Chapter V: Part 5

The heart of kindness seldom sours or curdles;
The cream of love is in it pure and sweet:
With every charm that human nature girdles,
And every grace of gentleness replete,
The man who has a kindly heart is most
In pattern like his LORD; for where the law
Of kindness rules the heart, the virtues draw
Together in companionship, and post
Themselves around that citadel of love.
The kindly man doth always kindly prove:
He has a word of sweetness for the child--
Of pity for the poor--of sympathy
For all who mourn; and truly glad is he
When through his generous care some sorrowing face has smiled.
There’s music ever in the kindly soul,
For every deed of goodness done is like
A chord set in the heart, and joy doth strike
Upon it oft as memory doth unroll
The immortal page whereon good deeds are writ;
And Heaven gives nothing sweeter to the mind
Than memories of the acts that bless our human kind.

_MacKellar._

IVY.... _Constancy._

In Greece the altar of Hymen was enwreathed with Ivy, and a branch of it was presented to the new-married couple, as a symbol of the indissoluble knot. It was sacred to Bacchus, who is represented crowned with Ivy leaves, as well as those of the vine. It formed the crown of the Greek and Roman poets; and, in modern times, has been made the poet’s frequent image of constancy. The Ivy is attached to the earth by its own roots, and derives no nourishment from the substances to which it clings. The protector of ruins, it adorns the dilapidated walls which it holds together; it will not accept every kind of support, but its attachment ends only with its life.

* * * * *

When all things have their trial, you shall find
Nothing is constant but a virtuous mind.

_Shirley._

* * * * *

The mountain rill
Seeks with no surer flow the far, bright sea,
Than my unchanged affections flow to thee.

_Park Benjamin._

* * * * *

I am constant as the northern star;
Of whose true, fixed, and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

Make my breast
Transparent as pure crystal, that the world,
Jealous of me, may see the foulest thought
My heart does hold. Where shall a woman turn
Her eyes to find out constancy?

_Buckingham._

* * * * *

No, never from this hour to part,
We’ll live and love so true,
The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin’s too.

_Goldsmith._

* * * * *

The Ivy round some lofty pile
Its twining tendril flings;
Though fled from thence be pleasure’s smile,
It yet the fonder clings;
As lonelier still becomes the place,
The warmer is its fond embrace,
More firm its verdant rings;
As if it loved its shade to rear
O’er one devoted to despair.
Thus shall my bosom cling to thine,
Unchanged by gliding years;
Through Fortune’s rise, or her decline,
In sunshine, or in tears;
And though between us oceans roll,
And rocks divide us, still my soul
Shall feel no jealous fears:
Confiding in a heart like thine,
Love’s uncontaminated shrine.

_Mrs. Hale._

HOLLY.... _Foresight_.

The Holly, with its scarlet berries, is the most beautiful of the evergreens that have been used for ages to adorn the churches of old England, during the Christmas season. It is an ornament to the woods, stripped bare by the rude breath of winter; its berries serve for food for the little birds that never leave us, and its foliage affords them an hospitable shelter during the cold season. Nature, by a seeming forethought, has been careful to preserve the verdure of this handsome tree all the year round, and to arm it with thorns, that it may furnish both food and protection to the innocent creatures which resort to it for shelter. It may be added, however, that from the bark of the common Holly, when fermented and washed from the woody fibres, is made the bird-lime which is used for catching small birds.

* * * * *

With Holly and ivy,
So green and so gay,
We deck up our houses
As fresh as the day;
With bays and rosemary,
And laurel complete,
And every one now
Is a king in conceit.

_Poor Robin’s Almanac, 1695._

* * * * *

THE HOLLY TREE.

O Reader! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly tree?
The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves,
Ordered by an intelligence so wise
As might confound the atheist’s sophistries.

Below, a circling fence its leaves are seen,
Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle, through their prickly round
Can reach to wound;
But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes
And moralize;
And in this wisdom of the Holly tree
Can emblems see,
Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere,
To those who on my leisure would intrude
Reserved and rude,
Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be,
Like the high leaves upon the Holly tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,
Some harshness show,
All vain asperities I day by day
Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly tree.

And as when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,
The Holly leaves a sober hue display,
Less bright than they;
But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly tree?

So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng,
So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they,
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly tree.

_Southey._

* * * * *

To know the road ere on’t we trust the foot,
And where it leads, and what, while journeying,
We may meet, is Wisdom’s eager wish.

_Peerbold._

* * * * *

Walk
Boldly and wisely in that light thou hast;
There is a hand above will help thee on.

_Bailey._

MEADOW SAFFRON.... _My best days are past_.

The Meadow Saffron, or Colchicum Autumnale, springs up about the time the leaves begin to fall from the trees, and may, therefore, be said to proclaim to all nature, that the bright days of summer are past. According to Ovid, this autumnal flower owes its origin to some drops of the magic liquor prepared by Medea, to restore the aged Æson to the bloom and vigour of youth, which were spilled in the fields. As a medicine, the Colchicum is powerful, but dangerous, and must be used with caution. The poisonous quality of the plant seems to be known, as if by instinct, to all kinds of cattle. They all shun it, and in many pastures this alone will be found standing, when all other herbage has been consumed.

