Chapter III: Part 3

According to ancient fable, Daphne was the daughter of the river Peneus. Apollo fell in love with her, but she, preferring virtue to the love of the most eloquent of the gods, fled, in order to avoid the seducing magic of his words. Apollo pursued, and was on the point of overtaking her, when the nymph invoked her father, and was changed into a Laurel. The god, finding that he clasped an insensible tree in his arms, kissed its bright leaves. “Since thou canst not be my spouse,” said he, “thou shalt, at least, be my tree.” Thence-forward the Laurel was sacred to Apollo.

* * * * *

Ambition! ambition! I’ve laughed to scorn
Thy robe and thy gleaming sword;
I would follow sooner a woman’s eye,
Or the spell of a gentle word.
But come with the glory of human mind,
And the light of the scholar’s brow,
And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness,
And alone at thy altar bow.

_Willis._

* * * * *

Give me the trumpet tone of fame,
The victor’s wreath, the hero’s name;
Though bites the steel and clanks the chain,
I would a warrior’s glory gain,
A nation’s pet and idol be,
With slaves to crouch and bend the knee.

_W. H. C._

* * * * *

What is glory? What is fame?
The echo of a long-lost name;
A breath, an idle hour’s brief talk;
The shadow of an arrant naught;
A flower that blossoms for a day,
Dying next morrow;
A stream that hurries on its way,
Singing of sorrow.

_Motherwell._

* * * * *

In poet’s lore, and sentimental story,
It seems as ’twere this life’s supremest aim
For heroes to achieve what men call glory,
And die intoxicate with earth’s acclaim.
Ah me! how little care the dead for breath
Of vain applause that saved them not from death.

_MacKellar._

* * * * *

To die, and leave some worthy work to earth,
Is but a fine transition. ’Tis to leave
A talisman to call the spirit back,
Reft of its ground-born tenement.

_C. Watson._

AMARANTH.... _Immortality_.

The Amaranth is unfading; and it has, therefore, been made the emblem of immortality. In Homer’s time, it was customary to wear crowns of Amaranth at the funerals of distinguished personages. Milton, in his Lycidas, classes it among the flowers that “sad embroidery wear.” In the floral games at Toulouse, the principal prize was a golden Amaranth for the best lyric composition. The Amaranthus hypochondriacus, one of the American species, is better known by the name of Prince’s Feather.

* * * * *

There’s a yearning that’s felt in your heart’s deepest cell,
And silently, vainly, within doth it swell;
And, scorning the hopes of the children of earth,
Seeks the bright home of its heavenly birth;
And that yearning, unquenched in the heart will lie,
Till refreshed by a draught from eternity.

_Miss Larcom._

* * * * *

Oh, listen man!
A voice within us speaks that startling word,
“Man, thou shalt never die!” Celestial voices
Hymn it unto our souls: according harps,
By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great immortality.

_Dana._

* * * * *

Immortal Amaranth! a flower which once
In paradise, fast by the tree of life
Began to bloom; but soon, for man’s offence,
To heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows
And flowers aloft, shading the tree of life.

_Milton._

* * * * *

There are distinctions that will live in heaven,
When time is a forgotten circumstance!
The elevated brow of kings will lose
The impress of regalia, and the slave
Will wear his immortality as free
Beside the crystal waters; but the depth
Of glory in the attributes of God
Will measure the capacities of mind;
And, as the angels differ, will the ken
Of gifted spirits glorify Him more.

_Willis._

* * * * *

Were death annihilation--were this life
A lamp extinguished, ne’er to be relit,--
Then words of deep despondency were fit;
Then man perchance might lift his arm in strife
Against his LORD. Were blessedness of mind
Dependent on the vastness of the heap
Of gold and gems the schemers ’mong mankind
Could gather--then ’twere virtuous to weep.
But ’tis not so. Infinity of time
Is yet to be. Beyond our vision lie
Eternal realms, ineffably sublime
And beautiful.

_MacKellar._

STRAWBERRY.... _Perfection_.

An eminent French author conceived the plan of writing a general history of nature, after the model of the ancients. A Strawberry plant, which, perchance, grew under his window, deterred him from this bold design. He examined the Strawberry, and, in so doing, discovered so many wonders, that he felt convinced the study of a single plant was sufficient to occupy a whole lifetime. He therefore gave up the pompous title which he had meditated for his work, and contented himself with calling it “Studies of Nature.” The flowers of the Strawberry form pretty bouquets; but, as the delicious fruit is preferred to the flower, they are seldom plucked for that purpose. Among the glaciers of the Alps, the plants and flowers of the Strawberry are found in all seasons of the year. The plant seems to possess all the merits of plants, in their greatest perfection. The berries are the favourite accompaniment of the lordly feast and the most exquisite luxury of the rural repast. They vie in freshness and perfume with the buds of the sweetest flowers; delighting the eye, the taste, and smell, at the same time.

* * * * *

Let other bards of angels sing,
Bright suns without a spot;
But thou art no such perfect thing:
Rejoice that thou art not!

_Wordsworth._

* * * * *

She’s noble--noble, one to keep
Embalmed for dreams of fevered sleep.
An eye for nature--taste refined,
Perception swift--and balanced mind,--
And, more than all, a gift of thought
To such a spirit fineness wrought,
That on my ear her language fell
As if each word dissolved a spell.

_Willis._

* * * * *

Oh! do not die, for we shall hate
All women so when you are gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,
When I remember thou wast one.
But yet thou canst not die, I know;
To leave this world behind is death;
But when thou from this world wilt go,
The whole world vapours in thy breath.

_Donne._

* * * * *

Were I to give my frolic fancy play,
I’d sing of her as some angelic sprite,
Who, wandering from her native home of light,
Fatigued, had fallen asleep upon the way;--
I’d fear to wake her, lest she’d plume her wings
And soar away from me and all sublunar things.

