the shadows of the tomb 
 May break forth mercy’s ray. 
 
 —Barton. 
 
 TO THE SNOW-DROP. 
 
 Thou first-born of the year’s delight, 
 Pride of the dewy glade, 
 
 In vernal green and virgin white, 
 
 Thy vestal robes, array’d ; 
 
 ’Tis not because thy drooping form 
 Sinks grateful on its nest, 
 
 When chilly shades from gathering storm 
 Affright thy tender breast; 
 
 i 
 
TO THE SNOW-DROP. 77 
 
 Nor from yon river islet wild 
 Beneath the willow spray, 
 
 Where, like the ringlets of a child, 
 
 Thou wear’st thy circle gay ; 
 
 ’Tis not for these 1 love thee dear— 
 
 Thy shy averted smiles 
 To fancy bode a joyous year, 
 
 One of life’s fairy isles. 
 
 They twinkle to the wintry moon, 
 
 And cheer the ungenial day. 
 
 And tell us all will glisten soon 
 As green and bright as they. 
 
 Is there a heart, that loves the spring, 
 
 Their witness can refuse ? 
 
 Yet mortals doubt, when angels bring 
 From heaven their Easter news: 
 
 When holy maids and matrons speak 
 Of Christ’s forsaken bed, 
 
 And voices, that forbid to seek 
 The living ’mid the dead; 
 
 And when they say, “ Turn, wandering 
 heart, 
 
 “ Thy Lord is risen indeed, 
 
 “ Let pleasure go, put care apart, 
 
 “ And to his presence speed 
 
7S 
 
 TO THE SHOW-DROP. 
 
 We smile in scorn : and yet we know 
 They early sought the tomb, 
 
 Their hearts that now so freshly glow, 
 Lost in desponding gloom. 
 
 They who have sought, nor hope to find. 
 Wear not so bright a glance : 
 
 They who have won their earthly mind, 
 Less reverently advance. 
 
 But where, in gentle spirits, fear 
 And joy so duly meet, 
 
 These sure have seen the angels near. 
 And kiss’d the Saviour’s feet. 
 
 Nor let the pastor’s thankful eye 
 Their faltering tale disdain, 
 
 As on their lowly couch they lie, 
 Prisoners of want and pain. 
 
 0 guide us, when our faithless hearts 
 From thee would start aloof, 
 
 Where patience her sweet skill imparts 
 Beneath some cottage roof: 
 
 Revive our dying fires, to burn 
 High as her anthems soar, 
 
 And of our scholars let us learn 
 Our own forgotten lore. 
 
 — Keble. 
 
THE ROSE-BUD. 
 
 THE ROSE-BUD. 
 
 When nature tries her finest touch, 
 Weaving her vernal wreath, 
 
 Mark ye, how close she veils her round, 
 Not to be traced by sight or sound, 
 
 Nor soil’d by ruder breath? 
 
 Whoever saw the earliest rose 
 First open her sweet breast ? 
 
 Or, when *'..e summer sun goes down, 
 The hrst, soft star in evening’s crown 
 Light up her gleaming crest 1 
 
 Fondly we seek the dawning bloom 
 On features wan and fair— 
 
 The gazing eye no change can trace, 
 But look away a little space, 
 
 Then turn, and lo ! ’tis there. 
 
 But there’s a sweeter flower than e’er 
 Blush’d on the rosy spray— 
 
 A brighter star, a richer bloom 
 Than e’er did western heaven illume 
 At close of summer day. 
 
 79 
 
80 
 
 THE ROSE-BUD. 
 
 ’Tis love, the last best gift of heaven; 
 
 Love gentle, holy, pure : 
 
 But tenderer than a dove’s soft eye, 
 
 The searching sun, the open sky, 
 
 She never could endure. 
 
 Even human love will shrink from sight 
 Here in the coarse rude earth : 
 
 How then should rash intruding glance 
 Break in upon her sacred trance 
 Who boasts a heavenly birth ! 
 
 So still and secret is her growth. 
 
 Ever the truest heart. 
 
 Where deepest strikes her kindly root 
 For hope or joy, for flower or fruit, 
 Least known its happy part. 
 
 God only, and good angels, look 
 Behind the blissful screen— 
 
 As when, triumphant o’er his woes, 
 
 The Son of God, by moonlight rose, 
 
 By all but heaven unseen: 
 
 As when the holy Maid beheld 
 Her risen Son and Lord : 
 
 Thought has not colours half so fair 
 That she to paint that hour may dare. 
 
 In silence best adored. 
 
THE ROSE BHD. 
 
 81 
 
 The gracious dove, that brought from 
 heaven 
 
 The earnest of our bliss, 
 
 Of many a chosen witness telling, 
 
 On many a happy vision dwelling, 
 
 Sings not a note of this. 
 
 So, truest image of the Christ, 
 
 Old Israel’s long-lost Son, 
 
 What time, with sweet forgiving cheer, 
 
 He call’d his conscious brethren near. 
 Would weep with them alone. 
 
 He could not trust his melting soul 
 But in his maker’s sight— 
 
 Then why should gentle hearts and true 
 Bare to the rude world’s withering view 
 Their treasures of delight 1 
 
 No—let the dainty rose awhile 
 Her bashful fragrance hide— 
 
 Rend not her silken veil too soon. 
 
 But leave her, in her own soft noon, 
 
 To flourish and abide. 
 
 —Keblk. 
 
 6 
 
82 TO A PRIMROSE. 
 
 TO A PRIMROSE. 
 
 Flower of pale but lovely bloom, 
 Given to grace my humble room, 
 
 On my spirit’s waken’d sense 
 Pour thy silent eloquence. 
 
 Tales it tells of days gone by, 
 
 When in spring my boyish eye 
 On the bank, or in the grove, 
 
 Gazed on thee with joy and love. 
 
 Fairer flowers which gardens bear. 
 Proud exotics rear’d with care, 
 Beautiful though they may be, 
 
 Never can compare with thee. 
 
 Thou art rich, from memory’s store, 
 With the wealth of life’s young lore; 
 Lore by books but poorly taught. 
 Wealth by riches never bought. 
 
