Chapter II: Part 2

As Spring upon a silver cloud
Lay looking on the world below,
Watching the breezes as they bowed
The buds and blossoms to and fro,
She saw the fields with Hawthorns walled:
Said Spring, “New buds I will create.”
She to a Flower-Spirit called,
Who on the month of May did wait,
And bade her fetch a Hawthorn-spray,
That she might make the buds of May.
Said Spring, “The grass looks green and bright,
The Hawthorn-hedges too are green,
I’ll sprinkle them with flowers of light,
Such stars as earth has never seen;
And all through England’s girded vales,
Her steep hill-sides and haunted streams,
Where woodlands dip into the dales,
Where’er the Hawthorn stands and dreams,
Where thick-leaved trees make dark the day,
I’ll light each nook with flowers of May.
Like pearly dew-drops, white and round,
The shut-up buds shall first appear.
And in them be such fragrance found,
As breeze before did never bear;
Such as in Eden only dwelt,
When angels hovered round its bowers,
And long-haired Eve at morning knelt
In innocence amid the flowers:
While the whole air was, every way,
Filled with a perfume sweet as May.
And oft shall groups of children come,
Threading their way through shady places,
From many a peaceful English home,
The sunshine falling on their faces;
Starting with merry voice the thrush,
As through green lanes they wander singing,
To gather the sweet Hawthorn bush;
Which, homeward in the evening bringing
With smiling faces, they shall say,
‘There’s nothing half so sweet as May.’
And many a poet yet unborn
Shall link its name with some sweet lay,
And lovers oft at early morn
Shall gather blossoms of the May;
With eyes bright as the silver dews,
Which on the rounded May-buds sleep,
And lips, whose parted smiles diffuse
A sunshine o’er the watch they keep,
Shall open all their white array
Of pearls, ranged like the buds of May.”
Spring shook the cloud on which she lay,
And silvered o’er the Hawthorn spray,
Then showered down the buds of May.

_Miller._

* * * * *

With hope all pleases, nothing comes amiss.

_Rogers._

* * * * *

And Hawthorn’s early blooms appear,
Like youthful hope upon life’s year.

_Drayton._

* * * * *

Gay was the love of paradise he drew
And pictured in his fancy; he did dwell
Upon it till it had a life; he threw
A tint of heaven athwart it--who can tell
The yearnings of his heart, the charm, the spell,
That bound him to that vision?

_Percival._

LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING.... _Deserted Love_.

This beautiful emblem of love, wounded and bereaved by fate, is a species of Amaranthus. The flower is of a reddish-purple hue, which circumstance suggests its name.

* * * * *

A single rose is shedding
Its lovely lustre meek and pale:
It looks as planted by despair--
So white, so faint--the slightest gale
Might whirl the leaves on high.

_Byron._

* * * * *

And on with many a step of pain,
Our weary race is sadly run;
And still, as on we plod our way,
We find, as life’s gay dreams depart,
To close our being’s troubled day,
Naught left us but a broken heart.

_Percival._

* * * * *

Nor would I change my buried love
For any heart of living mould,
No--for I am a hero’s child--
I’ll hunt my quarry in the wild;
And still my home this mansion make,
Of all unheeded and unheeding,
And cherish, for my warrior’s sake,
The flower of Love-lies-bleeding.

_Campbell._

* * * * *

Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.

_Byron._

MYRTLE.... _Love_.

The Myrtle has ever been consecrated to Venus. At Rome, the temple of the goddess was surrounded by a grove of Myrtles; and in Greece, she was adorned under the name of Myrtilla. It was observed by the ancients, that, wherever the Myrtle grew, it excluded all other plants. So love, wherever it is permitted to grow, excludes all other feelings. The ladies of modern Rome retain a strong affection for this plant, preferring its odour to that of the most fragrant essences.

* * * * *

Our love came as the early dew
Comes unto drooping flowers;
Dropping its first sweet freshness on
Our life’s dull, lonely hours.

_Mrs. R. S. Nichols._

* * * * *

Love is a celestial harmony
Of likely hearts, composed of stars’ consent,
Which join together in sweet sympathy,
To work each other’s joy and true content,
Which they have harboured since their first descent,
Out of their heavenly bowers, where they did see
And know each other here beloved to be.

_Spenser._

* * * * *

I have done penance for contemning love;
Whose high imperious thoughts have punished me
With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,
With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

The Myrtle on thy breast or brow
Would lively hope and love avow.

_J. H. Wiffen._

* * * * *

Comfort cannot soothe
The heart whose life is centred in the thought
Of happy loves, once known, and still in hope,
Living with a consuming energy.

_Percival._

* * * * *

As in the sweetest bud
The eating canker dwells, so eating love
Inhabits in the finest wits of all.

_Shakspeare._

LILY OF THE VALLEY.... _Modesty_.

The beautiful Lily of the Valley is the fit emblem of the union of beauty, simplicity, and love of retirement. It adds an indescribable charm to the spots where it blooms. Its snowy hues and general delicacy of appearance excite emotions of a kindred nature to those we experience in the company of one whose heart is free from guile, and whose manners are gentle and unpretending.

* * * * *

Lilacs then, and daffodillies,
And the nice-leaved, lesser Lilies,
Shading, like detected light,
Their little green-tipt lamps of white.

_Hunt._

* * * * *

I had found out a sweet green spot,
Where a Lily was blooming fair;
The din of the city disturbed it not,
But the spirit that shades the quiet cot
With its wings of love 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 soft perfume,
Which is floating around me still.

_Percival._

* * * * *

The Lily, in whose snow-white bells
Simplicity delights and dwells.

_Balfour._

HYACINTH.... _Constancy_.