* * * * *

Why grieve that time has brought so soon
The sober age of manhood on?
As idly should I weep at noon
To see the blush of morning gone.
True, time will sear and blanch my brow:
Well--I shall sit with aged men,
And my good glass will tell me how
A grisly beard becomes me then.
And should no foul dishonour lie
Upon my head when I am gray,
Love yet may search my fading eye,
And smooth the path of my decay.

_Bryant._

_I depart. Think on me._]

* * * * *

Oh! thou who dry’st the mourner’s tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to thee!
The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone:
But thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of wo.

_Moore._

* * * * *

Then bright from earth, amid the troubled sky,
Ascends fair Colchicum, with radiant eye,
Warms the cold bosom of the hoary year,
And lights with beauty’s blaze the dusky sphere.

_Darwin._

* * * * *

The world around me groweth gray and old:
My friends are dropping one by one away;
Some live in distant lands--some in the clay
Rest quietly, their mortal moments told.
And when my children gather at my knee
To worship GOD and sing our morning psalm,
Their rising stature whispers unto me
My life is waning towards its evening calm.

_MacKellar._

CHINA ASTER.... _Variety_.

The China Aster begins to blow when other flowers are scarce. It is like an afterthought of Flora’s, who smiles at leaving us. The China Aster was introduced into Europe by Father d’Insarville, a Jesuit missionary; who, about the year 1730, sent seeds of it to the royal gardens of Paris. As, by cultivation, many varieties of the Aster have been obtained, the flower has been made the emblem of variety.

* * * * *

The sleepless streams move onward
Through beds of idling lilies,
Chiding the foolish flowers
That watch their mirrored beauty;
So live the thoughtless many,
Who throng the halls of fashion.

_Dawes._

* * * * *

I love the ever-varying hue
Upon the face of heaven;
I would not have it always blue,
But oft with lightning riven.
I would not have wide oceans spread
A mirror e’er to see;
But lashed to many a cresty head
By scowling tempests free!

_C. Watson._

* * * * *

Play every string in love’s sweet lyre--
Set all its music flowing;
Be air, and dew, and light, and fire,
To keep the soul-flower growing.

_Mrs. Osgood._

* * * * *

The rapid and the deep--the fall, the gulf,
Have likenesses in feeling and in life.
And life, so varied, hath more loveliness
In one day than a creeping century
Of sameness.

_Bailey._

* * * * *

Youth loves and lives on change,
Till the soul sighs for sameness; which at last
Becomes variety; and takes its place.

_Bailey._

* * * * *

Variety’s the source of joy below,
From which still fresh revolving pleasures flow;
In books and love the mind one end pursues,
And only change the expiring flame renews.

_Gay._

* * * * *

Wherefore did nature pour her bounties forth
With such a full and unwithdrawing hand,
Covering the earth with odours, fruits, and flocks,
Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable,
But all to please and sate a curious taste?

_Milton._

AMERICAN STARWORT.... _Welcome_.

The Starwort is another late-blooming flower. It is exclusively indigenous to North America and the Cape of Good Hope. The flowers are of every variety of hue, and present a very attractive appearance.

* * * * *

Stranger, new flowers in our vales are seen,
With a dazzling eye, and a lovely green.--
They scent the breath of the dewy morn:
They feed no worm, and they hide no thorn,
But revel and grow in our balmy air;
They are flowers which Freedom hath planted there.

This bud of welcome to thee we give,--
Bid its unborn sweets in thy bosom live;
It shall charm thee from all a stranger’s pain,
Reserve, suspicion, and dark disdain:
A race in its freshness and bloom are we;
Bring no cares from a worn-out world with thee.

_Mrs. Sigourney._

JUNIPER.... _Protection_.

The Juniper has been the favourite of Superstition. The ancients consecrated the shrub to the Furies. The smoke of its green roots was the incense which they offered in preference to the infernal gods; and they burned its berries during funerals to ban malign influences. In some parts of Europe, the peasant still believes that the perfume of Juniper berries purifies the air, and drives evil spirits from his humble cot. The Juniper is made to signify protection, on account of the defensive qualities ascribed to it by superstition, and the shelter its drooping branches afford to small animals which are hard pressed by the hunters.

* * * * *

I have found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
But let me that plunder forbear,
She will say, ’twas a barbarous deed.

“For he ne’er could be true,” she averred,
“Who could rob a poor bird of its young;”
And I loved her the more, when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

_Shenstone._

HAZEL.... _Peace--Reconciliation_.

Fable gives the following account of the origin of the signification of the Hazel. There was a time when men were at constant war with each other, and could not be restrained from cruelty and revenge by any tie of kin. The gods at length took pity on them. Apollo and Mercury made presents to each other, and descended to the earth. The god of harmony received from the son of Maia the shell of a tortoise, out of which he had constructed a lyre, and gave him in exchange a Hazel stick, which had the power of imparting a love of virtue and of reconciling hearts divided by envy and hate. By the power thus given him, Mercury taught men the love of peace, and of home and country, and made commerce the bond of nations. Adorned with two light wings, and entwined with serpents, the Hazel rod given to the god of eloquence by the god of harmony is still, by the name of caduceus, the emblem of peace, commerce, and reconciliation.