 While I look on thee, I seem 
 Once more of the past to dream, 
 When life’s business was but play, 
 Joy—a spring-tide holiday ; 
 
TO A PRIMROSE. 
 
 When, the cares of man unknown, 
 Boyhood’s pleasures were my own; 
 
 And a sunny day in spring, 
 
 Gladness to my heart could brings 
 
 Gladness from the bright blue sky, 
 
 From the brook that babbled by, 
 
 From the greenwood’s leafy screen, 
 From the mead’s enamell’d green. 
 
 In those haunts so fresh and fair, 
 
 In those hours so free from care, 
 
 Faithful memory loves to trace 
 Thy familiar form and face. 
 
 There thou wast—where’er I stray’d, 
 
 By the stream or in the glade, 
 
 Welcome to my eye and heart— 
 
 There thou wast, and here thou art. 
 
 Thanks, then, to the friendly theft 
 Which thy lowly root up-reft 
 From its natal dwelling-place 
 In this vase my desk to grace. 
 
 Faintly, while I look on thee, 
 
 Seems the past again to be ; 
 
 Sights and sounds which then were dear 
 Greet again my eye and ear. 
 
 83 
 
84 THE LILY. 
 
 Grateful is it yet to feel 
 In the heart thy mute appeal; 
 
 Lingering greenness lurking there 
 Feelings such as these declare. 
 
 Shed, then, on dark manhood’s gloom, 
 Gleams of sunshine from thy bloom, 
 Through whose spell the spirit seems 
 Once more young in childhood’s dreams. 
 —Barton. \ 
 
 THE LILY. 
 
 I had found out a sweet green spot 
 Where a lily was blooming fair ; 
 
 The din of the city disturb’d it not; 
 But the spirit that shades the quiet cot 
 With its wings oflove was there. 
 
 I found that lily’s bloom 
 When the day was dark and chill: 
 
 It smiled like a star in a misty gloom, 
 And it sent abroad a sweet perfume, 
 Which is floating around me still 
 
 I sat by the lily’s bell, 
 
 And watch’d it many a day :— 
 
TO BLOSSOMS. 85 
 
 The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell, 
 Grew faint and dim, then droop’d and fell. 
 And the flower had flown away. 
 
 I look’d where the leaves were laid, 
 
 In withering paleness, by ; 
 
 And as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said, 
 There’s many a sweet and bloomingmaid. 
 Who will soon as dimly die. 
 
 —Percivai.. 
 
 TO BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
 Why do ye fall so fast ? 
 
 Your date is not so past 
 But you may stay here yet awhile. 
 To blush and gently smile, 
 
 And go at last. 
 
 What! were ye born to be 
 An hour or half’s delight, 
 
 And so to bid good-night ? 
 ’Twas pity nature brought ye forth 
 Merely to show your worth, 
 
 And lose you quite. 
 
86 THE HAREBELL. 
 
 But ye are lovely leaves, where we 
 May read how soon things have 
 Their end, though ne’er so brave : 
 And after they have shown their pride. 
 Like you, awhile, they glide 
 Into the grave. 
 
 —Herrick. 
 
 THE HAREBELL. 
 
 With drooping bells of clearest blue. 
 Thou didst attract my childish view. 
 Almost resembling 
 The azure butterflies that flew 
 Where on the heath thy blossoms grew. 
 So lightly trembling. 
 
 Where feathery fern, and golden bloom. 
 Increase the sand-rock cavern’s gloom, 
 I’ve seen thee tangled, 
 
 ’Mid tufts of purple heather bloom, 
 
 By vain Arachne’s treaeh’rous loom. 
 With dew-drops spangled. 
 
 ’Mid ruins tumbling to decay, 
 
 Thy flowers their heavenly hues display. 
 Still freshly springing 
 
THE HAREBELL. 
 
 87 
 
 Where pride and pomp have pass’d away, 
 On mossy tomb and turret grey, 
 
 Like friendship clinging. 
 
 When glow-worm lamps illume the scene, 
 And silvery daisies dot the green. 
 
 Thy flowers revealing; 
 
 Perchance to soothe the fairy-queen, 
 
 With faint sweet tones, on night serene, 
 Thy soft bells pealing. 
 
 But most I love thine azure braid, 
 
 When softer flowers are all decay’d, 
 
 And thou appearest, 
 
 Stealing beneath the hedgerow shade, 
 
 Like joys that linger as they fade, 
 
 Whose last are dearest. 
 
 Thou art the flower of memory ; 
 
 The pensive soul recals in thee 
 The year’s past pleasures ; 
 
 And led by kindred thought will flee, 
 
 Till back to careless infancy 
 The path she measures. 
 
 Beneath autumnal breezes bleak, 
 
 So faintly fair, so sadly meek, 
 
 I’ve seen thee bending ; 
 
TO THE CROCUS. 
 
 Pale as the pale blue veins that streak 
 Consumption’s thin transparent cheek. 
 With death hues blending. 
 
 Thou shalt be Sorrow’s love and mine. 
 The violet and the eglantine 
 With Spring are banish’d ; 
 
 In Summer’s beam the roses shine ; 
 
 But I of thee my wreath will twine. 
 When these are vanish’d. 
 
 —Miss M. A. Browne.'’ 
 
 TO THE CROCUS. 
 
 Lowly, sprightly little flower! 
 
 Herald of a brighter bloom, 
 
 Bursting in a sunny hour 
 From thy winter tomb. 
 
 Hues you bring, bright, gay, and tender, 
 As if never to decay ; 
 
 Fleeting in their varied splendour— 
 Soon, alas ! it fades away. 
 
 Thus the hopes I long had cherish’d, 
 Thus the friends I long had known. 
 One by one, like you. have perish’d, 
 Blighted—I must fade alone. 
 
 —Pattersow. 
 
 88 
 
THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 Mossy rose on mossy stone, 
 Flowering ’mid the ruins lone, 
 
 I have learnt, beholding thee, 
 
 Youth and age may well agree. 
 
 Baby germ of freshest hue, 
 
 Out of ruin issuing new; 
 
 Moss a long laborious growth. 
 
 And one stalk supporting both. 
 
 Thus may still, while fades the past. 
 Life come forth again as fast; 
 Happy if the relics sere 
 Deck a cradle, not a bier. 
 