The blue Hyacinth is mentioned by several English writers as the emblem of constancy. There are many varieties found in Europe and America, but the variety known in Scotland as the “Blue Bell” is the most common and the most celebrated.

* * * * *

When daisies blush, and wind-flowers wet with dew,
When shady lanes with Hyacinth’s are blue,
When the elm blossoms o’er the brooding bird,
And, wild and wide, the plover’s wail is heard,
Where melts the mist on mountains far away,
Till morn is kindled into brightest day.

_Elliott._

* * * * *

Then come the wild weather, come sleet, or come snow,
We will stand by each other however it blow.
Oppression and sickness, and sorrow, and pain,
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.

_Longfellow._

* * * * *

She loves him yet!
The flower the false one gave her
When last he came,
Is still with her wild tears wet.
She’ll ne’er forget,
Howe’er his faith may waver,
Through grief and shame,
Believe it,--she loves him yet!

_Mrs. Osgood._

* * * * *

Over the moorland, over the lea,
Dancing airily, there are we:
Sometimes, mounted on stems aloft,
We wave o’er broom and heather,
To meet the kiss of the zephyr soft;
Sometimes, close together,
Tired of dancing, tired of peeping,
Under the whin you’ll find us sleeping.
Daintily bend we our honied bells,
While the gossipping bee her story tells,
And drowsily hums and murmurs on
Of the wealth to her waxen storehouse gone;
And though she gathers our sweets the while,
We welcome her in with a nod and a smile.
No rock is too high--no vale too low,
For our fragile and tremulous forms to grow.
Sometimes we crown
The castle’s dizziest tower, and look
Laughingly down
On the pigmy men in the world below,
Wearily wandering to and fro.
Sometimes we dwell on the cragged crest
Of mountain high,
And the ruddy sun, from the blue sea’s breast,
Climbing the sky,
Looks from his couch of glory up,
And lights the dew in the bluebell’s cup.
We are crowning the mountain
With azure bells,
Or decking the fountains
In forest dells,
Or wreathing the ruin with clusters gray,
And nodding and laughing the livelong day;
Then chiming our lullaby, tired with play.
Are we not beautiful? Oh! are not we
The darlings of mountain and moorland and lea?
Plunge in the forest--are we not fair?
Go to the high-road--we’ll meet ye there.
Oh! where is the flower that content may tell,
Like the laughing and nodding and dancing bluebell.

_Louisa A. Twamley._

* * * * *

The Hyacinth’s for constancy,
Wi’ its unchanging blue.

_Burns._

ORCHIS.... _A Belle_.

The Butterfly Orchis is rather rare except where there is a chalky soil. The Spider Orchis has gained its name from the great resemblance it bears to one of those large, fat-bodied garden spiders, which are often noticed for the singular beauty of the markings on their backs. Another is so very like a fly, that it is named the Fly Orchis; another is like a lizard, or some strange reptile, and the flowers being yellow, green, and purple, and twisted in and about one another in a very odd way, it really looks like some horrible group of queer living creatures. One, from being fancied like a man, is called Man Orchis; another, very gayly spotted, and ornamented with a helmet-like appendage, is the Military Orchis; another is called Bee Orchis. Bishop Mant thus alludes to some of these:

Well boots it the thick-mantled leas
To traverse: if boon nature grant,
To crop the insect-seeming plant,
The vegetable Bee; or nigh
Of kin, the long-horned Butterfly,
White, or his brother purple pale,
Scenting alike the evening gale;
The Satyr flower, the pride of Kent,
Of Lizard form, and goat-like scent.

* * * * *

No wonder that cheek in its beauty transcendent,
Excelleth the beauty of others by far;
No wonder that eye is so richly resplendent,
For your heart is a rose and your soul is a star.

_Mrs. Osgood._

* * * * *

What right have you, madam, gazing in your shining mirror daily,
Getting so by heart your beauty, which all others must adore;
While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gayly,
You will wed no man that’s only good to God,--and nothing more.

_Miss Barrett._

BOX.... _Stoicism_.

The common Box, of which our hedge is formed, is indigenous in England, preferring the chalky hills of Surrey and Kent for its residence, but flourishing well on other soils. It is one of the most useful evergreen shrubs we possess, and especially as it will grow under the drip and shadow of other trees, as you know is the case with our hedge. It is found in most European countries, from Britain southwards, also about Mount Caucasus, Persia, China, Cochin China, and America. It was formerly much more common in England than now, having disappeared under the spread of agriculture. Box-hill, in Surrey, is named from this tree, and is a conical elevation covered with a wood of Box-trees, some of large size. Boxley in Kent, and Boxwell in Gloucestershire, are also named from it. The leaf and general appearance of the tree are too familiar to require any description. The scent of the spring blossoms is rather powerful, and to some persons unpleasant. The timber is very valuable, it is sold by weight, and, being very hard and smooth, and not apt to warp, is well adapted for many nice and delicate purposes. In the days of good old Evelyn, it appears to have been as much used as at present, for he says, “It is good for the turner, engraver, carver, mathematical instrument maker, comb and pipe, or flute-maker, and the roots for the inlayer and cabinet-maker. Of box are made wheels, sheaves, pins, pegs for musical instruments, nut-crackers, button-moulds, weavers’ shuttles, hollar-sticks, bump-sticks, and dressers for the shoemaker, rulers, rolling-pins, pestles, mall-balls, beetles, tops, chessmen, tables, screws, bobbins for bone-lace, spoons, knife-handles, but especially combs.” Most of those engravings in books, called wood-cuts, are done upon Box wood, and for that purpose English Box is superior to any other, though a great portion of what is used in this country comes from the Levant. The ancients used combs made of Box-wood, and also instruments to be played on with the mouth. The Romans used to adorn their gardens with it, clipped into form, as we find from mention being made of clipped Box-trees by their writers. It was formerly much cut in this manner here, and was ranked next to the Yew for its capabilities of taking artificial and grotesque forms; but except a few ancient hedges of Box, like our own, and those at Castle Bromwich Hall, where the Yew hedges are also preserved, there are not many vestiges of its former garden-glory remaining. A dwarf kind is used for making a neat and firm edging to flower borders, for which nothing answers so well, or produces so proper an effect.

