Chapter VII: Introduction (5)

THE LILY.

The stream with languid murmur creeps
In Lumin’s flow’ry vale:
Beneath the dew the lily weeps,
Slow waving to the gale.

“Cease, restless gale!” it seems to say,
“Nor wake me with thy sighing;
The honors of my vernal day
On rapid wings are flying.

“To-morrow shall the traveler come
Who late beheld me blooming;
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin.”
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

WILD FLOWERS.

I stood tiptoe upon a little hill; The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Fell droopingly in slanting curve aside, Their scanty-leaved and finely tapering stems Had not yet lost their starry diadems,

Caught from the early sobbings of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn. And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; For not the faintest motion could be seen Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green. There was wide wandering for the greediest eye, To peer about upon variety; Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim, And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; To picture out the quaint and curious bending Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending: Or by the bowery clefts and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free As though the fanning wings of Mercury Had play’d upon my heels: I was light-hearted, And many pleasures to my vision started; So I straightway began to pluck a posy Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy. A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them; Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them; And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. A filbert-edge with wild-brier overtwined, And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind Upon their summer thrones; there too should be The frequent checker of a youngling tree, That with a score of bright-green brethren shoots From the quaint mossiness of aged roots: Round which is heard a spring head of clear waters. Prattling so wildly of its lovely daughters, The spreading blue-bells: it may haply mourn That such fair clusters should be rudely torn From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly By infant hands left on the path to die. Open afresh your round of starry folds, Ye ardent marigolds! Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, For great Apollo bids That in these days your praises should be sung

On many harps, which he has lately strung; And when again your dewiness he kisses, Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses: So haply when I rove in some far vale, His mighty voice may come upon the gale. Here are sweet-peas, on tiptoe for a flight, With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings. What next? a turf of evening primroses, O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes; O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that ’tis ever startled by the leap Of buds into ripe flowers. JOHN KEATS.

TO THE SWEET-BRIER.

Our sweet autumnal western-scented wind
Robs of its odor none so sweet a flower,
In all the blooming waste it left behind,
As that sweet-brier yields it; and the shower
Wets not a rose that buds in beauty’s bower
One half so lovely; yet it grows along
The poor girl’s pathway; by the poor man’s door.
Such are the simple folks it dwells among;
And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.

I love it, for it takes its untouch’d stand
Not in the vase that sculptors decorate;
Its sweetness all is of my native land;
And e’en its fragrant leaf has not its mate
Among the perfumes which the rich and great
Bring from the odors of the spicy East.
You love your flowers and plants, and will you hate
The little four-leaved rose that I love best,
That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest?
J. G. C. BRAINARD.

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE.

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouch’d thy honeyed blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:
No roving foot shall crush thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature’s self in white array’d,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
Thus quietly thy summer goes,
Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;
They died—nor were those flowers more gay
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
Unpitying frosts and Autumn’s power
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
Or when you die you are the same;
The space between is but an hour—
The frail duration of a flower.
PHILIP FRENEAU, 1752–1832.

WILD FLOWERS.

I dreamed that, as I wander’d by the way, Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring, And gentle odors led my steps astray, Mix’d with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kiss’d it and then fled, as thou mightest in a dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearl’d Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets Its mother’s face with heaven-collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cowbind and the moonlight-color’d May, And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Was the bright dew yet drain’d not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray, And flowers azure, black, and streak’d with gold; Fairer than any waken’d eyes behold.

And nearer to the river’s trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, And starry river buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues which in their natural bowers Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprison’d children of the hours Within my hand—and then, elate and gay, I hasten’d to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it!—oh, to whom? P. B. SHELLEY.

BEAU AND THE LILY.

“I must tell you a feat of my dog Beau. Walking by the river side, I observed some water-lilies floating at a little distance from the bank. They are a large white flower, with an orange-colored eye, very beautiful. I had a desire to gather one, and, having your long cane in my hand, by the help of it endeavored to bring one of them within my reach. But the attempt proved vain, and I walked forward. Beau had all the while observed me very attentively. Returning soon after toward the same place, I observed him plunge into the river, while I was

about forty yards distant from him; and, when I had nearly reached the spot, he swam to land, with a lily in his mouth, which he came and laid at my feet.”

W. COWPER _to Lady Hesketh, June 27th, 1788_.

FLOWERS.