_MacKellar._

SUNFLOWER.... _False Riches_.

The Sunflower has been thus named from the resemblance which its broad golden disk and rays bear to the sun. The first Spaniards who arrived in Peru were amazed at the profuse display of gold among the people, but they were still more astonished when, in May, they beheld whole fields covered with these flowers, which they concluded, at first sight, must be of the same precious metal. From this circumstance, and the observation that gold, however abundant, cannot render a person truly rich, the Sunflower has been made the emblem of false wealth. Many of the English poets have adopted the notion that this flower ever turns its face to the sun. Thomson, Moore, Darwin, and Barton make a very fine use of the idea. But it is not a fact. Those flowers which face the east at the opening of day, never turn to the west at the close of it.

* * * * *

Searcher of gold, whose days and nights
All waste away in anxious care,
Estranged from all of life’s delights,
Unlearned in all that is most fair--
Who sailest not with easy glide,
But delvest in the depths of tide,
And strugglest in the foam;
O! come and view this land of graves,
Death’s northern sea of frozen waves,
And mark thee out thy home.

_J. O. Rockwell._

* * * * *

Think’st thou the man whose mansions hold
The worldling’s pride, the miser’s gold,
Obtains a richer prize
Than he who in his cot, at rest,
Finds heavenly peace a willing guest,
And bears the earnest in his breast
Of treasure in the skies?

_Mrs. Sigourney._

* * * * *

Is all that heart requires, accomplished when
A heap of wealth is gathered at our door?
How thirsts the yearning soul for something more,
Some good that lies beyond its keenest ken!

_MacKellar._

* * * * *

Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine?
Can we dig peace, or wisdom, from the mine?
Wisdom to gold prefer: for ’tis much less
To make our fortune, than our happiness.

_Young._

* * * * *

It’s no in titles nor in rank;
It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It’s no in making muckle mair:
It’s no in books: it’s no in lear,
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest.

_Burns._

HELIOTROPE.... _Devoted Affection_.

The Heliotrope is a native of Peru. It is often confounded with the Sunflower, though it is of a different genus. The blossoms of the Heliotrope form clusters of very small, delicate, fragrant flowers, generally of a faint purple colour or white, sometimes red, or bluish-white. It is a general favourite of the fair sex, and is considered as the emblem of devoted affection, on account of its face being ever turned to the sun, which it seems to worship. The Heliotrope was introduced into Europe in 1740, by the celebrated Jussieu.

* * * * *

As laurel leaves, that cease not to be green,
From parching sonne, nor yet from winter’s threat,--
As hardened oak, that fears no sworde so keen,--
As flint for tool, in twaine that will not fret,--
As fast as rock, or pillar surely set,--
So fast am I to you, and aye have been,
Assuredly whom I cannot forget;
For joy, for paine, for torment, nor for tene;
For loss, for gaine, for frowning, nor for threat;
For ever one, yea, both in calm and blast,
Your faithful love, and will be to the last!

_Old Poet. 1555._

* * * * *

Yet do not think I doubt thee;
I know thy truth remains;
I would not live without thee,
For all the world contains.
Thou art the star that guides me
Along life’s troubled sea;--
Whatever fate betides me,
This heart still turns to thee.

_G. P. Morris._

* * * * *

He on his side
Leaning half-raised, with looks of cordial love
Hung over her enamoured, and beheld
Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces.

_Milton._

* * * * *

Like Ixion,
I look on Juno, feel my heart turn to cinders
With an invisible fire; and yet, should she
Deign to appear clothed in a various cloud,
The majesty of the substance is so sacred
I durst not clasp the shadow. I behold her
With adoration, feast my eye, while all
My other senses starve; and, oft frequenting
The place which she makes happy with her presence,
I never yet had power, with tongue or pen,
To move her to compassion, or make known
What ’tis I languish for; yet I must gaze still,
Though it increase my flame.

_Massinger._

MIGNONETTE.... _Your Qualities surpass your Charms_.

The Mignonette was introduced into Europe from Egypt, in 1750. It flowers from the beginning of spring until the end of autumn. Linnæus, who gave it the name of _Reseda odorata_, compares its perfume with that of ambrosia.

* * * * *

No gorgeous flowers the meek Reseda grace,
Yet sip, with eager trunk, yon busy race
Her simple cup, nor heed the dazzling gem
That beams in Fritillaria’s diadem.

_Evans._

* * * * *

I see her now within my view,--
A spirit, yet a woman too!--
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which do meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food.

_Wordsworth._

* * * * *

Time has small power
O’er features the mind moulds. Roses where
They once have bloomed a fragrance leave behind;
And harmony will linger on the wind;
And suns continue to light up the air,

_Your qualities surpassing your charms, have drawn from me a confession of pure love._]

When set; and music from the broken shrine Breathes,
it is said, around whose altar-stone His flower the votary has ceased to
twine:--Types of the beauty that, when youth is gone, Breathes from the
soul whose brightness mocks decline.

_George Hill._

* * * * *

Rudely thou wrongest my deare heart’s desire,
In finding fault with her too portly pride;
The thing which I do most in her admire,
Is of the world unworthy most envied.
For in those lofty looks is close implied
Scorn of base things,--disdain of foul dishonour,
Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide
That loosely they ne dare to look upon her!

_Spenser._

JASMINE.... _Amiability_.