* * * * *

Though youth be past, and beauty fled,
The constant heart its pledge redeems,
Like Box, that guards the flowerless bed,
And brighter from the contrast seems.

_Mrs. Hale._

NARCISSUS AND DAFFODIL.... _Self-Love_.

There are several species of the Narcissus. The Yellow Narcissus is better known as the Daffodil, and bears much resemblance to the Yellow Lily. The Poetic Narcissus is the largest of the species, and may be distinguished by the crimson border of the very shallow and almost flat cup of the nectary. Shakspeare, in his Winter’s Tale, speaks of

Daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and taste
The winds of March with beauty.

The ancients attributed the origin of the Narcissus to the metamorphosis of a beautiful youth of that name, who, having slighted the love of the nymph Echo, became enamoured of his own image, which he beheld in a fountain, and pined to death in consequence.

* * * * *

I wandered lonely, as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden Daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of the bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay
In such a joyful company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth to me the show had brought.
For oft when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude.
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

_Wordsworth._

* * * * *

Nature’s laws must be obeyed,
And this is one she strictly laid
On every soul which she has made,
Down from our earliest mother:
Be _self_ your first and greatest care,
From all reproach the darling spare,
And any blame that she should bear,
Put off upon another.

_Miss Gould._

* * * * *

The pale Narcissus
Still feeds upon itself; but, newly blown,
The nymphs will pluck it from its tender stalk,
And say, “Go, fool, and to thy image talk.”

_Lord Thurlow._

LILY.... _Majesty_.

The Lily’s height and beauty speak command. The Jews imitated its form in the decorations of their first magnificent temple; and Christ described it as more splendid than King Solomon in his most gorgeous apparel. According to ancient mythology, there was originally but one species of Lily, and that was orange-coloured; and the white was produced by the following circumstance:--Jupiter, wishing to render Hercules immortal, prevailed on Juno to take a deep draught of nectar, which threw the queen into a profound sleep. Jupiter then placed the infant Hercules at her breast, so that the divine milk might ensure immortality. Hercules drew the milk faster than he could swallow it, and some drops fell to the earth, from which immediately sprang the White Lily.

* * * * *

Flowers of the fairest,
And gems of the rarest,
I find and I gather in country or town;
But one is still wanting,
Oh! where is it haunting?
The bud and the jewel must make up my crown.
Thou pearl of the deep sea
That flows in my heart free,
Thou rock-planted Lily, come hither, or send;
Mid flowers of the fairest,
And gems of the rarest,
I miss thee, I seek thee, my own parted friend!

_M. J. Jewsbury._

* * * * *

Ye well arrayed----
Queen Lilies--and ye painted populace,
Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives.

_Young._

* * * * *

The wand-like Lily, which lifted up,
As a Mœnad, its radiant-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, which is in its eye,
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky.

_Shelley._

* * * * *

Her glossy hair is clustered o’er a brow
Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth;
Her eyebrow’s shape is like the aerial bow,
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,
Mounting at times to a transparent glow,
As if her veins run lightning; she, in sooth,
Has a proud air, and grace by no means common,
Her stature tall,--I hate a dumpy woman.

_Byron._

* * * * *

Oh, he is all made up of love and charms,
Whatever maid could wish or man admire;
Delight of every eye! when he appears,
A secret pleasure gladdens all that see him;
And when he talks, the proudest men will blush
To hear his virtues and his glory!

_Addison._

MOSS ROSE.... _Confession of Love_.

The origin of this exquisitely beautiful variety of the Rose is thus fancifully accounted for:--

* * * * *

The Angel of the Flowers one day,
Beneath a Rose-tree sleeping lay,
That spirit to whose charge is given
To bathe young buds in dews from heaven.
Awaking from his light repose,
The angel whispered to the Rose,
“O fondest object of my care,
Still fairest found where all are fair,
For the sweet shade thou hast given to me,
Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee.”
Then said the Rose, with deepening glow,
“On me another grace bestow.”
The spirit paused in silent thought--
What grace was there that flower had not?
’Twas but a moment--o’er the Rose
A veil of moss the angel throws;
And, robed in nature’s simplest weed,
Could there a flower that Rose exceed?

_Anon._

* * * * *

They gather gems with sunbeams bright,
From floating clouds and falling showers;
They rob Aurora’s locks of light,
To grace their own fair queen of flowers.
Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose
Becomes a _token_ fit to tell
Of things that words can ne’er disclose,
And naught but this reveal so well.
Then take my flower, and let its leaves
Beside thy heart be cherished near,
While that confiding heart receives
The thought it whispers to thine ear.

_Token, 1830._

WHITE WATER-LILY.... _Purity_.

The White Water-Lily is the Queen of the Waves, and reigns sole sovereign over the streams; and it was a species of Water-Lily which the old Egyptians and ancient Indians worshipped--the most beautiful object that was held sacred in their superstitious creed, and one which we cannot look upon even now without feeling a delight mingled with reverence. No flower looks more lovely than this “Lady of the Lake,” resting her crowned head on a green throne of velvet, and looking down into the depths of her own sky-reflecting realms, watching the dance, as her attendant water-nymphs keep time to the rocking of the ripples, and the dreamy swaying of the trailing water streams.