* * * * *

Oh then that wisdom may we know,
Which leads a life of peace below!

_Sprague._

* * * * *

Peace, sweet peace is ever found
In her eternal home on holy ground.

_Mrs. Embury._

* * * * *

And see,
As yet unclothed, the Hazel tree
Prepares his early tufts to lend
The coppice first-fruits; and depend
In russet drops, whose clustered rows,
Still closed in part, in part disclose,
Yet fenced beneath their scaly shed,
The pendent anther’s yellow head.

_Louisa A. Twamley._

* * * * *

I trust the frown thy features wear,
Ere long into a smile will turn;
I would not that a face as fair
As thine, beloved, should look so stern.
The chain of ice that winter binds,
Holds not for aye the sparkling rill;
It melts away when summer shines,
And leaves the waters sparkling still:
Thus let thy cheek resume the smile
That shed such sunny light before;
And though I left thee for a while,
I’ll vow to leave thee, love, no more.

_Wm. Leggett._

* * * * *

Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing,
Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die--
Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing,
Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky.
Life is but shadows, save a promise given,
Which lights up sorrow with a fadeless ray.
Oh, touch the sceptre!--with a hope in heaven,
Come, turn thy spirit from the world away.

_Anon._

OAK.... _Nobility_.

The form of the Oak tree, when grown fairly and naturally, is a perfect emblem of its qualities, so firm set, so massive, and strong. You may always know it instantly, whether as a wintry skeleton form, bare, and gnarled, and angular, or in its summer garb of rich and finely massed foliage, always the monarch of the woods.

* * * * *

True is, that whilome that good poet said,
The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known,
For man by nothing is so well bewrayed
As by his manners, in which plain is shown
Of what degree and what race he is grown.

_Spenser._

* * * * *

How vain are all hereditary honours,
Those poor possessions from another’s deeds,
Unless our own just virtues form our title,
And give a sanction to our fond assumption!

_Shirley._

* * * * *

Whoe’er amidst the sons
Of reason, valour, liberty, and virtue,
Displays distinguished merit, is a noble
Of nature’s own creating. Such have risen,
Sprung from the dust; or where had been our honours?

_Thomson._

* * * * *

LIFE OF AN OAK TREE.

Long centuries have come and passed
Since, in a stormy wind,
An acorn fell one autumn day,
Like thousands of his kind.

The wild swine fed in the forests then,
And hungry beasts were they;
They crunched the mast where’er it fell,
And they feasted well that day.

But as they trampled all about
With heavy hoofs, they trod
That acorn--perchance hundreds more--
Deep in the yielding sod.

Years came and went.--The acorn grew
And became a young Oak tree;
With a slender, straight, and flexile stem,
Dressed in rich greenery.

Time passeth on.--The young tree rose
A bold and noble thing;
Each summer showed a leafier crest,
And a longer shoot each spring.

There came into the ancient wood
Some stern official men;
They marked the fairest, loftiest trees,
And they were doomèd then.

They glanced upon the tall young Oak,
And quickly passed it by,
And laughing harshly, said ’twould do
By the next century.

Soon through the forest’s solemn glades
There rang that deathful sound,
The woodman’s axe;--and crashing fell
Trunks, branches, all around.

Craftsmen of many kinds there came
For that oak timber good,
And carried it in loads away
From its old native wood.

Some floated far o’er ocean’s waves
Mid stormy winds and squalls,
Both merchant-ships, and men-of-war,
“Old England’s Wooden Walls.”

Some, raised on high, with rare device
The royal roof support,
And look down in the banquet-hall
On king, and queen, and court.

Some, quaintly carved, and polished fair,
May shrine a pictured face,
Of Dolci’s gentle loveliness,
Or Raphael’s angel grace.

And many a toilet mirror owes,
Its flowered and gilded frame
To the good trees of which I sing:--
Well have they won their fame!

And massive tables, that have once
Groaned ’neath baronial fare,
If they could talk of that Oak wood,
Might tell of dwelling there.--

The young Oak tree yet statelier grew,
And broader spread its shade,
And the dappled deer lay sheltered ’neath
The canopy it made.

Years came and went.--The Oak tree stood
In full-grown prime and pride,
And lords of various mind and mood
Possessed those woodlands wide.

The first, a reckless forester,
Loved horse, and hawk, and hound,
And he chased all o’er his wide domains,
Wellnigh the whole year round.

His lady fair, as dames were wont,
In those long bygone days,
Loved hawking too; and gallant trains
She led through forest ways.

’Twas a merry and a winsome thing,
When lord, and squire, and knight
Rode forth, mid bugles ringing shrill,
With dainty ladies bright,
To sweep along by vale and hill,
Or through the forest glade,
Where the echoes of their laughter light
A merry music made.