The Jasmine is a happy emblem of an amiable disposition. In all situations, it suffers the gardener to train its slender branches into any form he chooses: most commonly forming a living tapestry for arbours and garden walls, and everywhere throwing out a profusion of delicate and charming flowers, which perfume the air. The poets have showered their praise upon this plant, and all unite in considering it the emblem of the winsome quality of amiability. After paying a glowing tribute to the beauty and sweetness of the Violet, Thomas Miller, the “basket-maker” poet, thus speaks of the Jasmine:--

Stepping further into summer, comes the star-white Jasmine,--that sweet perfumer of the night, which only throws out its full fragrance when its sister stars are keeping watch in the sky; as if, when the song of the nightingale no longer cheered the darkness, it sent forth its silent aroma upon the listening air. Many a happy home does it garland, and peeps in at many a forbidden lattice, where Love and Beauty repose. Little did the proud courtiers and stately dames of Queen Elizabeth’s day dream that this sweet-scented creeper (a sprig of which seemed to make the haughty haughtier still) would one day become so common as to cluster around and embower thousands of humble English cottages,--a degradation which, could they but have witnessed, would almost have made every plait of their starched ruffs bristle up, like “quills upon the fretful porcupine.” Beautiful are its long, drooping, dark-green shoots, trailing around the trellis-work of a door-way, like a green curtain embroidered with silver flowers; while here and there the queenly Moss-Rose, creeping in and out like the threads of a fanciful tapestry, its crimson face amid the embowered green,--a beautiful lady peeping through a leaf-clad casement.

* * * * *

A lover on the Indian Sea,
Sighing for her left far behind,
Inhaled the scented Jasmine tree,
As it perfumed the evening wind:
Shoreward he steered at dawn of day,
And saw the coast all round embowered,
And brought a starry sprig away,
For her by whose green cot it flowered.

And oft when from that scorching shore,
In after years those odours came,
He pictured his green cottage door,
The shady porch, and window-frame,
Far, far away, across the foam:
The very Jasmine-flower that crept
Round the thatched roof about his home,
Where she he loved then safely slept.

_Miller._

WOODBINE, OR HONEYSUCKLE.... _Affection_.

This elegant, climbing shrub at once delights the eye and gratifies the smell, by the exquisite fragrance of its blossoms; while it confers on those humble dwellings in the rural districts of England and America, a character of cheerfulness unknown in other countries. It begins to flower in May, and puts forth its blossoms until the end of summer. It is chosen as the emblem of affection, from its clinging to trees and lattices with all the ardour and constancy of a weak, confiding woman, clinging to one of the stronger, sterner sex, in prosperity and in adversity.

* * * * *

Copious of flowers, the woodbine pale and wan,
But well compensating her sickly looks
With never-cloying odours, early and late.

_Cowper._

* * * * *

Sister, sister, what dost thou twine?
I am weaving a wreath of the wild Woodbine;
I have streaked it without like the sunset hue,
And silvered it white with the morning dew:
And there is not a perfume which on the breeze blows
From the lips of the Pink or the mouth of the Rose,
That’s sweeter than mine--that’s sweeter than mine:
I have mingled them all in my wild Woodbine.

_Miller._

* * * * *

A Honeysuckle, on the sunny side,
Hung round the lattices its fragrant trumpets.

_Miss Landon._

* * * * *

Ah! could you look into my heart,
And watch your image there!
You would own the sunny loveliness
Affection makes it wear.

_Mrs. Osgood._

* * * * *

The pensive soul with ardent thirsting turns
To heaven and earth to seek its fill of love.

_MacKellar._

* * * * *

Oh! there is one affection which no stain
Of earth can ever darken;--when two find,
The softer and the manlier, that a chain
Of kindred taste has fastened mind to mind.
’Tis an attraction from all sense refined;
The good can only know it; ’tis not blind,
As love is unto baseness; its desire
Is but with hands entwined to lift our being higher.

_Percival._

COWSLIP.... _Pensiveness_.

The solitary Cowslip was known to the old English poets as the “sweet nun of the fields,” and has been immortalized in “Shakspeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.” In America, the Cowslip may be found from Maine to Missouri. Its hues are not gaudy, but winning; and the whole appearance of the flower, as it blooms in some solitary vale, or on some gentle slope, expresses the idea of pensive beauty.

* * * * *

The rose its blushes need not lend,
Nor yet the lily with them blend,
To captivate my eyes:
Give me a cheek the heart obeys,
And, sweetly mutable, displays
Its feelings as they rise;
Features, where pensive, more than gay,
Save when a rising smile doth play,
The sober thoughts you see;
Eyes that all soft and tender seem,
And kind affections round them beam,
But most of all on me.

_Frisbie._

* * * * *

There is a mood,
(I sing not to the vacant and the young,)
There is a kindly mood of melancholy
That wings the soul, and points her to the skies.

_Dyer._

* * * * *

Oh! fragrant dwellers of the lea,
When first the wildwood rings
With each sound of vernal minstrelsy,
When fresh the green grass springs!
What can the blessed spring restore
More gladdening than your charms?
Bringing the memory once more
Of lovely fields and farms!
Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers;
Of life’s unfolding prime;
Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours;
Of souls without a crime.
Oh! blessed, blessed do ye seem,
For, even now, I turned,
With soul athirst for wood and stream,
From streets that glared and burned.
From the hot town, where mortal care
His crowded fold doth pen;
Where stagnates the polluted air
In many a sultry den.
And ye are here! and ye are here!
Drinking the dew-like wine,
Midst living gales and waters clear,
And heaven’s unstinted shine.
I care not that your little life
Will quickly have run through,
And the sward, with summer children rife,
Keep not a trace of you.
For again, again, on dewy plain,
I trust to see you rise,
When spring renews the wildwood strain,
And bluer gleam the skies.
Again, again, when many springs
Upon my grave shall shine,
Here shall you speak of vanished things,
To living hearts of mine.

_Mrs. Howitt._

* * * * *

Blest are the pure and simple hearts,
Unconsciously refined,
By the free gifts that Heaven imparts
Through nature to the mind;
Not all the pleasures wealth can buy
Equal their happy destiny.