_Miller._

* * * * *

Thine is a face to look upon and pray
That a pure spirit keep thee--I would meet
With one so gentle by the streams away,
Living with nature; keeping thy pure feet
For the unfingered moss, and for the grass
Which leaneth where the gentle waters pass.
The autumn leaves should sigh thee to thy sleep;
And the capricious April, coming on,
Awake thee like a flower; and stars should keep
A vigil o’er thee like Endymion;
And thou for very gentleness shouldst weep
As dews of the night’s quietness come down.

_Willis._

* * * * *

Oh, come to the river’s rim, come with us there,
For the White Water-Lily is wondrous fair,
With her large broad leaves on the stream afloat,
Each one a capacious fairy-boat.
The swan among flowers! How stately ride
Her snow-white leaves on the glittering tide!
And the Dragon-fly gallantly stays to sip
A kiss of dew from her goblet’s lip.

_Anon._

* * * * *

The Lily on the water sleeping,
Enwreathed with pearl, and bossed with gold,
An emblem is, my love, of thee:
But when she like a nymph is peeping,
To watch her sister-buds unfold,
White shouldered on the flowery lea,
Gazing about in sweet amazement,
Thy image, from the vine-clad casement,
Seems looking out, my love, on me.

_Miller._

* * * * *

Little streams have flowers a many,
Beautiful and fair as any;
Typha strong, and green bur reed,
Willow herb with cotton seed,
Arrow head with eye of jet,
And the Water-Violet;
There the flowering Rush you meet,
And the plumy meadow sweet,
And in places deep and stilly
Marble-like, the Water-Lily.

_Mrs. Howitt._

MARIGOLD.... _Grief_.

The Marigold is the conventional emblem of distress of mind. It is distinguished by many singular properties. It blossoms the whole year, and on that account, the Romans termed it the flower of the calends, or of all the months. Its flowers are open only from nine in the morning till three in the afternoon. They always follow the course of the sun, by turning from east to west as he proceeds upon his daily journey. In July and August these flowers emit, during the night, small luminous sparks. Alone, the Marigold expresses grief; interwoven with other flowers, the varied events of life; the cloud and sunshine of ill and good.

* * * * *

And see the flaunting Marigold,
Gay from its marshy bed unfold
Mid minor lights its disks that shine
Like suns for brightness.

_Anon._

* * * * *

Open afresh your round of starry folds,
Ye ardent Marigolds!
Dry up the moisture of your golden lids.

_Keats._

* * * * *

When, with a serious musing, I behold
The grateful and obsequious Marigold,
How duly, every morning, she displays
Her open breast when Phœbus spreads his rays;
How she observes him in his daily walk
Still bending towards him her small slender stalk;
How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns,
Bedewed as ’twere with tears till he returns.

_Withers._

* * * * *

I need not say how, one by one,
Love’s flowers have dropped from off love’s chain,
Enough to say that they are gone,
And that they cannot bloom again.

_Miss Landon._

* * * * *

We sometimes see a shadow swiftly skim
In summer o’er the hills and vales of earth:
So transient shades steal o’er the face of mirth,
And frequent tears the brightest eyes bedim.

_MacKellar._

* * * * *

Thine is a grief that wastes the heart,
Like mildew on a tulip’s dyes--
When hope, deferred but to depart,
Loses its smiles but keeps its sighs.

_Miss Landon._

WHITE ROSE.... _I would be single_.

How uneasy is his life
Who is troubled with a wife!
Be she ne’er so fair or comely,
Be she foul or be she homely,
Be she blithe or melancholy,
Have she wit, or have she folly,
Be she prudent, be she squandering,
Be she staid, or be she wandering,
Yet uneasy is his life
Who is married to a wife.

_Cotton._

The White Rose became celebrated in English history as the badge of the house of York, in the War of the Roses. Among the ancients, who considered the Rose as the queen of flowers, it was the custom to crown new-married persons with a chaplet of Red and White Roses; and in the procession of the Corybantes, the goddess Cybele, the protectress of cities, was pelted with White Roses.

* * * * *

A single Rose is shedding
Its lovely lustre meek and pale:
It looks as planted by despair--
So white, so faint--the slightest gale
Might whirl the leaves on high.

_Byron._

YELLOW ROSE.... _Jealousy_.

Pfeffel, a German poet, has pleasingly accounted for the origin of the Yellow Rose, the emblem of envy and jealousy, in the following manner:

Once a White Rose-bud reared her head,
And peevishly to Flora said,
“Look at my sister’s blushing hue--
Pray, mother, let me have it too.”
“Nay, child,” was Flora’s mild reply,
“Be thankful for such gifts as I
Have deemed befitting to dispense--
Thy dower the hue of innocence.”
When did Persuasion’s voice impart
Content and peace to female heart
Where baleful Jealousy bears sway,
And scares each gentler guest away?
The Rose still grumbled and complained,
Her mother’s bounties still disdained.
“Well, then,” said angered Flora--“take”--
She breathed upon her as she spake--
“Henceforth no more in simple vest
Of innocence shalt thou be drest--
Take that which better suits thy mind,
The hue for Jealousy designed!”
The Yellow Rose has from that hour
Borne evidence of Envy’s power.

Is whispering nothing?
Is leaning cheek to cheek?--is meeting noses?
Kissing with inside lip?--stopping the career
Of laughter with a sigh?--(a note infallible
Of breaking honesty:)--horsing foot to foot?--
Skulking in corners?--wishing clocks more swift?--
Hours, minutes?--noon, midnight? and all eyes
Blind with the pin and web, but theirs,--theirs only,
That would unseen be wicked?--is this nothing?
Why, then the world, and all that’s in it, is nothing.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

Thou wondrous yellow fiend!
Temper an antidote with antimony,
And ’tis infectious: Mix jealousy with marriage,
It poisons virtue.