And oft they reined their palfreys in
Beneath the young Oak tree,
And oft foretold how grand a thing
In after-time ’twould be.

These jocund sports passed all away;
For direful civil war
Spread its fell curse throughout the land,
Wasting it near and far.

And the next lord these broad lands had,
A warrior stern was he,
He dwelt with camps and cannon more
Than sylvan glade and tree.

He died in battle; and his lands
By craft and deeds unfair,
His brother claimed and won, although
His infant son was heir.

This hard, bad man was miserly,
And loved no thing save gold;
He soon marked out the stately tree,
To be cut down and sold.

What was its beauty unto him?--
The grand and noble thing!
His dull eyes only measured well
What moneys it would bring.

But while he doomed the lordly oak,
His wicked life ebbed low,
And suddenly, death summoned him
From his ill-got hoards to go.

The grand estate--the ancient hall,
The woods, and wealth untold,
Came then unto that warrior’s child,
A boy of ten years old.

He was a thoughtful, quiet boy,
For though yet young in years,
His mother’s sorrows and his own
Had made him old in tears.

And with a calm and gentle joy
Came home that youthful heir,
For his chief source of gladness was,
To bring his mother there:--

To watch her sadly smile to see
Again each well-known spot,
Where days of happiness had passed,
That ne’er could be forgot:--

To have her former state restored,
Maidens, and serving-men;
And garments, richer than of old,
He bade them bring her then.

The gardens, that the miser had
Left all untrimmed and bare,
Were planted, pruned, and decked anew,
And stored with all things rare.

But chiefly did the lady love
One glade within the wood,
The shady glade, where broad and high,
The noble Oak tree stood.

Sad memories, yet sweet ones too,
For her that lone spot bore:
’Twas there she parted from her lord
To meet on earth no more!

’Twas there, beneath that tree, he spoke
His last, _last_ fond farewell!
From thence she watched him ride away
The eve before he fell:--
No marvel that sad lady loved
The silent spot so well!

And there they oft together came,
The lady and the boy,
For he to her was all on earth,
Her one sole living joy.

And long years after, when she slept
Her warrior’s tomb beside,
When the boy had grown an aged man,
With grandsons by his side:--

That ancient wood he reverenced;
And peasants, when they spoke
Of the old tree within the glade,
Called it--the Lady’s Oak.

I know the spot--though strangely time
Hath altered all around,
Where once the forest’s stillness lay,
Now whirling wheels resound.

A large and busy peopled town
E’en on that spot we see,
Where dappled deer and timid birds
Dwelt fearlessly and free.

But I remember when a child,
One old and mouldering shell
Of a most ancient, huge Oak tree
Stood near the public well.

I’ve sat within it many a time,
In childish sport and play,
And much I mourned to see at last
The trunk quite cleared away.

Soon they built there a fine new street,
And noisy coaches sweep
With roar and riot,--even where
That lady came to weep!

Each passing year we note a change
In ancient things and new;
And if we see so much in one,
What may not hundreds do?

_Louisa A. Twamley._

* * * * *

There’s no power
In ancestry, to make the foolish wise,
The ignorant learned, the cowardly and base
Deserving our respect as brave and good.
All men feel this: nor dares the despot say
His fiat can endow with truth the soul,
Or, like a pension, on the heart bestow
The virtues current in the realms above.
Hence man’s best riches must be gained--not given;
His noblest name deserved, and not derived.

_Mrs. Hale._

* * * * *

Some men are born to endure the toil and strife
And heavy burdens of the earth. They are
The pillars in the temple of this life,
Its strength and ornament; or, hidden far
Beneath, they form its firm foundation-stone.
In nobleness they stand distinct and lone,
Yet other men upon them lean, and fain
(Such selfishness in human bosoms swells)
Would lay on them the weight of their own pain.
Where greatness is, a patient spirit dwells;
They least repine who bear and suffer most:
In still and stern endurance they sustain
The ills whereof all weaker minds complain;
And in their blessed lot they stand, without a sigh or boast.

_MacKellar._

YEW.... _Sorrow_.

The Yew is among all nations an emblem of sorrow. Its bare trunk, and dark foliage, with which its fruit, looking like drops of blood, stands in harsh contrast, excite in us a sort of aversion. Persons who sleep under a Yew tree are liable to be seized with dizziness, heaviness, and violent headache. Its juice is poisonous, and the tree exhausts the soil which supports it, and destroys all other plants which spring up beneath it. The Yew was planted in old English burying-grounds, and its wood was commonly employed for making bows and arrows before the introduction of fire-arms. The Greeks, impressed with the melancholy aspect of this tree, invented the fable of the unhappy Smilax; who, seeing that her love was rejected by young Crocus, was transformed into a Yew.

* * * * *

Who that hath ever been,
Could bear to be no more?
Yet who would tread again the scene
He trod through life before?

_Montgomery._

* * * * *

Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;
Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prest
With more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown,
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

And sorrowing friends stood round the bed
Whereon a form was lying:
’Twas Ellen;--there the suffering saint,
Without a murmur or complaint,
In peace and hope was dying.
A silence deep as death was there
When her true soul departed;
And grace and mercy crowned her end
Who lived the broken-hearted.