_Mrs. Wells._

* * * * *

O Nature! a’ thy shows an’ forms
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!
Whether the simmer kindly warms,
Wi’ life an’ light.
Or winter howls, in gusty storms,
The lang, dark night!

_Burns._

* * * * *

Melancholy
Sits on me, as a cloud along the sky,
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet
Descend in rain, and end; but spreads itself
’Twixt heaven and earth, like envy between man
And man--an everlasting mist.

_Byron._

FORGET-ME-NOT.

The name of this flower expresses clearly enough the meaning which is given to it. As a remembrancer it is universally received and eulogized. The name is derived from a German tradition, full of melancholy romance. It is related that a young couple, on the eve of being united, while walking along the banks of the Danube, saw a cluster of these flowers, floating on the stream, which was bearing it away. The affianced bride admired the beauty of the flower, and lamented its fatal destiny. The lover plunged into the water to secure it. No sooner had he caught it than he found himself sinking; but, making a last effort, he threw it on the bank at the feet of his betrothed, and, at the moment of disappearing for ever, exclaimed, “_Vergiss mein nicht!_” Since that event, this flower has been made emblematical of the sentiment, Forget-me-not. Its corollas are of a soft cerulean-blue colour, and it presents an interesting appearance as it grows along the banks of the rivers. The Forget-me-not is found in great perfection on the banks of a small stream near Luxembourg, in France. The stream is called the Fairies’ Bath, and its banks are the favourite resort of festive parties.

* * * * *

That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,
Hope’s gentle gem--the fair Forget-me-not.

_Coleridge._

* * * * *

Not on the mountain’s shelving side,
Nor in the cultivated ground,
Nor in the garden’s painted pride,
The flower I seek is found.
Where Time on sorrow’s page of gloom
Has fixed its envious lot,
Or swept the record from the tomb,
It says Forget me not.
And this is still the loveliest flower,
The fairest of the fair,
Of all that deck my lady’s bower,
Or bind her floating hair.

_Göthe._

* * * * *

Together they sate by a river’s side,
A knight and a lady gay,
And they watched the deep and eddying tide
Round a flowery islet stray.
And, “Oh! for that flower of brilliant hue,”
Said then the lady fair,
“To grace my neck with the blossoms blue
And braid my nut-brown hair!”
The knight has plunged in the whirling wave
All for his lady’s smile:
And he swims the stream with courage brave,
And he gains yon flowery isle.
And his fingers have cropped the blossoms blue,
And the prize they backward bear;
To deck his love with the brilliant hue
And braid her nut-brown hair.
But the way is long, and the current strong,
And alas for that gallant knight!
For the waves prevail, and his stout arms fail,
Though cheered by his lady’s sight.
Then the blossoms blue to the bank he threw,
Ere he sank in the eddying tide;
And “Lady, I’m gone, thine own knight true,
Forget me not,” he cried.
This farewell pledge the lady caught;
And hence, as legends say,
The flower is a sign to awaken thought
In friends who are far away.
For the lady fair of her knight so true,
Still remembered the hapless lot:
And she cherished the flower of brilliant hue,
And she braided her hair with the blossoms blue
And then called it “Forget-me-not!”

_Mant._

* * * * *

To flourish in my favourite bower,
To blossom round my cot,
I cultivate the little flower
They call Forget-me-not.
This pretty little floweret’s dye
Of soft cerulean blue,
Appears as if from Ellen’s eye
It had received its hue.
Though oceans now betwixt us roar,
Though distant be our lot,
Ellen! though we should meet no more,
Sweet maid, Forget me not!

_Anon._

* * * * *

Forget thee, love?--no, not while heaven
Spans its starred vault across the sky;
Oh, may I never be forgiven,
If e’er I cause that heart a sigh!
Sooner shall the Forget-me-not
Shun the fringed brook by which it grows,
And pine for some sequestered spot,
Where not a silver ripple flows.
By the blue heaven that bends above me,
Dearly and fondly do I love thee!
They fabled not in days of old
That Love neglected soon will perish,--
Throughout all time the truth doth hold
That what we love we ever cherish,
For when the Sun neglects the Flower,
And the sweet pearly dews forsake it,
It hangs its head, and from that hour,
Prays only unto Death to take it.
So may I droop, by all above me,
If once this heart doth cease to love thee!
The turtle-dove that’s lost its mate,
Hides in some gloomy greenwood shade,
And there alone mourns o’er its fate,
With plumes for ever disarrayed:
Alone! alone! it there sits cooing:--
Deem’st thou, my love, what it doth seek?
’Tis Death the mournful bird is wooing,
In murmurs through its plaintive beak.
So will I mourn, by all above me,
If in this world I cease to love thee!

_Miller._

ROSEMARY.... _Remembrance_.

The Rosemary is so often mentioned by our early writers, both in prose, poetry, and our oldest dramas, that a long article, possessing great interest to such as love old-fashioned things, might be written upon it. The Rosemary was used both at their feasts and their funerals,--the christening-cup was stirred with it, and it was worn at their marriage ceremonies. Shakspeare has chosen it for the emblem of Remembrance, and who would attempt to change the meaning of a flower which his genius has hallowed, or disturb a leaf over which he has breathed his holy “superstition?”--in memory of him we use the latter word in all reverence. A few years ago it was customary, in many parts of England, to plant slips of Rosemary over the dead; nor has the practice yet fallen altogether into disuse--rural cemeteries will revive these ancient customs. Shakspeare chose the Rosemary as the emblem of affectionate remembrance, for its flowering in winter,--a very poetic and touching allusion. The sweet maniac, Ophelia, says,

There’s Rosemary, “That for remembrance,
I pray you love, remember.”