We are the sweet flowers,
Born of sunny showers,
(Think, whene’er you see us, what our beauty saith;)
Utterance, mute and bright,
Of some unknown delight,
We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath:
All who see us love us—
We befit all places:
Unto sorrow we give smiles—and unto graces, races

Mark our ways, how noiseless
All, and sweetly voiceless,
Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage clear;
Not a whisper tells
Where our small seed dwells,
Nor is known the moment green, when our tips appear.
We thread the earth in silence,
In silence build our bowers—
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers.

The dear lumpish baby,
Humming with the May-bee,
Hails us with his bright star, stumbling through the grass;
The honey-dropping moon,
On a night in June,
Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass.
Age, the wither’d clinger,
On us mutely gazes,
And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood’s daisies.

See (and scorn all duller
Taste) how heav’n loves color;
How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green;
What sweet thoughts she thinks
Of violets and pinks,
And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen:
See her whitest lilies
Chill the silver showers,
And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman of her flowers.

Uselessness divinest,
Of a use the finest,
Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use;
Travelers, weary eyed,
Bless us, far and wide;
Unto sick and prison’d thoughts we give sudden truce:
Not a poor town window
Loves its sickliest planting,
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian vaunting.

Sagest yet the uses,
Mix’d with our sweet juices,
Whether man or May-fly, profit of the balm,
As fair fingers heal’d
Knights from the olden field
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm.
Ev’n the terror, poison,
Hath its plea for blooming;
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.

And oh! our sweet soul-taker,
That thief, the honey maker,
What a house hath he, by the thymy glen!
In his talking rooms
How the feasting fumes,
Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men!
The butterflies come aping
Those fine thieves of ours,
And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers.

See those tops, how beauteous!
What fair service duteous
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine
Elfin court ’twould seem;
And taught, perchance, that dream
Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights divine.
To expound such wonder
Human speech avails not;
Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not.

Think of all these treasures,
Matchless works and pleasures,
Every one a marvel, more than thought can say;
Then think in what bright showers
We thicken fields and bowers,
And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May:

Think of the mossy forests
By the bee-birds haunted,
And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as enchanted.

Trees themselves are ours;
Fruits are born of flowers;
Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the spring;
The lusty bee knows well
The news, and comes pell-mell,
And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome antheming.
Beneath the very burden
Of planet-pressing ocean,
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace—a thought for meek devotion.

Tears of Phœbus—missings
Of Cytherea’s kissings,
Have in us been found, and wise men find them still;
Drooping grace unfurls
Still Hyacinthus’ curls,
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill:
Thy red lip, Adonis,
Still is wet with morning;
And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy brier adorning.

O! true things are fables,
Fit for sagest tables,
And the flowers are true things—yet no fables they;
Fables were not more
Bright, nor loved of yore—
Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old pathway:
Grossest hand can test us;
Fools may prize us never:
Yet we rise, and rise, and rise—marvels sweet for ever.

Who shall say, that flowers
Dress not heaven’s own bowers?
Who its love, without us, can fancy—or sweet floor?
Who shall even dare
To say, we sprang not there—
And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heaven the more?
O! pray believe that angels
From those blue dominions,
Brought us in their white laps down, ’twixt their golden pinions.
LEIGH HUNT.

ALPINE FLOWERS.

Meek dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs! With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, Whence are ye? Did some white-winged messenger On mercy’s missions trust your timid germ To the cold cradle of eternal snows? Or, breathing on the callous icicles, Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye? —Tree nor shrub Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand, Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb’d ice, And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him Who bids you bloom unblanch’d amid the waste Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils O’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge Of yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plunge Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, And marks ye in your placid loveliness— Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his still hands, Blesses your pencil’d beauty. 'Mid the pomp Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing’d gale And freer breathes of heaven. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.

Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!
So, put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.
Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O’er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need’st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers;
For dull the eye, the heart is dull
That can not feel how fair,
Amid all beauty, beautiful
Thy tender blossoms are!

How delicate thy gauzy frill!
How rich thy branchy stem!
How soft thy voice, when woods are still,
And thou sing’st hymns to them!
While silent showers are falling slow,
And, 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the moss’d gray stone
Hath laid her weary head;
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,
The fresh green days of life’s fair spring,
And boyhood’s blossomy hour.
Scorn’d bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bidd’st me be a boy,
To rove with thee the woodlands o’er,
In freedom and in joy.
EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

THE PAINTED CUP.

The fresh savannas of the Sagamon, Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire; The wanderers of the prairie know them well, And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup.

Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not That these bright chalices were tinted thus To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers, And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, Amid this fresh and virgin solitude The faded fancies of an elder world; But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds, To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind O’erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant,

To swell the reddening fruit that even now Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope. But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well— Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers, Lingering amid the blooming waste he loves, Though all his swarthy worshipers are gone— Slender and small his rounded cheek all brown And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, And part with little hands the spiky grass; And touching with his cherry lips the edge Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew. W. C. BRYANT.

THE WREATH OF GRASSES.

The royal rose—the tulip’s glow—
The jasmine’s gold are fair to see;
But while the graceful grasses grow,
Oh, gather them for me!

The pansy’s gold and purple wing,
The snowdrop’s smile may light the lea;
But while the fragrant grasses spring,
My wreath of them shall be!
FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

DIVINATION.

When a daffodil I see Hanging down his head toward me, Guess I may what I may be: First, I shall decline my head; Secondly, I shall be dead; Lastly, safely buried. ROBERT HERRICK, 1591.

GRASS.

Is all grass? Make you no distinction? No; all is grass; or if you will have some other name, be it so. Once, this is true, that all flesh is grass; and if that glory which shines so much in your eyes must have a difference, then this is all that it can have—it is but the flower of that same grass; somewhat above the common grass in gayness, a little

comelier and better appareled than it, but partakes of its frail and fading nature. It hath no privilege nor immunity that way; yea, of the two is less durable, and usually shorter lived; at the last it decays with it. “The grass withereth; and the flower thereof fadeth away.”

ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON, 1613–1684.

DAFFODILS.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company; I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye, Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. W. WORDSWORTH.

IX.
=Medley.=

GRONGAR HILL.

Silent nymph, with curious eye! Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain’s lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy man; Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings; Or the tuneful nightingale, Charms the forest with her tale; Come, with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy sister Muse; Now, while Phœbus riding high, Gives luster to the land and sky! Grongar Hill invites my song, Draw the landscape bright and strong; Grongar, in whose mossy cells, Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;

Grongar, in whose silent shade, For the modest Muses made, So oft I have, the evening still, At the fountain of a rill, Sat upon a flowery bed, With my hand beneath my head, While stray’d my eyes o’er Towy’s flood, Over mead and over wood, From house to house, from hill to hill, Till Contemplation had her fill. About his checker’d sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind, And groves and grottoes where I lay, And vistas shooting beams of day. Wide and wider spreads the vale, As circles on a smooth canal. The mountains round, unhappy fate! Sooner or later, of all height, Withdraw their summits from the skies, And lessen as the others rise. Still the prospect wider spreads, Adds a thousand woods and meads; Still it widens, widens still, And sinks the newly-risen hill. Now I gain the mountain’s brow, What a landscape lies below! No clouds, no vapors intervene, But the gay, the open scene, Does the face of Nature show In all the hues of heaven’s bow! And, swelling to embrace the light, Spreads around beneath the sight. Old castles on the cliffs arise, Proudly tow’ring in the skies! Rushing from the woods, the spires Seem from hence ascending fires! Half his beams Apollo sheds On the yellow mountain heads! Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, And glitters on the broken rocks! Below me trees unnumbered rise, Beautiful in various dyes: The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, The yellow beach, the sable yew, The slender fir that taper grows,

The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs, And beyond the purple grove, Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love! Gaudy as the opening dawn Lies a long and level lawn, On which a dark hill, steep and high, Holds and charms the wandering eye! Deep are his feet in Towy’s flood, His sides are cloth’d with waving wood, And ancient towers crown his brow, That cast an awful look below; Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, And with her arms from falling keeps; So both, a safety from the wind, On mutual dependence find. ’Tis now the raven’s bleak abode; ’Tis now th’ apartment of the toad; And there the fox securely feeds; And there the poisonous adder breeds; Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds; While, ever and anon, there falls, Huge heaps of hoary molder’d walls. Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low, And level lays the lofty brow— Has seen this broken pile complete, Big with the vanity of state; But transient is the smile of Fate! A little rule, a little sway, A sunbeam in a winter’s day, Is all the proud and mighty have Between the cradle and the grave. And see the rivers how they run, Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, Sometimes swift, sometimes slow— Wave succeeding wave, they go A various journey to the deep, Like human life to endless sleep! Thus is Nature’s vesture wrought, To instruct our wandering thought; Thus she dresses green and gay, To disperse our cares away. Ever charming, ever new, When will the landscape tire the view! The fountain’s fall, the river’s flow, The woody valleys, warm and low;