 Tear the garb, the spirit flies, 
 
 And the heart, unshelter’d, dies; 
 Kill within the nursling flower. 
 Scarce the green survives an hour. 
 
 Ever thus together live, 
 
 And to man a lesson give, 
 
 Moss, the work of vanish’d years, 
 Rose, that but to-day appears. 
 
 89 
 
90 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 Moss that covers dateless tombs ; 
 Bud, with early sweet that blooms; 
 Childhood thus, in happy rest 
 Lies on ancient Wisdom’s breast. 
 
 Moss and rose, and age and youth. 
 Flush and verdure, hope and truth, 
 Yours be peace that knows not strife 
 One the root, and one the life. 
 
 —Patterson. 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 Sweet lowly plant! once more 1 bend 
 To hail thy presence here, 
 
 Like a beloved returning friend. 
 
 From absence doubly dear. 
 
 Wert thou for ever in our sight, 
 
 Might we not love thee less ? 
 
 But now thou bringest new delight. 
 Thou still hast power to bless. 
 
 Still doth thy April presence bring 
 Of April joys a dream ; 
 
 When life was in its sunny spring— 
 
 A fair unrippled stream. 
 
A SIMILE. 
 
 91 
 
 And still thine exquisite perfume 
 Is precious as of old; 
 
 And still thy modest tender bloom, 
 
 It joys me to behold. 
 
 It joys and cheers, whene’er I see 
 Pain on earth’s meek ones press, 
 
 To think the storm that rends the tree 
 Scathes not thy lowliness. 
 
 And thus may human weakness find, 
 E’en in thy lowly flower, 
 
 An image cheering to the mind. 
 
 In many a trying hour, 
 
 —Thomson. 
 
 A SIMILE 
 
 0 BONNIE was yon rosy brier, 
 
 That blooms sae fair frae haunt o man; 
 And bonnie she, and ah, how dear ! 
 
 It shaded frae the e’enin sun. 
 
 Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, 
 
 How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 
 But purer was the lover’s vow 
 
 They witness’d in their shade yestreen. 
 
 I 
 
92 THE WALL-FLOWER. 
 
 All in iis rude and prickly bower, 
 
 That crimson rose, how sweet and fair! 
 But love is a far sweeter flower, 
 
 Amid life’s thorny path o’ care. 
 
 The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
 Wi’ Chloris in my arms, be mine; 
 
 And I, the world nor wish, nor scorn. 
 
 Its joys and griefs alike resign. 
 
 —Burks. 
 
 THE WALL-FLOWER. 
 
 The wall-flower—the wall-flower. 
 How beautiful it blooms! 
 
 It gleams above the ruin’d tower. 
 Like sunlight over tombs; 
 
 It sheds a halo of repose 
 
 Around the wrecks of time;— 
 To beauty give the flaunting rose, 
 The wall-flower is sublime. 
 
 Flower of the solitary place ! 
 
 Grey ruin’s golden crown ! 
 
 Thou lendest melancholy grace 
 To haunts of old renown ; 
 
 Thou mantlest o’er the battlement, 
 
THE WALL* FLO WER. 93 
 
 By strife or storm decay’d; 
 
 And fillest up each envious rent 
 Time’s canker-tooth hath made. 
 
 Whither hath fled the choral band 
 That fill’d the abbey’s nave ? 
 
 Yon dark sepulchral yew-trees stand 
 O’er many a level grave ; 
 
 In the belfry’s crevices, the dove 
 Her young brood nurseth well, 
 
 Whilst thou, lone flower! dost shed above 
 A sweet decaying smell. 
 
 In the season of the tulip cup, 
 
 When blossoms clothe the trees. 
 
 How sweet to throw the lattice up, 
 
 And scent thee on the breeze! 
 
 The butterfly is then abroad, 
 
 The bee is on the wing, 
 
 And on the hawthorn by the road 
 The linnets sit and sing. 
 
 Sweet wall-flower—sweet wall-flower ! 
 
 Thou conjurest up to me, 
 
 Full many a soft and sunny hour 
 Of boyhood’s thoughtless glee; 
 
 When joy from out the daisies grew 
 In woodland pastures green, 
 
 And summer skies were far more blue 
 Than since they e’er have been. 
 
94 THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 
 
 Now autumn’s pensive voice is heard 
 Amid the yellow bowers, 
 
 The robin is the regal bird, 
 
 And thou the queen of flowers ! 
 
 He sings on the laburnum trees. 
 
 Amid the twilight dim. 
 
 And Araby ne’er gave the breeze 
 Such scents as thou to him. 
 
 Rich is the pink, the lily gay. 
 
 The rose is summer’s guest; 
 
 Bland are thy charms when these decay— 
 Of flowers, first, last, and best! 
 
 There may be gaudier on the bower. 
 
 And statelier on the tree ; 
 
 But wall-flower, loved wall-flower, 
 
 Thou art the flower for me! 
 
 —Moir. 
 
 THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 
 
 ’Tis the last rose of summer 
 Left blooming alone, 
 
 All her lovely companions 
 Are faded and gone; 
 
 No flower of her kindred, 
 No rose-bud is nigh, 
 
THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 
 
 95 
 
 To reflect back her blushes 
 And give sigh for sigh. 
 
 I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one. 
 To pine on the stem ; 
 
 Since the lovely are sleeping, 
 
 Go sleep thou with them. 
 
 Thus kindly I scatter 
 Thy leaves on the bed 
 
 Where thy mates of the garden 
 Lie scentless and dead. 
 
 So soon may I follow 
 When friendships decay. 
 
 And from love’s shining circle 
 The gems drop away : 
 
 When true hearts lie wither’d 
 And fond ones are flown, 
 
 Oh ! who would inhabit 
 This cold world alone ? 
 
 —T. Moore. 
 
 THE CLOSED CONVOLVULUS. 
 
 Am hour ago, and sunny beams 
 Were glancing o’er each airy bell; 
 And thou wert drinking in those gleams 
 Like beauty listening love’s farewell. 
 
96 THE CONVOLVULUS. 
 
 And now with folded drooping leaves, 
 Thou seemest for that light to mourn, 
 
 Like unto one who fondly grieves 
 
 The hours that stay some friend’s return. 
 