I loved thee, and must love thee still,
In memory of the past
Amid whate’er of earthly ill
My future lot is cast!
E’er in my boyhood’s sunny prime,
When brightly from the urn of Time
Life’s golden moments fell,
Thou wert a peri to my eyes,
Sent from Love’s own sweet paradise,
In my young heart to dwell.

_New York Mirror._

* * * * *

Remember me, I pray; but not
In Flora’s gay and blooming hour,
When every brake hath found its note,
And sunshine smiles in every flower;
But when the falling leaf is sere,
And withers sadly from the tree,
And o’er the ruins of the year
Cold autumn weeps,--remember me.

_Edward Everett._

* * * * *

The north wind howls; but, sheltered safe, and warm,
Howl as it may, we feel secure from danger:
The fire burns blue, “betokening a storm”--
A brand falls down, “precursor of a stranger.”
My thoughtful mind runs o’er the track of years,
When, tongs in hand, at our old hearth I sat,
And poked the embers, till my mother’s fears
Broke in upon the usual social chat,
“You’ll fire the chimney, son!” The sparks would fly,
Like little lumps of lightning up the flue,
And snap and crackle as they soared on high,
As if they felt some pleasure in it too!
That fire is out--that hearth is cold--and they
Who felt its pleasant warmth have mostly passed away.

_MacKellar._

ANEMONE.... _Forsaken_.

Anemone was a nymph, beloved by Zephyr. Flora, jealous of her, banished her from her court and transformed her into a flower, that blows before the return of spring. Zephyr has abandoned this unhappy beauty to the rude caresses of Boreas, who, unable to gain her love, harshly shakes her, half opens her blossoms, and causes her immediately to fade. An Anemone, with these words, _Brevis est usus_--“Her reign is short”--is touchingly expressive of the transitory nature of beauty.

In spring the green woods of merry England are covered with the flowers of the Anemone. Turn the eye whichever way you will, there it greets you like “a pleasant thought;” it forms a bed of flowers around the foot of the mighty oak, and below the tangling brambles, which you may peep between, but cannot pass,--there, also, are its pearly blossoms bending. The Greeks named it the flower of the Wind, and so plentiful is it in our country that we might fancy the breeze had blown it everywhere. The gaudy Anemone of the garden, the emblem of forsaken love, is known to all; but our favourites are the uncultivated offspring of the windy woods, which come long before the broad green leaves hang overhead to shelter them.

* * * * *

All flowers will droop in absence of the sun
That waked their sweets.

_Dryden._

* * * * *

Farewell! I’ve loved thee much!--I feel
That my idolatry was deep;
I know my heart can never heal,
Till in the grave my passions sleep.
Yet I upbraid thee not, my love;
’Twas all I had to offer thee,
Love in its own simplicity.
How could I deem thou wouldst approve?
How hope to draw an angel from above?

_Willis._

ACACIA.... _Friendship_.

The Acacia is a native of North America, from Canada to the Carolinas, and was consecrated by the Indians to the goddess of chaste love. Their bows were made of the incorruptible wood of this tree, and their arrows were pointed with its thorns. About a century ago, this tree was introduced into France by Robin, the botanist. It is a large, handsome tree, of quick growth, elegant foliage, and beautiful, rose-coloured blossoms.

* * * * *

Celestial happiness! Whene’er she stoops
To visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds,
And one alone, to make her sweet amends
For absent heaven--the bosom of a friend,
Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft,
Each other’s pillow to repose divine.

_Young._

* * * * *

The friend
Who smiles when smoothing down the lonely couch,
And does kind deeds, which any one can do
Who has a feeling spirit,--such a friend
Heals with a searching balsam.

_Percival._

* * * * *

Lay this into your breast:
Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.

_Webster._

* * * * *

O summer friendship,
Whose flattering leaves, that shadowed us in
Our prosperity, with the least gust drop off
In the autumn of adversity!

_Massinger._

* * * * *

When thou art near,
The sweetest joys still sweeter seem,
The brightest hopes more bright appear,
And life is all one happy dream,
When thou art near.

_Robert Sweney._

* * * * *

That friendship’s raised on sand,
Which every sudden gust of discontent,
Or flowing of our passions, can change
As if it ne’er had been.

_Massinger._

MOSS.... _Maternal Love_.

Moss is selected to be the emblem of maternal love, because, like that love, it glads the heart when the winter of adversity overtakes us, and when summer friends have deserted us. Rousseau, so long the prey of his own passions, and tormented by those of other men, soothed the latter years of his life by the study of nature. The Mosses, in particular, attracted his attention. It is these, he would say, that give a look of youth and freshness to the fields, at the moment when the flowers have gone to their graves. In winter the Mosses offer to the eye of the lover of nature their carpet of emerald green, their secret nuptials, and the charming mysteries of the urns and amphoræ which enclose their posterity. It is asserted that without the Mosses, part of our globe would be uninhabitable. At the northern extremity of the earth, the Laplanders cover their subterranean abodes with Moss, and thus defy the longest and most terrible winters. Their numerous herds of reindeer have no other food, yet they supply their owners with delicious milk, nutritious flesh, and warm clothing; thus combining for the poor Laplander all the advantages that we derive from the horse, cow, and sheep.

* * * * *

There is none
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
A mother’s heart.