The windy summit, wild and high, Roughly rushing on the sky! The pleasant seat, the ruin’d tower, The naked rock, the shady bower; The town and village, dome and farm, Each gives each a double charm, As pearls upon an Ethiop’s arm. See on the mountain’s southern side, Where the prospect opens wide, Where the evening gilds the tide; How close and small the hedges lie! What streaks of meadow cross the eye! A step, methinks, may pass the stream, So little distant dangers seem; So we mistake the Future’s face, Ey’d through Hope’s deluding glass; As yon summits soft and fair, Clad in colors of the air, Which to those who journey near, Barren, brown, and rough appear; Still we tread the same coarse way, The present’s still a cloudy day. O may I with myself agree, And never covet what I see; Content me with an humble shade, My passions tamed, my wishes laid; For while our wishes wildly roll, We banish quiet from the soul: ’Tis thus the busy beat the air, And misers gather wealth and care. Now, ev’n now, my joys run high, As on the mountain-turf I lie; While the wanton Zephyr sings, And in the vale perfumes his wings; While the waters murmur deep; While the shepherd charms his sheep; While the birds unbounded fly, And with music fill the sky, Now, ev’n now, my joys run high. Be full, ye courts; be great who will; Search for Peace with all your skill: Open wide the lofty door, Seek her on the marble floor. In vain you search; she is not here! In vain you search the domes of Care!

Grass and flowers, Quiet treads, On the meads and mountain-heads, Along with Pleasure, close allied, Ever by each other’s side; And often, by the murmuring rill, Hears the thrush, while all is still Within the groves of Grongar Hill. JOHN DYER, 1700–1758.

LETTER ON CERTAIN TREES.

TO THOMAS PENNANT, ESQ.

FROM REV. GILBERT WHITE, OF SELBORNE.

In the court of Norton farm-house, a manor farm to the northwest of the village, on the White Malms, stood within these twenty years a broad-leaved elm, or wych hazel, _ulmus folio latissimo scabro_, of Ray, which, though it had lost a considerable leading bough in the great storm in the year 1703, equal to a moderate tree, yet, when felled, contained eight loads of timber; and, being too bulky for a carriage, was sawn off at seven feet above the butt, where it measured near eight feet in diameter. This elm I mention to show to what a bulk planted elms may attain, as this tree must certainly have been such from its situation.

In the center of the village, and near the church, is a square piece of ground, surrounded by houses, and commonly called the Plestor. Sir Adam Gurdon, in conjunction with his wife Constantia, in the year 1271, granted to the prior and convent of Selborne all his right and claim to a certain place, _placea_, called _La Pleystow_, in the village aforesaid, “_in liberam, puram, et perpetuam elimosinam_.” This Pleystow, _locus ludorum_, or play-place, is a level area, near the church, of about forty-four yards by thirty-six, and is known now by the name of the Plestor. It continues still—as it was in old times—to be the scene of recreation for the youths and children of the neighborhood, and impresses an idea on the mind that this village, even in Saxon times, could not be the most abject of places, when the inhabitants thought proper to assign so spacious a spot for the sports and amusements of its young people. In the midst of this spot stood in old times a vast oak, with a short, squat body, and huge horizontal arms extending almost to the extremity of the area. This venerable tree, surrounded with stone steps, and seats above them, was the delight of old and young, and a place of much resort in summer evenings, where the former sat in grave debate, while the latter frolicked and danced before them. Long might it have stood had not the amazing tempest in 1703 overturned it at once, to the infinite regret

of the inhabitants and the vicar, who bestowed several pounds in setting it in its place again; but all his care could not avail; the tree sprouted for a time, then withered and died. This oak I mention to show to what a bulk planted oaks also may arrive; and planted this tree must certainly have been, as appears from what is known concerning the antiquities of the village.

On the Blackmoor estate there is a small wood, called Losel’s, of a few acres, that was lately furnished with a set of oaks of a peculiar growth and great value; they were tall and taper like firs, but, standing near together, had very small heads—only a little brush, without any large limbs. About twenty years ago the bridge at the Toy, near Hampton Court, being much decayed, some trees were wanted for the repairs that were fifty feet long without a bough, and would measure twelve inches diameter at the little end. Twenty such trees did a purveyor find in this little wood, with this advantage, that many of them answered the description at fifty feet. These trees were sold for £20 a piece.