_Davenport._

* * * * *

O jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship,
Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms;
How does thy rancour poison all our softness,
And turn our gentle natures into bitterness!

_Rowe._

* * * * *

Ah! poor unconscious rival maid,
How drearily must thou sicken and fade,
’Neath jealousy’s dark Upas shade!

_Tupper._

RED ROSE.... _Beauty and Love_.

According to ancient fable, the red colour of the Rose may be traced to Venus, whose delicate foot, when she was hastening to the relief of her beloved Adonis, was pierced by a thorn that drew blood,

Which on the White Rose being shed,
Made it for ever after red.

_Herrick._

Miller, the “basket-maker” and poet, gives the following beautiful account of the origin of the Red Rose:--

It was drawing toward the decline of a beautiful summer day, when
the red, round sun was bending down a deep, blue, unclouded sky, to
where a vast range of mountains stretched, summit upon summit, and
in the far distance again rose, pile upon pile, until high over all
towered the god-haunted height of cloud-capt Olympus, rising with
its rounded shoulder, like another world, on the uttermost rim of
the horizon. At the foot of this immense world of untrodden
mountains, opened out a wide, immeasurable forest, stretching far
away, league upon league, with its unexplored ocean of trees, which
were bounded somewhere by another range of unknown mountains, that
again overlooked a vast, silent, and unpeopled world. On the edge
of this pathless desert of trees, and nearest the foot of Olympus,
sat the Queen of Beauty and of Love; with her golden tresses
unbound, and her matchless countenance buried within the palms of
her milk-white hands, and sobbing as if her fond, immortal heart
would break. Beside her was laid the dead body of Adonis, his face
half-hidden beneath the floating fall of her hair, as she bent over
him and wept. Beyond them lay the stiffened bulk of the grim and
grisly boar, his hideous jaws flecked with blood and foam, and his
terrible tusks glittering like the heads of pointed spears, as they
stood out, sharp and white, in the unclouded sunset. Not an
immortal comforter was by: for the far-seeing eye of Jove was fixed
listlessly upon the golden nectar-cup, as it passed from hand to
hand, along the rounded circle of the gods, while they were
recounting the deeds of other days, when they waged war against the
Titans. Even the chariot of Venus stood unyoked at the foot of the
mount; the silken traces lay loosely thrown together upon the
ground, and the white doves were idly hovering round in the air;
for the weeping goddess was so overwhelmed with sorrow, that she
had forgotten to waft her light-winged whisper to the Mount of
Olympus; nor had they received any summons from the charioteer
Love, who lay sleeping upon a bed of Roses, with his bow and arrows
by his side.

In the glade of this vast forest of the old primeval world, whose
echoes had never been startled by the blows of a descending axe,
nor a branch rent from their majestic boles, saving by the dreaded
bolts of the Thunderer, or some earth-shaking storm, which, in his
anger, he had blown abroad, the Goddess of Beauty still continued
to sit, as if unconscious of the savage solitude which surrounded
her; nor did she notice the back-kneed Satyrs, that peered upon her
unrobed loveliness with burning eyes, from many a shadowy recess in
the thick-leaved underwood. Upon the trunks of the mighty and
storm-tortured trees, the sunset here and there flashed down in
rays of molten gold, making their gnarled and twisted stems look as
if they had just issued red-hot from the jaws of some cavern-like
furnace, whose glare the fancy might still trace in a blackened
avenue of trees, up which the red ranks of the consuming lightning
had ages agone marched. Every way, where the lengthened shadows of
evening began to fall in deeper masses, the forest assumed a more
savage look, which was heightened by the noise of some
deadly-tusked boar, as he went snorting and thundering through the
thicket; the growl of the tiger was also heard at intervals, as he
retreated farther into the deepening darkness of the dingles,
mistaking the blazing sunset for some devouring fire. But the eyes
of Venus saw only the pale face of her lover,--she felt only his
chilly and stiffened hand sink colder and deeper into the warm
heart on which she pressed it, and over which her tears fell,
slower or faster, just as the mournful gusts of her sorrow arose or
subsided, and sent the blinding rain from the blue-veined lids that
overhung her clouded eyes; for never had her immortal heart before
been swollen by such an overflowing torrent of grief. But the
warmth of her kisses, which would almost have awakened life in a
statue of marble, fell upon lips now cold as a wintry grave; and
her sighs, which came sweeter than the morning air when it first
arises from its sleep among the Roses, stirred not one of the
clotted ringlets which softened into the yielding whiteness of her
heavenly bosom,--

“She looked upon his lips, and they are pale;
She took him by the hand, and that was cold;
She whispered in his ear a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woful words she told.”

She would have given her immortality but to have heard those lips
murmur and complain, as they had done a few hours before--to have
seen those eyes again burning with disdain, as they flashed back
indignantly the warm advances of her love. She pictured him as he
had that very morning stood, in all the pride of youthful manliness
and beauty, when he looked down, blushing and abashed, as he held
his boar-spear in his hand, when she threw the studded bridle over
her own rounded and naked arm, and the proud courser pricked up his
ears with delight, and shook his braided mane, while his long tail
streamed out like a banner, and his proud eye dilated, and his
broad nostrils expanded, as he went trampling haughtily on, proud
to be led by the Queen of Beauty and of Love. She pictured the
Primrose bank on which he lay twined reluctantly in her arms, how
he tried to conceal his face, this way, and that way, among the
flowers, whenever she attempted to press his lips,--

“While on each cheek appeared a pretty dimple:
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple.”
She recalled his attitude as he untwined himself from her embrace,
and hurried off in pursuit of his steed, which had snapped the rein
that secured it to the branch of a neighbouring oak, and started at
full speed down one of the wild avenues of the forest. In fancy she
again saw him, as he sat panting upon the ground, weary with the
fruitless pursuit; and how, kneeling down, she then

“Took him gently by the hand,
A lily prisoned in a jail of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster band:
So white a friend engirt so white a foe;
A beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
Showed like two silver doves that sat a-billing.”