_Mrs. Hemans._

* * * * *

The docile, swift Reindeer! Oh, when I was a child,
I loved all strange fantastic tales, the wondrous and the wild;
I read about the “Hundred Nights,” in the Arabian Tales,
That tell of Genii, sprites, and dwarfs, of gold and diamond vales.
I read of Eastern gardens and palaces so rare,
And of Sultans and Sultanas, the cruel and the fair.
I read of Robin Crusoe! Ah! how I loved that book!
Nor even yet hath its strong charm wholly my mind forsook.
I read of voyages without end; of travels many too,
And fairy-tales and story-books--of these, good sooth, not few.
But I remember, more than all, I loved to think and hear
Of thee--thou strong and beautiful--thou swift and good Reindeer!
I remember in my earliest home, a dim antique beaufet,
And high upon its many shelves, things manifold were set.
Some piles of dark old books there were, amid the motley crowd,
And when tall enough to reach them, oh! glad was I, and proud.
And there I found old Æsop, whose fables we all know,
And Cookery-books of ancient dates, most grim and well worn too.
These I just peeped at, and put back--and still went groping on
Deep into that small mine of wealth that I so late had won.
Soon with some daring tugs, I brought a lumbering volume slap
Down on the floor! I sat down too, and dragged it on my lap.
The binding was antique and worn--the title-page was out,
And yet the treasure won from me a child’s exultant shout;
For there were pictures many, of beast, and fish, and bird;
And _thou_ wert there, thou good Reindeer, of whom so much I’d heard.
And that great heavy ancient book was such a prize to me!
It told me of the monstrous whale, and the small good honey-bee;
It told me of the elephant, the tiger, the gazelle,
Of the vast luxuriant jungles, and the lone, bright desert well;
Of humming-birds that sip the dew of flowers as they fly,
Of prairies wild, and wide, and green; of snowy mountains high:
I read there of the Northern sea, where iceberg islands float,
And crush the great three-masted ship, as ’twere a cockle-boat;
I read about the harmless seals, and the shaggy Polar bear,
And the mighty troops of hungry wolves that roam and riot there.
I read of Nature’s glorious works, and wondering went on,
And found before me pleasures, whose round will ne’er be done.
And in my good old-fashioned book I read of herb and tree,
That were food for man, and beast and bird, and for the honey-bee.
I read of grove-like banyans, of cedars broad and tall,
Of the lofty towering palm, and the Moss and lichen small.
And then I found how wondrously the poor Reindeer was fed,
When over all his frozen land deep winter’s snow lay spread;
How GOD had bid the barren ground produce this strange small thing,
On which whole countless herds of deer are ever pasturing:
How, in the woods of scattered pine abundantly it grows,
And clothes the earth for many a mile beneath the trackless snows;
How the sagacious Reindeer delves, and scents his onward way,
Till he reaches his scant mossy food, that doth his toil repay.
Oh! see him with his master’s sledge! How swift they glide along,
Like a bird, or a fairy car I’ve read of, in some quaint old song.
Away! o’er the boundless snowy waste, so glittering and bright:
Away!--through the dark pine forest, as gloomy as the night:
Away o’er the frozen lake, the river, and the fen,
Away! Away!--Ye have winsome steeds, ye little Lapland men!
Ay, winsome steeds in sooth, with their antlers branched and high;
So sure of foot, and swift of pace, they truly seem to fly.
Ye need no palace-stables, no saucy pampered grooms,
To stretch your cracking purse-strings, and strut in liveried plumes;
No heavy half-year’s bills, for oats, beans, straw, and hay.
The forest yields them lodgment, and food, where’er they stray.
And thus we find, in every clime, things beautiful and fair,
Each fitted to fulfil its task of use and beauty there;
And I remember thinking so, when, a little child, I read
The history of the good Reindeer, and the Moss whereon they fed.

_Louisa A. Twamley._

* * * * *

Mother! dear mother! the feelings nurst
As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first.
’Twas the earliest link in love’s warm chain--
’Tis the only one that will long remain:
And as year by year, and day by day,
Some friend still trusted drops away,
Mother! dear mother! oh! dost thou see
How the shortened chain brings me nearer thee?

_Willis._

* * * * *

Bishop Mant thus describes the place where Mosses grow:--

On upland hill, in lowland vale,
And where the frigid vapours sail,
Mantling the Alpine mountain hoar,
On granite-rock, or boggy moor,
On peat-clad marsh, or sandy heath,
On hillock’s grassy slope; beneath
The hedge-road fence, and on the bank,
Fringed with the plumed osier dank,
Of streamlet, pool, or waterfall;
On wave-washed stone, on plastered wall;
On tree of forest, or of fruit,
The bark-clad trunk, the heaving root;
Or where the spring with oozing slime
Slides trickling down the rifted lime;
Or where the grav’ly pathway leads
Through shady woods, o’er plashy meads:--
Exulting in the wintry cold,
Their cups the mossy tribes unfold;
Fringed, and beneath a coping hid
Of filmy veil, and convex lid,
On many a thread-like stalk, bespread
With yellow, brown, or crimson red,
In contrast to the leaves of green,
A velvet carpet, where the queen
Of fairies might in triumph lie
And view the elvish revelry;
Soft as the cygnet’s downy plume,
Or produce of the silkworm’s loom,
Survey them by the unaided eye,
And, if the seeds within you lie
Of love for natural beauty true,
They’ll shoot enlivened at the view
Of hair or feather-mantled stem,
The waving stalk, the fringed gem,
Enveloping its chaliced fruit;
So fair, so perfect, so minute,
That bursting forth, the seeds may seem
A floating cloud of vapoury steam.
Or by the microscopic glass
Surveyed, you’ll see how far surpass
The works of nature, in design,
And texture delicately fine,
And perfectness of every part,
Each effort of mimetic art.

A mother’s love--how sweet the name!
What is a mother’s love?
--A noble, pure, and tender flame,
Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould;
The warmest love that can grow cold;
This is a mother’s love.

_Montgomery._

* * * * *

Dear mother, of the thousand strings which waken
The sleeping harp within the human heart,
The longest kept in tune, though oft forsaken,
Is that in which the mother’s voice bears part;
Her still small voice bids e’en the careless ear
To turn with deep and pure delight to hear.

_Miss E. J. Eames._

DANDELION.... _The Rustic Oracle_.