In the center of this grove there stood an oak, which, though shapely and tall on the whole, bulged out into a large excrescence about the middle of the stem. On this a pair of ravens had fixed their residence for such a series of years, that the oak was distinguished by the title of the Raven-tree! Many were the attempts of the neighboring youths to get at this eyry; the difficulty whetted their inclinations, and each was ambitious of surmounting the arduous task; but when they arrived at the swelling, it jutted out so in their way, and was so far beyond their grasp, that the most daring lads were awed, and acknowledged the undertaking to be too hazardous. So the ravens built on, nest upon nest, in perfect security, till the fatal day arrived in which the wood was to be leveled. It was in the month of February, when these birds usually sit. The saw was applied to the butt; the wedges were inserted into the opening; the woods echoed to the heavy blows of the beetle or mallet; the tree nodded to the fall; but still the dam sat on. At last, when it gave way, the bird was flung from her nest; and though her parental affection deserved a better fate, was whipped down by the twigs, which brought her dead to the ground.

GILBERT WHITE, 1720–1793.

A SKETCH.

The rush-thatch’d cottage on the purple moor, Where ruddy children frolic round the door; The moss-grown antlers of the aged oak, The shaggy locks that fringe the colt unbroke; The bearded goat, with nimble eyes that glare Through the long tissue of his hoary hair,

As with quick foot he climbs some ruined wall, And crops the ivy which prevents its fall; With rural charms the tranquil mind delight, And form a picture to th’ admiring sight. ERASMUS DARWIN, 1721–1802.

AN ENGLISH PEASANT’S COTTAGE.

The prettiest cottage on our village green is the little dwelling of Dame Wilson. It stands in a corner of the common, where the hedge-rows go curving off into a sort of bay round a clear bright pond, the earliest haunt of the swallow. A deep, woody green lane, such as Hobbima or Ruysdael might have painted—a lane that hints of nightingales, forms one boundary of the garden, and a sloping meadow the other; while the cottage itself, a low, thatched, irregular building, backed by a blooming orchard, and covered with honeysuckle and jessamine, looks like the chosen abode of snugness and comfort. And so it is.

MARY R. MITFORD.

RUTH.

She stood breast high amid the corn, Clasp’d by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened: such a blush, In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell; But long lashes vail’d a light That had else been all too bright.

And her hat with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim: Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks.

Sure I said, Heav’n did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean; Lay thy sheaf adown and come— Share my harvest and my home. THOMAS HOOD.

SIMPLE PLEASURES.

Say, why does man, while to his opening sight Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight, And Nature bids for him her pleasures flow, And gives to him alone his bliss to know, Why does he pant for Vice’s deadly charms? Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms? And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath, Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death! Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings, Know what calm joy from purer sources springs; Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, No more his soul would pant for joys impure; The deadly chalice would no more allure; But the sweet potion he was wont to sip Would turn to poison on his conscious lip. H. K. WHITE, 1785–1806.

FROM “THE COMPLETE ANGLER.”

_Ven._ On my word, master, this is a gallant trout; what shall we do with him?

_Pisc._ Marry, e’en eat him to supper: we’ll go to my hostess, from whence we came; she told me, as I was going out of door, that my brother Peter, a good angler, and a cheerful companion, had sent word he would lodge there to-night, and bring a friend with him. My hostess has two beds, and I know you and I may have the best. We’ll rejoice with my brother Peter and his friend, tell tales, or sing ballads, or make a catch, or find some harmless sport to content us, and pass away a little time without offense to God or man.

_Ven._ A match, good master: let’s go to that house, for the linen looks white, and smells of lavender, and I long to lie in a pair of sheets that smell so. Let’s be going, good master, for I am hungry again with fishing.

_Pisc._ Nay, stay a little, good scholar; I caught my last trout with a worm. Now I will put on a minnow, and try a quarter of an hour about yonder trees for another, and so walk toward our lodging. Look you, scholar, thereabout we shall have a bite presently, or not at all. Have with you, sir, o’ my word I have hold of him. Oh, it is a great loggerheaded

chub; come, hang him upon that willow twig, and let’s be going. But turn out of the way a little, good scholar, toward yonder high honeysuckle hedge; there we’ll sit and sing while this shower falls so gently upon the teeming earth, and gives yet a sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that adorn these verdant meadows.