 We cannot trace the hidden power 
 Which folds thine azure petals up, 
 
 When evening shadows dimly lower. 
 
 And dew-drops gem each floweret’s cup. 
 
 Methinks I should not wish to be 
 Like thee, a votary of the sun, 
 
 To bask beneath his beams, yet flee 
 Whene’er his brilliant race is run. 
 
 10 dearer far the silent night, 
 
 1 And lovelier far the star-lit sky, 
 
 Than gaudy day with sunbeams bright, 
 And loud with nature’s minstrelsy. 
 
 The night-bird’s song is not for thee, 
 
 The beautiful, the silver moon, 
 
 The holy calm o’er flowers and tree ; 
 
 The stillness—nature’s dearest boon. 
 
 Thou art a reveller of day, 
 
 A fair, rejoicing child of light; 
 
 Glad; while the sun-beams o’er thee play, 
 But drooping in the quiet night. 
 
THE ALMOND-TREE. 
 
 Like unto those who freely spend 
 Their kindness in our happier hours, 
 But should affliction want a friend, 
 They prove the sun’s adoring flowers. 
 
 -IiANGHORNE. 
 
 THE ALMOND-TREE. 
 
 Fleeting and falling 
 Where is the bloom 
 Of yon fair Almond-tree ? 
 
 It is sunk in the tomb. 
 
 Its tomb, wheresoever 
 
 The wind may have borne 
 The leaves and the blossoms 
 Its roughness has torn. 
 
 Some there are floating 
 On yon fountain’s breast— 
 Some line the moss 
 
 Of the nightingale’s nest— 
 
 Some are just strewn 
 
 O’er the green grass below. 
 And there they lie stainless 
 As winter’s first snow. 
 
 7 
 
 97 
 
98 THE ALMOND-TREE. 
 
 Yesterday, on the boughs 
 
 They hung scented and fair ; 
 
 To-day they are scatter'd 
 
 The breeze best knows where 
 
 To-morrow those leaves 
 Will be scentless and dead, 
 
 For the kind to lament 
 And the careless tread. 
 
 \ 
 
 And is it not thus 
 
 With each hope of the heart? 
 
 With all its best feelings?— 
 
 Thus will they depart: 
 
 They’ll go forth to the world 
 On the wings of the air, 
 
 Rejoicing and hoping; 
 
 But what will be there?— 
 
 False lights to deceive, 
 
 False friends to delude, 
 
 Till the heart in its sorrow’3 
 Left only to brood. 
 
 Over feelings crush’d, chill’d, 
 
 Sweet hopes ever flown ; 
 
 Like that tree when its green leaves 
 And blossoms are gone. 
 
 —Miss Lando.n. 
 
FADED FLOWERS. 
 
 99 
 
 FADED FLOWERS. 
 
 Faded flowers, 
 
 Sweet faded flowers, 
 
 Beauty and death 
 Have ruled your hours; 
 
 Ye woke in bloom but a morn ago, 
 
 And now are your blossoms in dust laid low. 
 
 But yesterday 
 
 With the breeze ye strove, 
 
 In the play of life, 
 
 In the pride of love; 
 
 To and fro swung each radiant head, 
 
 That now is drooping, and pale, and dead ! 
 
 Delicate flower, 
 
 With the pearl-white bells, 
 
 No more shall dew-drop 
 Sleep in thy cells ! 
 
 No more, rich rose, on thy heaving breast, 
 The honey-bee fold his wings to rest! 
 
 Fair myrtle-tree, 
 
 Thy blossoms lie low, 
 
 But green above them. 
 
 Thy branches grow; 
 
100 
 
 FADED FLOWERS. 
 
 Like a buried love, or a vanish’d joy. 
 Link’d unto memories none destroy. 
 
 Faded flowers, 
 
 Sweet, faded flowers— 
 
 Fair frail records 
 Of Eden’s bowers; 
 
 In a world where sorrow and wrong bear 
 sway, \ 
 
 Why should ye linger ?—Away ! away! 
 
 What were the emblems 
 Pride to stain, 
 
 Might ye your glorious 
 Crowns retain 1 
 
 And what for the young heart, bow’d with 
 
 grief, 
 Were the 
 leaf? 
 
 rose ne’er seen with 
 
 a wither’d 
 
 Ye bloom to tell us 
 What once hath been; 
 
 What yet shall in heaven 
 Again be seen; 
 
 I Ye die, that man in his strength may learn, 
 ; How vain the hopes in his heart that burn. 
 
 t 
 
 Many in form, 
 
 And bright in hue! 
 
TO A DAISY. 
 
 101 j 
 
 I know your fate, 
 
 But the earth to strew. 
 
 And my soul flies on to immortal bowers, 
 Where the heart and the rose are not faded 
 flowers. 
 
 —Miss Jewsburt. 
 
 TO A DAISY. 
 
 Bright flower, whose home is everywhere ! 
 A pilgrim bold in Nature’s care, 
 
 And oft, the long year through, the heir 
 Of joy or sorrow ; 
 
 Methinks that there abides in thee 
 Some concord with humanity, 
 
 Given to no other flower I see 
 
 The forest thorough! 
 
 And wherefore ? Man is soon deprest; 
 
 A thoughtless thing who, once unblest, 
 Does little on his memory rest, 
 
 Or on his reason: 
 
 But thou would’st teach him how to find 
 A shelter under every wind ; 
 
 A hope for times that are unkind. 
 
 And every season. 
 
 .—Wordsworth. 
 
102 STANZAS TO TWO EARLY VIOLETS, 
 
 STANZAS TO TWO EARLY VIOLETS. 
 
 Twins of the spring, 
 
 What airs of wood-wild sweets 
 Lurk in your fragrant leaves! 
 
 What dreams ye bring 
 Of early, nameless joys, that youth first 
 greets, 
 
 Ere time the heart bereaves 
 Of all its gladness ! 
 
 Oh ! vague delight, 
 
 Which hails the vernal day 
 Of youthful flowery morn. 
 
 With hopes as bright 
 As Nature’s robe is gorgeously gay, 
 
 Ere the fresh heart is worn 
 By with’ring sadness. 
 