And as she looked upon him, she imagined that his lips moved again,
as when they said, “Give me my hand, why dost thou feel it?” she
fancied she again felt his face upon her cheek--his kisses upon her
lips, as when she fell down and feigned herself dead; the while he
bent her fingers, and felt her pulse, and endeavoured by a hundred
endearments and tender expressions, to restore her. And how, when
she pretended to recover, she paid him back again with unnumbered
kisses, whilst he, wearied with opposing her, no longer offered any
resistance; and how, at last, he broke from her fair arms, and,
darting down the “dark lawn,” left her seated alone upon the
ground.

As picture after picture rose before her of what had been, and
every close pressure of the cold, inanimate, but still dearly-loved
form, told her what the hand of death had done, and that those
very “hopes and fears which are akin to love” were now for ever
darkened and extinguished; she burst forth into such a loud,
wailing lamentation, that the sound found its way unto Olympus, and
fell upon the ever-open ear of Jove, who, in a moment, dashed the
golden nectar-cup upon the ground, which he was about uplifting to
his lips, and sprang upon his feet. There was a sound of hurrying
to and fro over the mountain-summits, which sloped down to the edge
of the forest--of gods and goddesses passing through the air--of
golden chariots, that went whistling along like the wind, as they
cleft their rapid way--and the flapping of dark, immortal wings,
between which many a beautiful divinity was seated. The golden
clouds of sunset gathered red and ominously about the rounded
summit of Olympus, and a blood-red light glared upon such parts of
the forest as were not darkened by the deepening shadows of the
approaching twilight,--for the Thunderer had stamped his immortal
foot, and jarred the mighty mountain to its very base. And now, in
that forest glade, which but a few moments before was so wild and
desolate,--where only the forms of the grisly boar, the dead
Adonis, and the weeping Goddess of Beauty broke the level lines of
the angry sunset, were assembled the stern Gods, and the weeping
Graces, and the fluttering Loves that ever hover around the chariot
of Venus. With bleeding feet and drooping head,--wan, and cold, and
speechless,--was the Goddess of Beauty lifted into her golden
chariot, and, with the dead body of Adonis, wafted by her silver
and silent-winged doves to Mount Olympus. And then a deep darkness
settled down upon the forest. When the next morning’s sun arose
and gilded those silent glades, the Roses, on which the blood of
the Goddess of Beauty had fallen, and which were ever before white,
were changed into a delicate crimson; and wherever a tear had
fallen, there had sprung up a flower which the earth had never
before borne, and that was the Lily of the Valley; and wherever a
ruddy drop had fallen from the death-wound of Adonis sprang up the
red flower which still beareth his name. Even the white
apple-blossoms, which he clutched in his agony, ever after wore the
ruddy stain which they caught from his folded fingers; and the
drowsy Poppy grew up everywhere around the spot, as if to denote
that the only consolation which can be found for sorrow is the
long, unbroken sleep of death. Thus the Rose, which was before
white, became red, and was ever after dedicated to Beauty and Love.

Its beautiful tint is traced to another source by a modern poet:

As erst in Eden’s blissful bowers,
Young Eve surveyed her countless flowers,
An opening Rose of purest white
She marked with eye that beamed delight,
Its leaves she kissed, and straight it drew
From beauty’s lip the vermeil hue.

_Carey._

The poets have not exaggerated the beauty of the red-hued Rose. She would be crowned Queen of the Flowers by the most unpoetical. The emblem of all ages, the interpreter of all our feelings, the Rose mingles with our festivities, our joys, and our griefs. Its fragrance is as delightful as its hues; and no truer emblem of love and beauty could have been chosen.

I have cherished
A love for one whose beauty would have charmed
In Athens. And I know what ’tis to love
A spiritual beauty, and behind the foil
Of an unblemished loveliness, still find
Charms of a higher order, and a power
Deeper and more resistless. Had I found
Such thoughts and feelings, such a clear deep stream
Of mind in one whom vulgar men had thrown
As a dull pebble from them, I had loved
Not with a love less fond, nor with a flame
Of less devotion.

_Percival._

* * * * *

There’s no miniature
In her face, but is a copious theme,
Which would, discoursed at large of, make a volume.
What clear arched brows! what sparkling eyes! the lilies
Contending with the roses in her cheeks,
Who shall most set them off. What ruby lips!--
Or unto what can I compare her neck,
But to a rock of crystal? Every limb
Proportioned to love’s wish, and in their neatness
Add lustre to the richness of her habit,
Not borrowed from it.

_Massinger._

PEONY.... _Anger_.

The Peony is chosen as the emblem of Anger from its red and fiery hues. It is a large double flower, and presents a superb appearance; but is almost destitute of scent.

I am burned up with inflaming wrath;
A rage, whose heat hath this condition,
That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,
The blood, and dearest valued blood, of France.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

The wildest ills that darken life
Are rapture to the bosom’s strife;
The tempest, in its blackest form,
Is beauty to the bosom’s storm;
The ocean, lashed to fury loud,
Its high wave mingling with the cloud,
Is peaceful, sweet serenity,
To anger’s dark and stormy sea.