_MacKellar._

* * * * *

When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping
O’er the chords of the youthful heart,
And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping,
Sees the visions of fancy depart;
When the bloom of young feeling is dying,
And the heart throbs with passion’s fierce strife
When our sad days are wasted in sighing,
Who then can find sweetness in life?

_Mrs. Embury._

* * * * *

He is dead. Those words toll on the ear,
The knell of hopes, and fears, and fleshy aims.
The spirit light has cast a farewell beam--
Has shaken off its way-worn gear, and winged
To heaven. Sorrow will demand her tears,
For he was lovely, and leaves a hollow
In our near-drawn sphere which none may upclose.
But thoughts of heaven, through tears, will light us,
Making that refresh which seemed to blast!

_C. Watson._

DEAD LEAVES.... _Death_.

A more appropriate emblem of death than the remains of the forest’s refreshing verdure could not be selected. Withered by the chill breath of ruthless Winter, the leaves strew the earth; and, in time, mingle with the dust, like ourselves. The eye cannot help watching how the winds pursue, scatter, whirl, and drive these remnants of departed life.

* * * * *

No longer mourn for me when I am dead.
Then you shall hear the surly, sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking of me then should work you wo!

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

Now shall my verse, which thou in life didst grace,
Not leave thee in the grave, that ugly place,
That few regard, or have respect unto:
Where all attendance and observance ends;
Where all the sunshine of our favour sets;
Where what was ill no countenance defends,
And what was good the unthankful world forgets.

_Daniel._

* * * * *

Hence, profane grim man! nor dare
To approach so neere my faire.
Marble vaults, and gloomy caves,
Church-yards, charnell-houses, graves,
Where the living loath to be,
Heaven hath designed to thee.
But if needs ’mongst us thou’lt rage,
Let thy fury feed on age.

_Habington._

* * * * *

So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand
I’ the instant we withdraw the moving hand,
But some short time retains a faint, weak course,
By virtue of the first impulsive force;
And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile
Thy crown of bays, oh let it crack awhile,
And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes
Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes.

_Carew._

* * * * *

Ah! thou hast left to live; and in the time
When scarce thou blossom’dst in thy pleasant prime:
So falls by northern blast a virgin rose,
At half that doth her bashful bosom close;
So a sweet flower languishing decays,
That late did blush when kissed by Phœbus’ rays;
So Phœbus mounting the meridian’s height,
Choked by pale Phœbe faints unto our sight;
Astonished Nature sullen stands to see
The life of all this all so changed to be;
In gloomy gowns the stars this loss deplore,
The sea with murmuring mountains beats the shore.

_Drummond._

* * * * *

Death is the crown of life:
Were death denied, poor men would live in vain;
Were death denied, to live would not be life:
Were death denied, even fools would wish to die.

_Young._

* * * * *

Death is the sea, and we like rivers flow
To lose our selves in the insatiate maine,
Whence rivers may, she ne’er returne againe.
Nor grieve this christall streame so soone did fall
Into the ocean; since shee perfumed all
The banks she past, so that each neighbour field
Did sweete flowers cherish by her watring, yeeld,
Which now adorne her herse.

_Habington._

* * * * *

We bore him to the grave while yet ’twas morn,
The winter sunlight shining on his coffin:
The weight of grief was heavy to be borne,
And the salt tears rose in our eyelids often.
We slowly walked in mutely sad procession;
The pitying people freely made us way;
And the blest child, yet guiltless of transgression,
We softly placed between the walls of clay.
We sang a hymn--we bowed our heads to pray;
And GOD, who had our bitter grief appointed,
Sent also strengthening grace by lips anointed.
We looked again on George as low he lay
Deep in the earth; and when we homeward went,
We felt his home was better ’yond the firmament.

_MacKellar._

MISTLETOE.... _I climb to greatness_.

The Mistletoe is a creeping plant which grows on the tops of the tallest trees. The proud oak is its slave, and nourishes it with his own substance. The Druids paid a kind of adoration to it, as the emblem of a weakness that was superior to strength: they regarded the tyrant of the oak as equally formidable to men and gods.

* * * * *

’Tis a common proof,
That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder,
Whereto the climber upwards turns his face:
But when he once attains the upmost round,
He then unto the ladder turns his back,
Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees
By which he did ascend.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head,
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.

_Byron._

* * * * *

Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

On the summit see,
The seals of office glitter in his eyes;
He climbs,--he pants,--he grasps them. At his heels,
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,
And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.

_Cowper._

* * * * *

If any man must fall for me to rise,
Then seek I not to rise. Another’s pain
I choose not for my good. A golden chain--
A robe of honour is too poor a prize
To tempt my hasty hand to do a wrong
Unto a fellow man. This life hath wo
Sufficient, wrought by man’s satanic foe;
And who that hath a heart would dare prolong
Or add unto the sorrows of a soul
That seeks some healing balm to make it whole?
My bosom owns the brotherhood of man;
From GOD and truth a renegade is he
Who scorns a poor man in his poverty,
Or on his fellow lays a supercilious ban.