 Oh ! vague delight! 
 
 No more in after-day 
 Ye ever can return ; 
 
 A mildew’d blight 
 
 Obscures the brightness of that matin ray. 
 And then we just discern 
 Our joys were madness. 
 
THE ROSE OF MAY. 103 
 
 Children of spring! 
 
 Yet still your blossoms bear 
 Power of refined delight; 
 
 Ye bid me sing 
 
 Of dreams and days the vulgar cannot share ; 
 In fortune’s proud despite 
 I give thee welcoming. 
 
 —Wordsworth. 
 
 THE ROSE OF MAY. 
 
 Ah ! there’s the lily, marble pale, 
 
 The bonny broom, the cistus frail, 
 
 The rich sweet-pea, the iris blue, 
 
 The larkspur with its peacock hue;— 
 Each one is fair, yet hold I will 
 That the rose of May is fairer still 
 
 ’Tis grand ’neath palace-walls to grow; 
 To blaze where lords and ladies go; 
 
 To hang o’er marble founts and shrine 
 In modern gardens trim and fine ;— 
 
 But the rose of May is only seen 
 Where the great of other days have been. 
 
 The house is mouldering stone by stone ; 
 The garden-walks are overgrown; 
 
104 THE ROSE OF MAY. 
 
 The flowers are low, the weeds are high; 
 The fountain-stream is choked and dry; 
 The dial-stone with moss is green. 
 Where’er the rose of May is seen. 
 
 The rose of May its pride display’d 
 Along the old stone balustrade ; 
 
 And ancient ladies, quaintly dight, 
 
 In its pink blossoms took delight, 
 
 And on the steps would make a stand, 
 
 To scent its sweetness, fan in hand. 
 
 Long have been dead those ladies gay; 
 Their very heirs have pass’d away; 
 
 And their old portraits prim and tall 
 Are mouldering in the mouldering hall; 
 The terrace and the balustrade 
 Lie broken, weedy, and decay’d. 
 
 But lithe and tall, the rose of May 
 Shoots upward through the ruin grey ; 
 With scented flower and leaf pale-green, 
 Such rose as it hath ever been ; 
 
 Left, like a noble deed, to grace 
 The memory of an ancient race ! 
 
 —Mrs.IIowitt. 
 
THE POOR MAN’S FLOWERS. 105 
 
 THE POOR MAN’S FLOWERS. 
 
 Around the rich man’s trelliss’d bower 
 Gay, costly creepers run : 
 
 The poor man has his scarlet-beans 
 To screen him from the sun. 
 
 And there before the little bench 
 O’ershadovv’d by the bower, 
 
 Grow southernwood and lemon-thyme. 
 Sweet-pea and gillyflower ; 
 
 And pinks and clove-carnations, 
 Rich-scented, side by side ; 
 
 And at each end a holly-hock. 
 
 With an edge of London-pride. 
 
 And here, on Sabbath-evenings, 
 
 Until the stars are out, 
 
 With a little one in either hand 
 He walketh all about. 
 
 For though his garden-plot is small, 
 Him doth it satisfy ; 
 
 For there’s no inch of all his ground 
 That does not fill his eye. 
 
 i 
 
 i ____ 
 
106 EVENING SONG. 
 
 It is not with the rich man thus; 
 
 For though his grounds are wide, 
 He looks beyond and yet beyond 
 With soul unsatisfied. 
 
 —Mas. Howitt. 
 
 EVENING SONG. 
 
 Linger, oh linger a short time still, 
 Beloved, by my side, 
 
 For from behind yon distant hill 
 The evening shades now glide ; 
 
 And nightingales begin to thrill 
 Their song of eventide. 
 
 Linger, oh linger yet awhile, 
 
 And watch eve’s star arise 
 With such a sweet and placid smile 
 Upon her own blue skies. 
 
 While still the west for many a mile 
 Is tinged with sunset dyes. 
 
 Linger, oh linger still to gaze. 
 Encircled by mine arm, 
 
 Upon the young moon’s trembling rays, 
 W iu-t, ever bear a charm 
 For 've s’ hearts, and well portrays 
 iO ps course upon life’s calm. 
 
EVENING SONG. 
 
 107 
 
 Linger, oh linger at this hour, 
 
 And let our hearts commune 
 Together in this leafy bower, 
 
 And listen to the tune 
 With which soft Zephyr woos the flower 
 Upon this night of June. 
 
 The modest flower—who mildly glows, 
 Ere yet the sunbeams leave, 
 
 But shrinkingly itself will close. 
 
 When fall the shades of eve. 
 
 Meet pattern for the guide of those 
 Who beauty like receive. 
 
 The short-lived flower—whose life began 
 With yester morning’s birth, 
 
 But when a few short days have ran, 
 
 Will sink again to earth ; 
 
 True emblem of the little span 
 Given to beauty’s worth. 
 
 The fragile flower—which may be bent 
 With blasts so roughly rude, 
 
 And all its charms asunder rent, 
 
 Upon the ground be strew’d ; 
 
 Meet admonition, for all sent 
 Witli feelings fine imbued. 
 
 —The Editor. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
108 
 
 SPARE MY FLOWER. 
 
 SPARE MY FLOWER. 
 
 Oh spare my flower, my gentle flower, 
 
 The slender creature of a day ' 
 
 Let it bloom out its little hour, 
 
 And pass away. 
 
 So soon its fleeting charms must lie 
 Decay’d unnoticed, overthrown; 
 
 Oh hasten not its destiny, 
 
 Too like thy own. 
 
 The breeze will roam this way to-morrow, 
 And sigh to find its playmate gone : 
 
 The bee will come its sweets to borrow, 
 
 And meet with none. 
 
 Oh spare ! and let it still outspread 
 Its beauties to the passing eye. 
 
 And look up from its lowly bed, 
 
 Upon the sky. 
 
 Oh spare my flower! thou know’st not what 
 Thy undiscerning hand would tear ; 
 
 A thousand charms thou notest not, 
 
 Lie treasured there. 
 
SPARE MY FLOWER. 
 