_J. W. Eastburne._

* * * * *

Oh, that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth!
Then with a passion would I shake the world.

_Shakspeare._

NETTLES.... _Cruelty_.

Nettles may be considered the appropriate emblem of cruelty. How often, while in search of flowers, have we felt the sting of these unrelenting plants! We call that punishment cruel which visits us without our doing an injury which deserves it; and, as we never wished to be in the vicinity of the Nettles, nor, therefore, to injure them, our boyish fancy looked upon them as cruel.

* * * * *

Spare not the babe,
Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy;
Think it a bastard, whom the oracle
Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut,
And mince it sans remorse.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

Do not insult calamity;
It is a barbarous grossness to lay on
The weight of scorn, where heavy misery
Too much already weighs men’s fortunes down.

_Daniel._

* * * * *

Oh, he’s accurst from all that’s good,
Who never knew Love’s healing power;
Such sinner on his sins must brood,
And wait alone his hour.
If stranger to earth’s beauty--human love,
There is no rest below, nor hope above.

_Dana._

COLUMBINE.... _Desertion_.

Bring Lilies for a maiden’s grave,
Roses to deck the bride,
Tulips for all who love through life
In brave attire to ride:
Bring each for each, in bower and hall,
But cull the Columbine for all.

“The Columbine? full many a flower
Hath hues more clear and bright,
Although she doth in purple go,
In crimson, pink, and white.
Why, when so many fairer shine,
Why choose the homely Columbine?”

Examine well each floweret’s form,--
Read ye not something more
Than curl of petal--depth of tint?
Saw ye ne’er aught before
That claims a fancied semblance there.
Amid those modelled leaves so fair?

Know ye the cap which Folly wears
In ancient masques and plays?
Does not the Columbine recall
That toy of olden days?
And is not folly reigning now
O’er many a wisdom-written brow?

’Tis Folly’s flower, that homely one;
That universal guest
Makes every garden but a type
Of every human breast;
For though ye tend both mind and bower,
There’s still a nook for Folly’s flower.

Then gather roses for the bride,
Twine them in her bright hair,
But, ere the wreath be done--oh! let
The Columbine be there.
For rest ye sure that follies dwell
In many a heart that loveth well.

Gather ye laurels for the brow
Of every prince of song!
For all, to whom philosophy
And wisdom do belong.
But ne’er forget to intertwine
A flower or two of Columbine.

Forget it not;--for even they,
The oracles of earth,
Mid all their wealth of golden thoughts,
Their wisdom and their worth,
Sometimes play pranks beneath the sky,
Would scarce become e’en such as I!

Weave ye an armful of that plant,
Choosing the darkest flowers,
With that red, blood-dipped wreath ye bring
The devastating powers
Of warrior, conqueror, or chief;
Oh! twine that full of Folly’s leaf!

And do ye ask me why this flower
Is fit for every brow?
Tell me but one where Folly ne’er
Hath dwelt, nor dwelleth now,
And I will then the laurel twine,
Unmingled with the Columbine.

_Louisa A. Twamley._

PASSION FLOWER.... _Faith_.

In the Passion Flower, we find a representation of the crown of thorns, the scourge, the cross, the sponge, the nails, and the five wounds of Christ. Hence its name and signification.

* * * * *

One more plant----
Which, consecrate to Salem’s peaceful King,
Though fair as any gracing beauty’s bower,
Is linked to sorrow like a holy thing,
And takes its name from suffering’s fiercest hour.
Be this my noblest theme--Imperial Passion Flower!
Whatever impulse first conferred that name,
Or Fancy’s dream, or Superstition’s art,
I freely own its spirit-touching claim,
With thoughts and feelings it may well impart.

_Barton._

* * * * *

Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of death,
To break the shock blind nature cannot shun,
And lands thought smoothly on the further shore.

_Young._

* * * * *

True faith nor biddeth nor abideth form.
The bended knee, the eye uplift is all
Which man need render; all which God can bear.
What to the faith are forms? A passing speck,
A crow upon the sky.

_Bailey._

* * * * *

Faith is the subtle chain
That binds us to the Infinite: the voice
Of a deep life within, that will remain
Until we crowd it thence.

_Mrs. E. Oakes Smith._

* * * * *

Naught shall prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings.

_Wordsworth._

* * * * *

Ah, no! my dying lips shall close,
Unaltered love, as faith professing;
Nor (praising Him who life bestows)
Forget who makes that life a blessing.
My last address to Heaven is due;--
My last but one I give to you.

_Lovibond._

PINK.... _Pure Love_.

The primitive Pink is simple red or white, and scented; but cultivation has varied the colour from the darkest purple to the purest white. Under all its diversities, however, it retains its delicious, spicy fragrance, and hence has been made the emblem of woman’s love, which no circumstance can change. Florists designate two principal divisions of these flowers, Pinks and Carnation. The former are marked by a spot resembling an eye, and by a more humble growth. The flower of the Carnation is much larger than that of the Pink, and of a deeper hue. The Carnation was called by some of the old English writers the clove-gilly flower, from its perfume resembling that of cloves.

* * * * *

She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought;
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat (like Patience on a monument)
Smiling at grief.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

It is a fearful thing,
To love as I love thee; to feel the world--
The bright, the beautiful, joy giving world--
A blank without thee. Never more to me
Can hope, joy, fear, wear different seeming. Now
I have no hope that does not dream for thee;
I have no joy that is not shared by thee;
I have no fear that does not dread for thee.

_L. E. L._

* * * * *

Alas! the love of woman! it is known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,
And, if ’tis lost, life has no more to bring
To them but mockeries of the past alone.

_Byron._

SENSITIVE PLANT.... _Chastity_.