_MacKellar._

ASH TREE.... _Grandeur_.

* * * * *

It is sure,
Stamped by the seal of nature, that the well
Of mind, where all its waters gather pure,
Shall with unquestioned spell all hearts allure.
Wisdom enshrined in beauty--Oh! how high
The order of that loveliness.

_Percival._

* * * * *

The sky is changed!--and such a change! O night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
And this is in the night:--most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,--
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again ’tis black,--and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,
As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.

_Byron._

* * * * *

I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendour of mine own.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

But lo! the dome--the vast and wondrous dome,
To which Diana’s marvel was a cell--
Christ’s mighty shrine above his martyr’s tomb!
I have beheld the Ephesian’s miracle--
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell
The hyæna and the jackal in their shade;
I have beheld Sophia’s bright roofs swell
Their glittering mass i’ the sun, and have surveyed
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem prayed;
But thou, of temples old, or altars new,
Standest alone--with nothing like to thee--
Worthiest of GOD, the holy and the true.
Since Zion’s desolation, when that He
Forsook his former city, what could be,
Of earthly structures in his honour piled,
Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty,
Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled.
Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not;
And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind,
Expanded by the genius of the spot,
Has grown colossal, and can only find
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined
Thy hopes of immortality; and thou
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined,
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.

_Byron._

* * * * *

What peremptory, eagle-sighted eye
Dares look upon the heaven of her brow,
That is not blinded by her majesty?

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

The glorious sun
Stays in his course, and plays the alchymist,
Turning, with splendour of his precious eye,
The meagre, cloddy earth to glittering gold.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

No! I shall never lose the trace,
Of what I’ve felt in this bright place;
And should my spirit’s hope grow weak,--
Should I, O God! forget thy power,
This mighty scene again I’ll seek,
At the same calm and glowing hour;
And here at the sublimest shrine
That nature ever reared to thee,
Rekindle all that hope divine,
And feel my immortality!

_Moore._

CHAMOMILE.... _Energy in Adversity_.

Italy!
Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rents
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny,
And hath denied, to every other sky,
Spirits which soar from ruin:--thy decay
Is still impregnate with divinity.
Which gilds it with revivifying ray.

_Byron._

* * * * *

I said to Penury’s meagre train,
Come on--your threats I brave;
My last poor life-drop you may drain,
And crush me to the grave;
Yet still the spirit that endures,
Shall mock your force the while,
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours
With bitter smile.

I said to cold Neglect and Scorn,
Pass on--I heed you not;
Ye may pursue me till my form
And being are forgot;
Yet still, the spirit which you see
Undaunted by your wiles,
Draws from its own nobility
Its high-born smiles.

_Mrs. Hale._

* * * * *

When a great mind falls,
The noble nature of man’s generous heart
Doth bear him up against the shame of ruin,
With gentle censure, using but his faults
As modest means to introduce his praise;
For pity, like a dewy twilight, comes
To close th’ oppressive splendour of his day,
And they who but admired him in his height
His altered state lament, and love him fallen.

_Joanna Baillie._

* * * * *

Oh, more or less than man--in high or low,
Battling with nations, flying from the field;
Now making monarchs’ necks thy footstool, now
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield;
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,
However deeply in men’s spirits skilled,
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war,
Nor learn that tempted fate will leave the loftiest star.
Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide
With that untaught innate philosophy,
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled
With a sedate and all-enduring eye;--
When fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child,
He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.

_Byron._

CITRON.... _Estrangement_.

Ev’n as one heat another heat expels,
Or as one nail by strength drives out another;
So the remembrance of my former love
Is by a newer object quite forgotten.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

Few years have passed since thou and I
Were firmest friends, at least in name,
And childhood’s gay sincerity
Preserved our feelings long the same.
But now, like me, too well thou know’st
What trifles oft the heart recall;
And those who once have loved the most
Too soon forget they loved at all.
And such the change the heart displays,
So frail is early friendship’s reign,
A month’s brief lapse, perhaps a day’s,
Will view thy mind estranged again.
If so, it never shall be mine
To mourn the loss of such a heart;
The fault was Nature’s fault, not thine,
Which made thee fickle as thou art.
As rolls the ocean’s changing tide,
So human feelings ebb and flow;
And who would in a breast confide
Where stormy passions ever glow?

_Byron._

* * * * *

Tis otherwise decreed, and I submit!
Alone I guide my bark adown the stream;
Dark is the voyage, around the night-birds flit,
The waves are tinged by no sweet-smiling beam.
And now I breathe the parting word--Farewell!
And now, the cords which fondly bind, I sever!
Break from the scenes I once had loved so well,--
And tear thine image from my heart for ever!

_J. W. Hanson._

* * * * *

Farewell, Theresa! that cloud which over
Yon moon this moment gathering we see,
Shall scarce from her pure path have passed, ere thy lover
Swift o’er the wide wave shall wander from thee.
Long, like that dim cloud, I’ve hung around thee,
Darkening thy prospects, saddening thy brow;
With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found thee;
Oh! think how changed, love, how changed art thou now!
But here I free thee: like one awaking
From fearful slumber, this dream thou’lt tell;
The bright moon her spell too is breaking,
Past are the dark clouds; Theresa, farewell!