 109 
 
 Not Solomon, in all his state, 
 
 Was clad like nature’s simplest child; 
 Nor could the world combined create 
 
 One flow’ret wild 
 
 Spare, then, this humble monument 
 Of an Almighty’s power and skill; 
 
 And let it at his shrine present 
 
 Its homage still. 
 
 He made it, who made nought in vain: 
 
 He watches it, who watches thee ; 
 
 And He can best its date ordain, 
 
 Who bade it be. 
 
 Oh spare my flower ! for it is frail— 
 
 A timid, weak, imploring thing— 
 
 And let it still upon the gale 
 
 Its moral fling. 
 
 That moral thy reward shall be : 
 
 Catch the suggestion, and apply— 
 
 “ Go live like me,” it cries; “ like me _ 
 
 Soon, soon, to die.” 
 
 —Ltte 
 
110 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 Go, lovely rose ! 
 
 Tell her that wastes her time on me. 
 That now she knows. 
 
 When I resemble her to thee, 
 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
 
 Tell her that’s young 
 And shuns to have her graces spied, 
 That hadst thou sprung 
 In deserts where no men abide, 
 
 Thou must have uncommended died. 
 
 Small is the worth 
 Of beauty from the light retired; 
 
 Bid her come forth, 
 
 Suffer herself to be desired. 
 
 And not blush so to be admired. 
 
 Then die, that she 
 The common fate of all things rare 
 May read in thee ; 
 
 How small a part of time they share 
 That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 
 
 Yet, though thou fade, 
 
 - 1 rom thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; 
 
love’s wreath. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And teach the maid 
 That goodness time’s rude hand defies- 
 That virtue lives when beauty dies. ’ 
 
 —Waller. 
 
 LOVE’S WREATH. 
 
 When Love was a child, and went idling 
 round 
 
 Among flowers the whole summer’s day, 
 
 One morn in the valley a bower he found," * 
 
 So sweet, it allured him to stay. 
 
 O’erhead from the trees hung a garland fair, 
 
 A fountain ran darkly beneath ; 
 
 ’Twas Pleasure that hung the bright flowers 
 up there, 
 
 Love knew it and jump’d at the wreath. 
 
 But Love did not know—and at his weak 
 years. 
 
 What urchin was likely to know?_ 
 
 That sorrow had made of her own salt tears, 
 
 That fountain which murmur’d below. 
 
 He caught at the wreath, but with too much 
 haste. 
 
 As boys when impatient will do; 
 
112 CUPID AND THE DIAL. 
 
 \ 
 
 It fell in those waters of briny taste, 
 
 And the flowers were all wet through. 
 
 Yet this is the wreath he wears night and 
 day; 
 
 And though it all sunny appears 
 With Pleasure’s own lustre, each leaf, they 
 say, 
 
 Still tastes of the fountain of tears. 
 
 —Mookk. 
 
 CUPID AND THE DIAL. 
 
 One day, young frolic Cupid tried 
 To scatter roses o’er the hours, 
 
 And on the dial’s face to hide 
 
 The course of time with many flowers. 
 
 By chance, his rosy wreaths had wound 
 Upon the hands, and forced them on; 
 
 And when he look’d again, he found 
 The hours had pass’d, the time was gone. 
 
 “ Alas !” said love, and dropp’d his flowers, 
 “ I’ve lost my time in idle play ; 
 
 The sweeter I would make the hours, 
 
 The quicker they are pass’d away.” 
 
 —Lanohorne. 
 
HUMAN FLOWERS. 
 
 113 
 
 HUMAN FLOWERS. 
 
 Sweet Lucy has chosen the lily, as pale 
 
 And as lowly as she, still the pride of the 
 vale: . . 
 
 An emblem more fitting, so fair and retired. 
 
 Heart could not have chosen, nor fancy de¬ 
 sired. 
 
 And Ellen, gay Ellen, a symbol as true, 
 
 In the hare-bell has found, and its delicate 
 blue: 
 
 For ever the blossoms are fresh in her eyes, 
 
 As dewy, as sweet, and more soft than the 
 skies. 
 
 And Jane, in her thoughtfulness, conscious 
 of power, 
 
 Has gazed in her fervour on many a flower : 
 
 Has chosen, rejected, then many combined 
 
 To blazon her graces ol person and mind. 
 
 Whilst Isabel’s face, like the dawn, in one 
 flush— 
 
 Far need she not wander to bank and to 
 bush; 
 
 8 
 
114 HUMAN FLOWERS. 
 
 Well the tint of her cheek the young Isabel 
 knows. 
 
 For the blossom of health is the beautiful 
 rose. 
 
 And Mary, the pensive, who loves in the 
 dusk 
 
 Of the gardens, to muse when the air is all 
 musk ; 
 
 Will leave all its beauties, and many they 
 are, 
 
 To gaze meek in thought on the jessamine 
 star. 
 
 And Kate, the light butterfly Kate, ever gay, 
 
 Will choose the first blossom that comes in 
 her way: 
 
 The eistus will please her a moment, and 
 then 
 
 Away will she flutter, and settle again. 
 
 But Julia for me, with her heart in her eyes, 
 
 The child of the summer, too warm to be 
 wise: 
 
 Is the passion-flower near her, with tendrils 
 close curled, 
 
 She can smile whilst she suffers; ’tis hers 
 for the world. 
 
 J 
 
THE ALPINE VIOLET. 115 
 
 All are lovely, all blossom of heart and of 
 mind; 
 
 All true to their natures, as Nature design’d; 
 
 To cheer and to solace, to strengthen, caress, 
 
 And with love that can die not to buoy and 
 to bless. 
 
 With gentleness, might, and with weakness, 
 what grace! 
 
 Revelations from Heaven in form and on 
 face ; 
 
 Like the how in the cloud, like the flower 
 on the sod. 
 
 They ascend and descend in my dreams as 
 from God. 
 
 —Howitt. 
 
 THE ALPINE VIOLET. 
 
 The Spring is come, the violet’s gone. 
 
 The first-born child of the early sun ; 
 
 With us she is but a winter flower, 
 
 The snow on the hills cannot blast her 
 bower ; 
 
 And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue, 
 
 To the youngest' sky of the self-same hue. 
 
116 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 But when the Spring comes with her host 
 Of flowers, that flower, beloved the most, 
 Shrinks from the crowd, that may confuse 
 Her heavenly odours and virgin hues. 
 