Look! under that broad beach-tree I sat down when I was last this way a fishing, and the birds in the adjoining grove seemed to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to the brow of that primrose hill; there I sat viewing the silver streams glide silently toward their center, the tempestuous sea, yet sometimes opposed by rugged roots and pebble-stones, which broke their waves and turned them into foam; and sometimes I beguiled time by viewing the harmless lambs—some leaping securely in the cool shade, while others sported themselves in the cheerful sun; and saw others craving comfort from the swollen udders of their bleating dams. As I thus sat, these and other sights had so fully possessed my soul with content, that I thought, as the poet has happily expressed it,

“I was for that time lifted above earth,
And possess’d joys not promis’d in my birth.”

As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me; it was a handsome milk-maid, that had not yet attained so much age and wisdom as to load her mind with any fears of many things that will never be, as too many men too often do; but she cast away all care, and sung like a nightingale: her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it; it was that smooth song which was made by Kit Marlow, now at least fifty years ago; and the milk-maid’s mother sung an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days.

They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good—I think much better than the strong lines that are now in fashion in this critical age. Look yonder! on my word, yonder they both be, a milking again. I will give her the chub, and persuade them to sing those two songs to us.

God speed you, good woman! I have been a fishing, and am going to Bleak-Hall to my bed, and having caught more fish than will sup myself and my friend, I will bestow this upon you and your daughter, for I use to sell none.

_Milk-W._ Marry, God requite you, sir, and we’ll eat it cheerfully; and if you come this way a fishing two months hence, o’ grace of God, I’ll give you a syllabub of new verjuice, in a new-made hay-cock for it, and my Maudlin shall sing you one of her best ballads; for she and I both love all anglers, they be such honest, civil, quiet men. In the mean time, will you drink a draught of red cow’s milk? you shall have it freely.

_Pisc._ No, I thank you; but I pray do us a courtesy that shall stand you and your daughter in nothing, and yet we will think ourselves still something in your debt: it is but to sing us a song that was sung by your daughter when I last passed over this meadow about eight or nine days since.

_Milk-M._ What song was it, I pray? Was it, “Come, Shepherds, Deck your Heads?” or “As at Noon Dulcina Rested?” or “Phillida, Flout me?” or “Chevy Chase?” or “Johnny Armstrong?” or “Troy Town?”

_Pisc._ It is none of those; it is a song that your daughter sung the first part, and you sung the answer to it.

_Milk-W._ O, I know it now; I learned the first part in my golden age, when I was about the age of my poor daughter; and the latter part—which indeed fits me best now—but two or three years ago, when the cares of the world began to take hold of me; but you shall, God willing, hear them both, and sung as well as we can, for we both love anglers. Come, Maudlin, sing the first part to the gentlemen with a merry heart, and I’ll sing the second when you have done:

THE MILK-MAID’S SONG.

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses With a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the fairest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Slippers lined choicely for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw, and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs;

And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love. CHRISTOPHER MARLOW, 1593.

_Ven._ Trust me, master, it is a choice song, and sweetly sung by honest Maudlin. I now see it was not without cause that our good Queen Elizabeth did so often wish herself a milk-maid all the month of May, because they are not troubled with fears and cares, but sing sweetly all the day, and sleep securely all the night; and without doubt honest, innocent, pretty Maudlin does so. I’ll bestow Sir Thomas Overbury’s milk-maid’s wish upon her, “That she may die in the spring, and, being dead, may have good store of flowers stuck round about her winding-sheet.”

THE MILK-MAID’S MOTHER’S ANSWER.

THE NYMPH’S REPLY.

If that the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move, To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, And all complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yield; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten— In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps, and amber studs; All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then those delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love. SIR WALTER RALEIGH, 1552–1618.

_Pisc._ Well sung, good woman; I thank you. I’ll give you another dish of fish one of these days, and then beg another song of you.

IZAAK WALTON, 1593–1683.

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

Behold her single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt So sweetly to reposing bands Of travelers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian lands. No sweeter voice was ever heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird— Breaking the silence of the seas, Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago; Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?

Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o’er the sickle bending;

I listened—motionless and still, And as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. W. WORDSWORTH.

THE HUSBANDMAN.

Earth of man the bounteous mother,
Feeds him still with corn and wine;
He who best would aid a brother,
Shares with him these gifts divine.

Many a power within her bosom,
Noiseless, hidden, works beneath;
Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom,
Golden ear and cluster’d wreath.

These to swell with strength and beauty
Is the royal task of man;
Man’s a king; his throne is duty,
Since his work on earth began.

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage—
These, like man, are fruits of earth;
Stamp’d in clay, a heavenly vintage,
All from dust receive their birth.

Barn and mill, and wine-vat’s treasures,
Earthly goods for earthly lives;
These are Nature’s ancient pleasures—
These her child from her derives.