_Moore._

DRAGON PLANT.... _You are near a snare_.

He secretly
Puts pirate’s colours out at both our sterns,
That we might fight each other in mistake,
That he should share the ruin of us both!

_Crown._

His tongue was soft as velvet leaf,
His poison-fangs concealing;
But where he stung, the festering wound
Was past the art of healing.
“Beware of him whose speech is smooth,”
The mother spake her daughter;
“The deepest depths are ever found
Where flows the smoothest water.”
“His heart is like an angel’s heart,”
The daughter spake her mother;
“He seeks to be to thee and me
A loving son and brother.”
She listened to his guileful tale,
Nor heeded words of warning;
Ah! bitterly did future pain
Repay her present scorning.
For Robin laid his cunning game
With art so deep and skilful,
That gentle Ellen’s mind was turned
To disobedience wilful.

_MacKellar._

* * * * *

Is there no way to save thee? minutes fly,
And thou art lost! _thou!_ my sole benefactor,
The only being who was constant to me
Through every change. Yet, make me not a traitor!
Let me save thee--but spare my honour!

_Byron._

* * * * *

Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose
What ne’er was meant for other ears?
Why thus destroy thine own repose,
And dig the source of future tears?
Oh! thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,
While lurking, envious foes will smile,
For all the follies thou hast said,
Of those who spoke but to beguile.

_Byron._

* * * * *

Again, I tell thee, ask not; but by all
Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven--by all
The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope
To emulate them, and to leave behind
Descendants worthy both of them and thee--
By all thou hast of blest in hope or memory--
By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter--
By all the good deeds thou hast done to me,
Good I would now repay with greater good,
Remain within--trust to thy household gods
And to my word for safety, if thou dost
As I now counsel--but if not, thou art lost!

_Byron._

REED.... _Single Blessedness_.

But earlier is the rose distilled,
Than that which withering on the virgin thorn
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

Love not, love not; the thing you love may change;
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you,
The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange,
The heart still warmly beat, and not for you.

_Mrs. Norton._

* * * * *

Alone! alone! how drear it is always to be alone!
In such a depth of wilderness, the only thinking one!
The waters in their path rejoice, the trees together sleep--
But I have not one silver voice upon my ear to creep!

_Willis._

* * * * *

Do any thing but love; or, if thou lovest,
And art a woman, hide thy love from him
Whom thou dost worship. Never let him know
How dear he is; flit like a bird before him;
Lead him from tree to tree, from flower to flower;
But be not won; or thou wilt, like that bird,
When caught and caged, be left to pine neglected,
And perish in forgetfulness.

_Miss Landon._

* * * * *

O many a summer’s morning glow
Has lent the rose its ray,
And many a winter’s drifting snow
Has swept its bloom away;
But she has kept the faithless pledge
To this, her winter hour,
And keeps it still, herself alone,
And wasted like the flower.

_O. W. Holmes._

* * * * *

My heart is with its early dream;
It cannot turn away
To seek again the joys of earth,
And mingle with the gay.
The dew-nursed flower that lifts its brow
Beneath the shades of night,
Must wither when the sunbeam sheds
Its too resplendent light.
My heart is with its early dream,
And vainly love’s soft power
Would seek to charm that heart anew,
In some unguarded hour.
I would not that some gentle one
Should hear my frequent sigh;
The deer that bears its death-wound, turns
In loneliness to die.

_Mrs. Embury._

FENNEL.... _Strength_.

Oh, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is,
To suffer and grow strong.

_Longfellow._

* * * * *

As the slow beast with heavy strength indued
In some wide field by troops of boys pursued,
Though round his sides a wooden tempest rain,
Crops the tall harvest, and lays waste the plain;
Thick on his hide the hollow blows resound,
The patient animal maintains his ground,
Scarce from the field with all their efforts chased,
And stirs but slowly when he stirs at last.
On Ajax thus a weight of Trojans hung,
The strokes redoubled on his buckler rung;
Confiding now in bulky strength he stands,
Now turns, and backward bears the yielding bands:
Now stiff recedes, yet hardly seems to fly,
And threats his followers with retorted eye.
Fixed as the bar between two warring powers,
While hissing darts descend in iron showers:
In his broad buckler many a weapon stood,
Its surface bristled with a quivering wood;
And many a javelin, guiltless, on the plain
Marks the dry dust, and thirsts for blood in vain.

_Pope._

* * * * *

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,
The den expands, and expectation mute
Gapes round the silent circle’s peopled walls.
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
His first attack, wide waving to and fro
His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow.

_Byron._

* * * * *

The lusty strength of youth
Is better far than proud decrepitude.
With mind and might and fortitude endued,
We stand erect and fight for present truth.
We’re in the young delight of new existence;
The ardent blood leaps lively in our veins;
The dim traditions glimmering in the distance
We scorn, for objects worthier manly pains.