 Pluck the others, but still remember 
 Their herald, out of dire December; 
 
 The morning star of all the flowers, 
 
 The pledge of daylight’s lengthen’d hours; 
 And ’mid the roses, ne’er forget 
 The virgin, virgin violet. 
 
 —Byron. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest 
 of the year, 
 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and 
 meadows brown and sere. 
 
 Heaped in the hollows of the grove the 
 withered leaves lie dead ; 
 
 They rustle to the eddying gust and to the 
 rabbit’s tread. 
 
 The robin and the wren are flown, and from 
 the shrub the jay, 
 
 And from the wood-top calls the crow 
 through all the gloomy day. 
 
the death of the flowers. 117 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flow¬ 
 ers, that lately sprung and stood 
 
 In brighter light and softer airs, a beaute¬ 
 ous sisterhood ? 
 
 Alas! they all are in their graves: the gen¬ 
 tle race of flowers 
 
 Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair 
 and good of ours. 
 
 The rain is falling where they lie ; but the 
 cold November rain 
 
 Calls not from out the gloomy earth the 
 lovely ones again. 
 
 The wind-flower and the violet, they perish¬ 
 ed long ago, 
 
 And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid 
 the summer glow; 
 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster 
 in the wood, 
 
 And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in 
 autumn beauty stood, 
 
 Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, 
 as falls the plague on men, 
 
 And the brightness of their smile was gone 
 from upland, glade, and glen. 
 
 And now, when comes the calm, mild day, 
 as still such days will come, 
 
 To call the squirrel and the bee from out 
 their winter home, 
 
118 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 
 though all the trees are still, 
 
 And twinkle in the smoky light the waters 
 of the rill, 
 
 The south-wind searches for the flowers 
 whose fragrance late he bore, 
 
 And sighs to find them in the wood and by 
 the stream no more. 
 
 And then I think of one who in her youth¬ 
 ful beauty died, 
 
 The fair meek blossom that grew up and 
 faded by my side: 
 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her when 
 the forest cast the leaf. 
 
 And we wept that oneso lovely should have 
 a life so brief; 
 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one like that 
 young friend of ours, 
 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish 
 with the flowers. 
 
 —Bryant. 
 
 THE END. 
 
FLORAL EMBLEMS. 
 
 A. 
 
 Acacia 
 
 Amaranth, 
 
 Amaryllis, 
 
 American Star Wort, 
 
 Anemone, 
 
 Azalea, 
 
 Concealed love. 
 Immortality. 
 Beautiful but timid. 
 Welcome to a stran- 
 
 [g p r- 
 
 Forsaken. 
 
 Temperance. 
 
 Bluebell, 
 
 Box, 
 
 Branch of Thorns, 
 
 Burdock, 
 
 Buttercup, 
 
 Health. 
 
 Constancy. 
 
 Severity. 
 
 Importunity. 
 
 Ingratitude. 
 
120 
 
 FLORAL EMBLEMS. 
 
 c. 
 
 Cactus, 
 
 Camelia Japonica, 
 
 Canterbury-Bell, 
 Cardinal Flower, 
 Carnation Stripca, 
 Chamomile, 
 
 China Aster, 
 
 Warmth 
 Unpretending excel¬ 
 lence. 
 Constancy. 
 Distinction. 
 Refusal. 
 Energy in adversity. 
 After thought. 
 Chrysanthemum Chinese, Cheerfulness in 
 
 [adversity. 
 
 Clematis Evergreen, 
 Cocks-Comb, 
 Columbine, 
 Convolvulus 
 Coreopsis, 
 
 Crocus, 
 
 Cypress, 
 
 Poverty. 
 Singularity. 
 Folly. 
 Repose. 
 Always cheerful. 
 
 Abuse not. 
 Death Mourning. 
 
 D. 
 
 Daffodil, 
 
 Dahlia, 
 
 Daisy, 
 
 Dandelion, 
 
 Eglantine, 
 
 Uncertainty. 
 Elegance and beauty. 
 Beauty, innocence. 
 
 Coquetry. 
 
 I would heal. 
 
FLORAL EMBLEMS. 121 
 
 Endive, 
 
 Everlasting Pea, 
 
 
 Frugality. 
 
 F. 
 
 Lasting pleasure. 
 
 \ Fleur de lis. 
 Fennel, 
 
 
 Aristocracy- 
 
 
 Force, strength. 
 
 Fern, 
 
 
 Sincerity. 
 
 Fig, 
 
 I 
 
 | - 
 
 G. 
 
 Longevity. 
 
 Geranium, 
 
 
 Gentility. 
 
 Bo. dark, 
 
 
 Melancholy. 
 
 Golden rod. 
 
 
 Precaution. 
 
 Grape wild. 
 
 
 E.ural felicity. 
 
 Grape, 
 
 H. 
 
 Mirth. 
 
 Hare-Bell, 
 
 
 Grief. 
 
 Hawthorn, 
 
 
 Hope. 
 
 Heliotrope, 
 
 
 Devotion. 
 
 Holly, 
 
 
 Domestic happiness. 
 
 Hollyhock 
 
 
 Ambition. 
 
 Honey suckle, 
 
 
 Fidelity. 
 
 Hydrangia, 
 
 I. 
 
 Heartlessness. 
 
 Ice plant. 
 
 An old beau. 
 
122 FLORAL EMBLEMS. 
 
 Iris, My compliments. 
 
 j V y } W edded love. 
 
 J. 
 
 Jessamine, 
 Jasmine Virginia, 
 Juniper, 
 
 Amiability. 
 
 Separation. 
 
 Protection. 
 
 L. 
 
 Larkspur, 
 Lilac Persian, 
 Lily white, 
 Lobelia, 
 Lupin, 
 
 Haughtiness. 
 An accomplished traveller. 
 Purity and happiness. 
 
 Malevolence. 
 
 Dejection. 
 
 M. 
 
 .Marigold, 
 
 Mimosa, 
 
 Misletoe, 
 
 Mourning Widow, 
 Myrtle, 
 
 Jealousy. 
 Sensitiveness. 
 Superstition. 
 Bereavement. 
 Love in Silence. 
 