What the dream, but vain rebelling,
If from earth we sought to flee?
’Tis our stored and ample dwelling—
’Tis from it the skies we see.

Wind and frost, and hour and season,
Land and water, sun and shade,
Work with these, as bids thy reason,
For they work thy toil to aid.

Sow thy seed, and reap in gladness!
Man himself is all a seed;
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness—
Slow the plant to ripeness lead.
JOHN STERLING, 1844.

X.
=The Garden.=

THE GARDEN.

FROM “THE HERBAL.”

Among the manifold creatures of God that have in all ages diversely entertained many excellent wits, and drawne them to the contemplation of the Divine Wisdome, none have provoked men’s studies more, or satisfied their desires so much, as plants have done, and that upon just and worthy causes; for what greater delight is there than to behold the earth appareled with plants as with a robe of embroidered worke, set with orient pearles, and garnished with great diversity of rare and costly jewels. But the principal delighte is in the minde, singularly enriched with the knowledge of these visible things, setting forth to us the invisible wisdome and admirable workmanship of Almighty God!

JOHN GERARDE, 1545–1607.

OF GARDENS.

The earth is the garden of nature, and each fruitful country a Paradise. The Turks, who pass their days in gardens here, will have gardens also hereafter, and delighting in flowers on earth, must have lilies and roses in heaven. The delightful world comes after death, and Paradise

succeeds the grave. The verdant state of things is the symbol of the resurrection; and to flourish in the state of glory, we must first be sown in corruption.

SIR THOMAS BROWNE, 1605–1682.

A GARDEN.

Where does the Wisdom and the Power Divine In a more bright and sweet reflection shine? Where do we finer strokes and colors see, Of the Creator’s real Poetry, Than when we with attention look Upon the third day’s volume of the Book? If we could open and intend our eye, We all, like Moses, should espy Even in a bush the radiant Deity. But we despise these, His inferior ways (Though no less full of miracle and praise), Upon the flowers of Heaven we gaze; The stars of earth no wonder in us raise. ABRAHAM COWLEY, 1618–1667.

THE GARDEN OF ALCINOUS.

FROM HOMER.

Close to the gates a spacious garden lies,
From storms defended and inclement skies:
Four acres was th’ allotted space of ground,
Fenced with a green inclosure all around,
Tall thriving trees confessed the fruitful mold;
The redd’ning apple ripens here to gold.
Here the blue fig with luscious juice o’erflows,
With deeper red the full pomegranate glows;
The branch here bends beneath the weighty pear,
And verdant olives flourish round the year.
The balmy spirit of the western gale
Eternal breathes on fruits untaught to fail:
Each dropping pear a following pear supplies,
On apples apples, figs on figs arise;
The same mild season gives the blooms to blow,
The buds to harden, and the fruits to grow.
Here ordered vines in equal ranks appear,
With all th’ united labors of the year;

Some to unload the fertile branches run,
Some dry the black’ning clusters in the sun,
Others to tread the liquid harvest join,
The groaning presses foam with floods of wine.
Here are the vines in early flower descried,
Here grapes discolor’d on the sunny side,
And there in autumn’s richest purple dyed.
Beds of all various herbs, forever green,
In beauteous order terminate the scene.
Two plenteous fountains the whole prospect crown’d—
This through the gardens leads its streams around,
Visits each plant and waters all the ground;
While that in pipes beneath the palace flows,
And thence its current on the town bestows;
To various use their various streams they bring,
The people one, and one supplies the king.
_Translation of_ POPE.

THE GARDEN OF EDEN.

In this pleasant soil, His far more pleasant garden, God ordain’d; Out of the fertile ground he caus’d to grow All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste, And all amid them stood the Tree of Life, High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit Of vegetable gold; and next to life Our death, the Tree of Knowledge, grew fast by, Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill. Southward through Eden went a river large, Nor chang’d his course, but through the shaggy hill Pass’d underneath ingulf’d; for God had thrown That mountain as his garden mold, high rais’d Upon the rapid current, which through veins Of porous earth, with kindly thirst up drawn, Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill Water’d the garden; thence united fell Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood, Which from his darksome passage now appears, And now divided into four main streams, Runs diverse, wand’ring many a famous realm And country, whereof here needs no account; But rather to tell how, if Art could tell, How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks, Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold,