This singular plant is so named from its motions imitating the sensibility of animal life. It contracts itself in the evening and expands with the morning light, and shrinks from external violence, folding up its leaves at the mere approach of one’s hand. The Violet is the emblem of that retiring modesty which proceeds from reflection, but the Sensitive Plant is a perfect image of innocence and virgin modesty, the result of instinct.

* * * * *

So dear to heaven is saintly chastity,
That when a soul is found sincerely so,
A thousand liveried angels lackey her,
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt.

_Milton._

* * * * *

Oh! she is colder than the mountain’s snow.
To such a subtile purity she’s wrought,
She’s prayed and fasted to a walking thought:
She’s an enchanted feast, most fair to sight,
And starves the appetite she does invite;
Flies from the touch of sense, and if you dare
To name but love she vanishes to air.

_Crown._

* * * * *

In thy fair brow there’s such a legend writ
Of chastity, as blinds the adulterous eye:
Not the mountain ice,
Congealed to crystals, is so frosty chaste
As thy victorious soul, which conquers man,
And man’s proud tyrant-passion.

_Dryden._

* * * * *

Like the Mimosa shrinking from
The blight of some familiar finger--
Like flowers which but in secret bloom,
Where aye the sheltered shadows linger,
And which beneath the hot noon-ray
Would fold their leaves and fade away--
The flowers of Love in secret cherished,
In loneliness and silence nourished,
Shrink backward from the searching eye,
Until the stem whereon they flourished,
Their shrine, the human heart, has perished,
Although themselves may never die.

_J. G. Whittier._

THYME.... _Activity_.

Among the ancient Greeks, Thyme denoted the graceful elegance of the Attic style; because it covered Mount Hymettus, and gave an aromatic flavour to the honey made there. Those writers who had mastered the Attic style were said “to smell of Thyme.” Flies of all shapes, beetles of all hues, bright butterflies, and vigilant bees for ever surround the flower tufts of Thyme, and they thus seem to teem with life. Activity is a warlike virtue, and is ever associated with true courage. On this notion, the ladies of the days of chivalry embroidered on the scarfs which they presented to their knights the figure of a bee hovering about a sprig of Thyme.

* * * * *

I am not old,--though years have cast
Their shadows on my way;
I am not old,--though youth has passed,
On rapid wings away.
For in my heart a fountain flows,
And round it pleasant thoughts repose;
And sympathies, and feelings high,
Spring like stars on evening’s sky.

_Park Benjamin._

* * * * *

The thrifty Thyme a home can find,
Where smiles the sun, and breathes the wind.

_Mrs. Hale._

* * * * *

Take the instant way;
For honour travels in a strait so narrow,
Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path;
For emulation hath a thousand sons,
That one by one pursue: if you give way,
Or edge aside from the direct forthright,
Like to an entered tide, they all rush by,
And leave you hindmost.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

The keen spirit
Seizes the prompt occasion,--makes the thought
Start into instant action, and at once
Plans and performs, resolves and executes.

_Hannah More._

* * * * *

Come, I have learned, that fearful commenting
Is laden servitor to dull delay;
Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary.
Then fiery expedition be my wing,
Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king!
Go, muster men: my counsel is my shield:
We must be brief, when traitors brave the field.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

Rouse thee! wake thy soul from sadness;
Fail not in the eager strife!
See around the bright earth’s gladness,--
All activity and life!

_Peerbold._

HOLLYHOCK.... _Ambition_.

We have few flowers that contribute more to the ornamenting of large gardens than the Hollyhock, which, from its towering height and seeming love of display, is the emblem of ambition. The flowers are of all hues, from a blackish-purple to a faint white, and, though very beautiful, are without fragrance. They give gayety to the shrubbery until a late season of the year, throwing out a succession of flowers till the arrival of frost.

* * * * *

Yet, press on!
For it shall make you mighty among men;
And, from the eyrie of your eagle thought,
Ye shall look down on monarchs. Oh! press on!
For the high ones and powerful shall come
To do you reverence; and the beautiful
Will know the purer language of your soul,
And read it like a talisman of love.
Press on! for it is godlike to unloose
The spirit, and forget yourself in thought.

_Willis._

* * * * *

To the expanded and aspiring soul,
To be but still the thing it long has been,
Is misery, e’en though enthroned it were
Under the cope of high imperial state.

_Joanna Baillie._

* * * * *

Ay,--father!--I have had those earthly visions
And noble aspirations in my youth,
To make my own the mind of other men,
The enlightener of nations: and to rise
I knew not whither--it might be to fall;
But fall, even as the mountain cataract,
Which having leapt from its more dazzling height,
Even in the foaming strength of its abyss,
Lies low but mighty still.--But this is past,
My thoughts mistook themselves.

_Byron._

* * * * *

I loved to hear the war-horn cry,
And panted at the drum’s deep roll;
And held my breath, when--flaming high--
I saw our starry banners fly,
As, challenging the haughty sky,
They went like battle o’er my soul;
For I was so ambitious then,
I burned to be the slave--of men.

_John Neal._

* * * * *

Know thou ambition is a restless flame,
Which ever strives to reach the high-placed stars!

_Peerbold._

* * * * *

Ambition takes a thousand shapes among
Our race of Time’s most valued toys, and yet
In court, in camp, in school, and mid the buzz
Of eager trade her spirit is the same.

_C. Watson._

LAUREL.... _Glory_.

Among the ancient Greeks and Romans, the Laurel was consecrated to every species of glory. The beautiful shrub grows abundantly at Delphi, on the banks of the river Peneus. There its aromatic and evergreen branches shoot up to the height of the loftiest trees; and it is alleged that, by means of some secret virtue, they avert lightning from the spots which they adorn.