_MacKellar._

* * * * *

He that of such a height hath built his mind,
And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,
As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame
Of his resolved powers; nor do all the wind
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong
His settled peace, or to disturb the same:
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and weilds of man survey!

_Daniel._

COXCOMB.... _Singularity_.

Go then, and if you can, admire the state
Of beaming diamonds, and reflected plate;
Procure a taste to double the surprise,
And gaze on Parian charms with learned eyes:
Be struck with bright brocade, or Tyrian dye,
Or birth-day nobles’ splendid livery.

_Pope._

* * * * *

He also had a quality uncommon
To early risers after a long chase,
Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon
December’s drowsy day to his dull race,--
A quality agreeable to woman,
When her soft liquid words run on apace,
Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,--
He did not fall asleep just after dinner;
But, light and airy, stood on the alert,
And shone in the best part of dialogue,
By humouring always what they might assert,
And listening to the topics most in vogue;
Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert;
And smiling but in secret--cunning rogue!
He ne’er presumed to make an error clearer;
In short, there never was a better hearer.

_Byron._

GRASS.... _Submission_.

According to the Greek historians, Grass was made the symbol of submission, because the ancient nations of the West gathered Grass and presented it to the conqueror, to show that they confessed themselves overcome. The grass is trodden under foot by imperial man; and, instead of returning to its former vigour with elastic spring, or punishing its violator like the nettle, yields to its fate--spiritless submission.

* * * * *

It grieves me to the soul
To see how man submits to man’s control;
How overpowered and shackled minds are led
In vulgar tracks, and to submission bred.

_Crabbe._

* * * * *

You shall be as a father to my youth,
My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear;
And I will stoop and humble my intents
To your well practised, wise directions.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

Romans now
Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors;
But, wo the while! our fathers’ minds are dead,
And we are governed with our mother’s spirits;
Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *

E’en liberty itself is bartered here.
At gold’s superior charms all freedom flies,
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys;
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves,
And, calmly bent, to servitude conform,
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.

_Goldsmith._

* * * * *

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride;
From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind
An easy compensation seem to find.
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed,
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade;
Processions formed for piety and love,
A mistress or a saint in every grove.
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled,
The sports of children satisfy the child;
Each nobler aim, repressed by long control,
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;
While low delights, succeeding fast behind,
In happier meanness occupy the mind:
As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore sway,
Defaced by time and tottering in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed;
And, wondering man could want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.

_Goldsmith._

FIR.... _Time_.

What does not fade? the tower, that long had stood
The crush of thunder and the warring winds,
Shook by the slow, but sure destroyer, Time,
Now hangs in doubtful ruins o’er its base,
And flinty pyramids and walls of brass
Descend; the Babylonian spires are sunk;
Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down.
Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones,
And tottering empires crush by their own weight.

_Armstrong._

* * * * *

The clock upon the mantel-piece is ticking;
Thus hour by hour it tolls a funeral chime:
By day and night its calm and constant clicking
Denotes the speed of the old traveller Time.
It is a solemn voice. Who hath an ear
To hear its warning accents, let him hear,
And preparation make to meet the day
When he, alone, shall lie upon the brink
Of human life, and death shall bid him drink
The hemlock cup that none can put away.
What though man turn from the unwelcome theme,
Will Time sit still for man’s forgetfulness?--
To watch and wake were wiser than to dream
And wake at last to wo remediless.

_MacKellar._

* * * * *

The world’s great age begins anew,
The golden years return,
The earth doth like a snake renew
Her winter weeds outworn:
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.
A brighter Hellas rears its mountains
From waves serener far;
A new Peneus rolls its fountains
Against the morning-star.
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
Young Cyclads, on a sunnier deep;
A loftier Argos cleaves the main,
Fraught with a later prize;
Another Orpheus sings again,
And loves, and weeps, and dies.
A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore.
Oh, write no more the tale of Troy,
If earth Death’s scroll must be!
Nor mix with Laian rage the joy
Which dawns upon the free:
Although a subtile sphinx renew
Riddles of death Thebes never knew,
Another Athens shall arise,
And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
The splendour of its prime;
And leave, if naught so bright may live,
All earth can take or heaven can give.
Saturn and Love their long repose
Shall burst, more wise and good
Than all who fell, than one who rose,
Than many unwithstood--
Not gold, nor blood, their altar dowers,
But native tears and symbol flowers.
Oh cease! must hate and death return?
Cease! must men kill and die?
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn
Of bitter prophecy.
The world is weary of the past--
Oh, might it die or rest at last!

_Shelley._

* * * * *

Time past and time to come are not--
Time present is our only lot;
O God, henceforth our hearts incline
To seek no other love than thine!

_Montgomery._

* * * * *

Then haste thee, Time--’tis kindness all
That speeds thy winged feet so fast;
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,
And all thy pains are quickly past.

_Bryant._

* * * * *

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
A great-sized monster of ingratitudes:
Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devoured
As fast as they are made, forgotten as soon
As done.

_Shakspeare._

* * * * *