With mazy error under pendent shades Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed Flow’rs worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art In beds and curious knot, but Nature boon Pour’d forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain, Both where the morning sun first warmly smote The open field, and where the unpierc’d shade Imbrown’d the noontide bow’rs. Thus was this place A happy rural seat of various views; Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm, Others whose fruit, burnish’d with golden rind, Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true, If true, here only, and of delicious taste. Betwixt them lawns, or level downs and flocks Grazing the tender herb, were interpos’d, Or palmy hillock; or the flow’ry lap Of some irriguous valley spread her store— Flow’rs of all hue, and without thorn the rose. Another side, umbrageous grots and caves Of cool recess, o’er which the mantling vine Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps Luxuriant; meanwhile murm’ring waters fall Down the slope hills, dispers’d, or in a lake That to the fringed bank with myrtle crown’d, Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams. The birds their choir apply; airs, vernal airs, Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune The trembling leaves, while universal Pan, Knit with the Graces and the Hours, in dance, Led on th’ eternal spring. JOHN MILTON, 1608–1674.

OF GARDENS.

God Almighty first planted a garden; and, indeed, it is the purest of human pleasures; it is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man; without which buildings and palaces are but gross handiwork; and as men shall ever see, that, when ages grow to civility and elegancy, men come to build stately, sooner than to garden finely, as if gardening were the greater perfection. I do hold it in the royal ordering of gardens, there ought to be gardens for all the months in the year, in which, severally, things of beauty may be in season.

* * * * *

And because the breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air (where it

comes and goes, like the warbling of music) than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that delight than to know what be the flowers and plants that do best perfume the air. Roses, damask and red, are fast flowers of their smells, so that you may walk by a whole row of them, and find nothing of their sweetness; yea, though it be in a morning’s dew. Bays, likewise, yield no smell as they grow; rosemary little, nor sweet marjoram; that which above all others yields the sweetest smell in the air is the violet, which comes twice a year, about the middle of April, and about Bartholomew-tide. Next to that is the musk rose; then the strawberry leaves dying, with a most excellent cordial smell; then the flower of the vines—it is a little dust, like the dust of a bent, which grows upon the cluster in the first coming forth; then sweet-brier, then wall-flowers, which are very delightful to be set under a parlor or lower chamber window; then pinks and gilliflowers, especially the matted pink and clove gilliflowers; then the honeysuckles, so that they be somewhat afar off. Of bean-flowers I speak not, because they are field-flowers; but those which perfume the air most delightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being trodden upon and crushed, are three, that is, burnet, wild thyme, and water-mints; therefore you are to set whole alleys of them, to have the pleasure when you walk or tread.

For gardens (speaking of those which are indeed prince-like, as we have done of buildings), the contents ought not well to be under thirty acres of ground, and to be divided into three parts: a green in the entrance, a heath or desert in the going forth, and the main garden in the midst, besides alleys on both sides; and I like well that four acres of ground be assigned to the green, six to the heath, four and four to either side, and twelve to the main garden. The green hath two pleasures: the one, because nothing is more pleasant to the eye than green grass kept finely shorn; the other, because it will give you a fair alley in the midst, by which you may go in front upon a stately hedge, which is to inclose the garden; but because the alley will be long, and, in great heat of the year, or day, you ought not to leave the shade in the garden by going in the sun through the green, therefore you are, of either side the green, to plant a covert alley upon carpenter’s work, about twelve foot in height, by which you may go in shade into the garden. As for the making of knots or figures with divers colored earths, that they may lie under the windows of the house on that side which the garden stands, they be but toys; you may see as good sights many times in tarts.

LORD BACON, 1561–1624.

GARDENING.

For my own part, as the country life, and this part of it more particularly (namely, gardening), were the inclination of my youth itself, so they are the pleasure of my age; and I can truly say, that among many

great employments that have fallen to my share, I have never asked or sought for any one of them, but often endeavored to escape from them, into the ease and freedom of a private scene, where a man may go his own way and his own pace in the common paths or circles of life.

The measure of choosing well is, whether a man likes what he has chosen, which, I thank God, has befallen me; and though among the follies of my life building and planting have not been the least, and have cost me more than I have the confidence to own, yet they have been fully recompensed by the sweetness and satisfaction of this retreat, where, since my resolution taken of never entering again into any public employments, I have passed five years without ever going once to town, though I am almost in sight of it, and have a house there always ready to receive me. Nor has this been any sort of affectation, as some have thought it, but a mere want of desire or humor to make so small a remove.

SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE, 1628–1696.

FLOWERS AND ART.

FROM “JOURNAL OF A NATURALIST.”