The Dandelion is the most common of flowers. It is found in the four quarters of the globe, near the pole as beneath the equator, on the margin of rivers and streams as well as on sterile rocks. It serves the shepherd instead of a clock, while its feathery tufts are his barometer, predicting calm or storm. The globes formed by the seeds of the Dandelion are used for other purposes. If you are separated from the object of your love, pluck one of those feathery spheres, charge each of the little feathers with a tender thought; turn toward the spot where the loved one dwells; blow, and the aërial travellers will faithfully convey your secret message to his or her feet. If you wish to know if that dear one is thinking of you, blow again; and if a single aigrette is left upon the stalk, it is a proof that you are not forgotten.

As thinks
The mariner of home,
When doomed through many a dreary waste
Of waters yet to roam,--
Thus doth my spirit turn to thee,
My guiding star o’er life’s wild sea.

_Mrs. Embury._

* * * * *

Dandelion, with globe of down,
The schoolboy’s clock in every town,
Which the truant puffs amain,
To conjure lost hours back again.

_Howitt._

PIMPERNEL.... _The Weather-glass_.

THE COUNTRY MAID AND THE PIMPERNEL FLOWER.

“I’ll go and peep at the Pimpernel,
And see if she think the clouds look well;
For if the sun shine,
And ’tis like to be fine,
I shall go to the fair,
For my sweetheart is there:
So, Pimpernel, what bode the clouds and the sky?
If fair weather, no maiden so merry as I.”

Now the Pimpernel flower had folded up
Her little gold star in her coral cup,
And unto the maid
Thus her warning said:
“Though the sun smile down,
There’s a gathering frown
O’er the checkered blue of the clouded sky;
So tarry at home, for a storm is nigh.”

The maid first looked sad and then looked cross,
Gave her foot a fling, and her head a toss;
“Say you so, indeed,
You mean little weed?
You’re shut up for spite,
For the blue sky is bright,
To more credulous people your warnings tell,
I’ll away to the fair;--good day, Pimpernel.”

“Stay at home! quoth the flower?--In sooth, not I;
I’ll don my straw hat with a silken tie;
O’er my neck so fair
I’ll a kerchief wear,
White, chequered with pink,
And then--let me think,
I’ll consider my gown, for I’d fain look well:”
So saying, she stepped o’er the Pimpernel.

Now the wise little flower, wrapped safe from harm,
Sat fearlessly waiting the coming storm;
Just peeping between
Her snug cloak of green,
Lay folded up tight,
Her robe so bright;
Though ’broidered with purple, and starred with gold,
No eye might its bravery then behold.

The fair maiden straight donned her best array,
And forth to the festival hied away;
But scarce had she gone
Ere the storm came on;
And, ’mid thunder and rain,
She cried oft and again,
“Oh! would I had minded yon boding flower,
And were safe at home from the pelting shower.”

Now, maidens, the tale that I tell would say,
Don’t don fine clothes on a doubtful day,
Nor ask advice, when, like many more,
You had “made up your minds” some time before.

_Louisa A. Twamley._

POPPY.... _Consolation_.

The Red Poppy is the floral symbol of consolation. The White Poppy is supposed to express, “My bane, my antidote.” The juice extracted from these plants is employed to soothe the restless invalid to sleep, and to ease the pangs of disease. According to the mythology of the Grecians, the Poppy owed its origin to Ceres, who created it to assuage her grief, during her search after her daughter Proserpine, who was carried off by Pluto. The Poppy is extensively cultivated in Europe, for the purpose of making opium from it. Many species are cultivated in the garden. The double flowers possess surpassing beauty, whether we consider their delicate texture, elegance of shape, or variety of colouring. In the time of Gesner, the celebrated botanist of Switzerland, the village Damons and Chloes proved the sincerity of their lovers by placing in the hollow of the palm of the left-hand, a petal, or flower-leaf of the Poppy, which, on being struck by the other hand, was broken with a sharp sound, which denoted true attachment; but faithlessness, when it failed to snap.

* * * * *

The world has closed its eyes and fallen asleep;
And GOD looks down from His eternal throne
And shuts the eye that long was wont to weep,
And makes the wretched feel they’re not alone.

_MacKellar._

PRIDE AND THE POPPIES.--THEIR GRANDEUR AND FALL.

“We little Red-caps are among the corn,
Merrily dancing at early morn,
We know that the farmer hates to see
Our saucy red faces; but here are we!

“We pay no price for our summer coats,
Like those slavish creatures, barley and oats;
We don’t choose to be ground and eat,
Like our heavy-head neighbour, Gaffer Wheat.

“Who dare thrash _us_, we should like to know!
Grind us, and bag us, and use us so!
Let meaner and shabbier things than we
So stupidly bend to utility!”

So said little Red-cap, and all the rout
Of the Poppy-clan set up a mighty shout;
Mighty for them, but if _you_ had heard
You had thought it the cry of a tiny bird.

So the Poppy-folk flaunted it over the field,
In pride of grandeur they nodded and reeled;
And shook out their jackets, till naught was seen,
But a wide, wide shimmer of scarlet and green.

The Blue-bottle sat on her downy stalk,
Quietly smiling at all their talk.
The Marigold still spread her rays to the sun,
And the purple Vetch climbed up to peep at the fun.

The whimsical Bugloss, vain, beautiful thing,
Whose flowers, like the orient butterfly’s wing,
Are deep, glowing azure, was eager to shed
O’er her yet unoped buds a delicate red;

First crimson, then purple, then loveliest blue;
E’en thrice doth she change her chameleon hue;
And she pities the flowers that grow merrily by,
Because in one dress they must bud, bloom, and die.

The homely Corn-cockle cared nothing, not she,
For the arrogance, bluster, and poor vanity
Of the proud Poppy-tribe, but she flourished and grew,
Content with herself, and her plain purple hue.