 N. 
 
 Narcissus, 
 
 Nightshade, 
 
 Self love. 
 Dark thoughts. 
 
FLORAL 
 
 EMBLEMS. 123 
 
 0 . 
 
 Oleander, 
 
 Beware. 
 
 Olive, 
 
 Peace. 
 
 P. 
 
 Pansy, 
 
 Pleasant thoughts. 
 
 Pea-sweet, 
 
 Departure. 
 
 Pink, 
 
 Womans love. 
 
 Pinny, 
 
 Anger. 
 
 Polyanthus, 
 
 Confidence. 
 
 Poppy red. 
 
 Evanescent pleasure. 
 
 Poppy white. 
 
 Consolation. 
 
 Primrose, 
 
 Modest worth. 
 
 R. 
 
 Rhododendron , 
 
 Majesty 
 
 Rose, 
 
 Rose dcrmask, 
 
 Beauty and prosperity 
 
 Bashful love- 
 
 Rose Multiflora, 
 
 Grace- 
 
 Rose Moss, 
 
 Superior merit- 
 
 Rose bud white. 
 
 Too young to love. 
 
 S. 
 
 Sage, 
 
 Domestic virtue. 
 
 Scabious sweet. 
 
 Widowhood. 
 
 Shamrock 
 
 Light-heartedness. 
 
 Snow drop. 
 
 Hope. 
 
 Spear Mint, 
 
 .. -— - 
 
 Warmth of sentiment. 
 
1 24 FLORAL EMBLEMS. 
 
 Star of Bethlehem 
 
 Sweet William, 
 
 Guidance, Purity. 
 
 A smile. 
 
 T. 
 
 Travellers joy, 
 Tuberose, 
 
 Tulip variegated, 
 
 Safety. 
 Voluptuousness. 
 Beautiful eyes. 
 
 V. 
 
 Veronica, 
 
 Vine, 
 
 Violet, 
 
 Virgin bower 
 
 Fidelity. 
 
 Intoxication. 
 
 Modesty. 
 
 Artifice. 
 
 W. 
 
 Water Lily, 
 
 Willow weeping, 
 Woodbine, 
 
 Purity of heart. 
 Forsaken love. 
 Fraternal love 
 
C. P. HUESTIS, 
 
 PUBLISHER BOOKSELLER, 
 
 MANUFACTURER AND IMPORTER 
 
 OF 
 
 104 Nassau Street, Cor. Ann. 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 JUST PUBLISHED, 
 
 BY MARY HOWITT. 
 
 “ Those who delight in the beautiful in nature 
 and art—flowers and poetry—should possess this 
 miniature edition of “ Floral Gems.” The sweet¬ 
 est thoughts that were ever offered at Flora’s 
 shrine are to be found in this posy, it is a boquet 
 redolent of the garden, bank-side, and forest glen— 
 “ ‘ Sweets tied up with taste and elegance.’ ” 
 
 [Northern Star. 
 
THE ART 
 
 O F 
 
 GOOD BEHAVIOUR; 
 
 AND 
 
 LETTER WRITER 
 
 O N 
 
 LOVE, COURTSHIP, AND MARRIAGE. 
 
 A complete Guide for Ladies and Gentle¬ 
 men, particularly those who have 
 not enjoyed the advantages 
 of Fashionable Life. 
 
 Containing directions for giving and attending 
 PARTIES, BALLS, WEDDINGS, DINNERS, &c. 
 Including the necessary 
 
 PREPARATIONS AND ARRANGEMENTS 
 FOR THE 
 
 MARRIAGE CEREMONY. 
 
 In neat miniature form corresponding with this 
 miniature. Also, the above work, in common 
 binding. 
 
NEW ILLUMINATED 
 
 SP <©TO* 
 
 JUST PUBLISHED, A NEW 8vO. EDITION, 
 
 ffionststtnjj of 
 
 LITTLE MARY, Or THE CHILD OF THE REGIMENT. 
 THE FAIRY AND THE CHILDREN. 
 
 THE LITTLE SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 THE AMERICAN GENERAL TOM THUMB. 
 
 EIGHT PRETTY STORIES FOR CHILDREN. 
 
 JACK THE GIANT KILLER. 
 
 The above are a new series, with matter and 
 illustrations principally original. They are highly 
 colored, printed on superfine paper, and have 
 been got up without regard to expense. They 
 cannot be surpassed in this country. 
 
 ALSO, A 12mO. EDITION, 
 Illustrated, colored covers, consisting of 
 
 JOCKO AND MINETTE. COCK ROBIN. 
 MOTHER HUBBARD. 
 
 RHYMES, CHYMES, AND JINGLES. 
 
 NURSERY MELODIES. BLUE BEARD. 
 
 THE JUVENILE GIFT, 
 
 Containing the above, bound together, cover illu¬ 
 minated with gold and colors—144 pages, 
 and 140 Illustrations. 
 
JUST PUBLISHED, 
 
 THE YOUTH'S 
 
 MEW UMTOBB ®WMK, 
 
 AND 
 
 DRAWING BOOK; 
 
 Both designed for self instruction and the use of 
 Teachers. The former contains twelve pages of 
 Instructions and nine of Illustrations.—Price 12£ 
 cents. The new Progressive Drawing Book con¬ 
 sists of twelve pages Lithographic Drawings, suit¬ 
 able for studies. Trice 121 cents. 
 
 THE 
 
 PRIMARY DRAWING BOOK, 
 
 Containing about 80 Copies in Outline, for self 
 instruction. Price 12i cents. 
 
 THE GUIDE TO 
 
 PAINTING IN AN ATE R COLORS, 
 
 Containing Directions relative to the formation of 
 Tints and Shades, by mixing colors : their names, 
 varieties, and different uses, and other informa¬ 
 tion on sizing or preparing paper, sizes and kinds 
 of brushes, &c., with Colored Illustrations.— 
 Price 25 cents. 
 
 ALWAYS ON HAND, 
 
 An extensive assortment of Plain and Colored Toy 
 Books, Song Books, Almanacks, Plays, Cards, 
 Motto Verses, Blank Books, Stationery, 
 
 &c , wholesale and retail. 
 

 

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