The sun went down, and rose bright on the morrow,
To some bringing joy, and to others e’en sorrow,
But blithe was the rich rosy farmer that morn
When he went with his reapers among the corn.

Forth went they betimes, a right merry band,
The sickles were glancing in each strong hand,
And the wealthy farmer came trotting along,
On his stiff little pony, mid whistle and song.

He trotted along, and he cracked his joke,
And chatted and laughed with the harvest-folk;
For the weather was settled, barometers high,
And heavy crops gladdened his practised eye.

“We’ll cut this barley to-day,” quoth he,
As he tied his white pony under a tree,
“Next to the upland wheat, and then the oats.”
How the Poppies shook in their scarlet coats!

Ay, shook with laughter, not fear, for they
Never dreamed they too should be swept away,
And their laughter was spite, to think that all
Their “useful” neighbours were doomed to fall.

They swelled and bustled with such an air,
The corn-fields quite in commotion were,
And the farmer cried, glancing across the grain,
“How those rascally weeds have come up again!”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the Red-caps, “ha! ha! what a fuss
Must the poor _weeds_ be in! how they’re envying _us_!”
But their mirth was cut short by the sturdy strokes
They speedily met from the harvest-folks.

And when low on the earth each stem was laid,
And the round moon looked on the havoc made,
A Blue-bottle propped herself half erect,
And made a short-speech--to this effect.

“My dying kins-flowers, and fainting friends,
The same dire fate alike attends
Those who in scarlet or blue are dressed;
Then how silly the pride that so late possessed

“Our friends the Red-caps! how low they lie,
Who were lately so pert, and vain, and high!
They sneered at us and our plain array;
Are we now a whit more humbled than they?

“They scorned our neighbours:--the goodly corn
Was the butt of their merriment eve and morn,
They lived on its land, from its bounty fed,
But a word of thanks they never have said.

“And which is the worthiest now, I pray?
Have ye not learned enough to-day?
Is not the corn sheafed up with care,
And are not the Poppies left dying there?

“The corn will be carried and garnered up
To gladden man’s heart both with loaf and cup;
And some of the seed the land now yields
Will be brought again to its native fields,

“And grow and ripen and wave next year
As richly as this hath ripened here;
And we poor weeds, though needed not,
Perchance may spring on this very spot.

“But let us be thankful and humble too;
Not proud and vain of a gaudy hue,
Ever remembering, though meanly drest,
That _usefulness_ is of all gifts the best.”

_Louisa A. Twamley._

* * * * *

Will you drink of this fountain, and sorrow forget?
Has the past been so blest that you hesitate yet?
Can love, when ’tis slighted, still cherish a token,
Or hearts still forgive, that unkindness has broken?

_Percival._

* * * * *

From a Poppy I have taken
Mortal’s balm and mortal’s bane;
Juice that, creeping through the heart,
Deadens every sense of smart;
Doomed to heal or doomed to kill,
Fraught with good or fraught with ill.

_Mrs. Robinson._

ACANTHUS.... _The Arts_.

The Acanthus blooms in greatest perfection by the great rivers of hot climates. Among the ancients, it was a favourite, and they adorned their furniture, vases, and costly dresses, with its elegant leaves. When any obstacle obstructs the growth of the Acanthus, it puts forth fresh force and grows with additional vigour. Thus genius is strengthened by the difficulties which it cannot overcome. Callimachus, an ancient architect, derived the idea of the Corinthian capital, from seeing the leaves of an Acanthus surrounding a basket which had been set upon the ground, and impeded the regular growth of the plant.

* * * * *

Tired at first sight with what the muse imparts,
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts,
While from the bounded level of our mind
Short views we take, nor see the length behind;
But, more advanced, behold with strange surprise
New distant scenes of endless science rise.

_Pope._

* * * * *

For though I must confess an artist can
Contrive things better than another man,
Yet when the task is done, he finds his pains
Sought but to fill his belly with his brains.
Is this the guerdon due to liberal arts,
To admire the head and then to starve the parts?
Timely prevention though discreetly used
Before the fruits of knowledge were abused.
When learning has incurred a fearful damp,
To save our oil, ’tis good to quench the lamp.

_Lady Alimony._

* * * * *

She had read
Her father’s well-filled library with profit,
And could talk charmingly. Then she would sing,
And play too, passably, and dance with spirit.
She sketched from nature well, and studied flowers,
Which was enough alone to love her for.
Yet she was knowing in all needlework,
And shone in dairy and in kitchen too,
As in the parlour.

_James N. Barker._

* * * * *

Art became the shadow
Of the dear star-light of thy haunting eyes!
They called me vain, some mad--I heeded not,
But still toiled on, hoped on, for it was surest,
If not to win, to feel more worthy thee.

_Bulwer._

VALERIAN.... _An accommodating Disposition_.

The Valerian was called by some of the old English writers the Setewale. It is generally found growing by ruined walls or buildings, and from the facility with which it propagates in these situations, it is made the emblem of an accommodating disposition. The root of the Valerian is considered a valuable remedy for many of those ailments which spring from luxurious living. It exerts a peculiar influence on the nervous system, revives the spirits, and strengthens the sight. The Valerian is too large and scrambling a plant to hold a place in the parterre of choice flowers.

* * * * *

How much more happy is that sweet estate,
That neither creeps too low nor soars too high;
Which yields no matter for contempt or hate,
Which others not disdain, nor yet envy,
Which neither does nor takes an injury,
But living to itself in sweet content,
Is neither abject, nor yet insolent.

_1629. Herbert._

* * * * *

My country, sir, is not a single spot
Of such a mould, or fixed to such a clime.

_Miller._

MARVEL OF PERU.... _Timidity_.

The Marvel is a native of Peru, and receives its name from the wonderful diversity of colours in flowers of the same root;

Changing from the splendid rose
To the pale violet’s dejected hue.

_Akenside._