Chapter VIII: Introduction (6)

No portion of creation has been resorted to by mankind with more success for the ornament and decoration of their labors than the vegetable world. The rites, emblems, and mysteries of religion; national achievements, eccentric masks, and the capricious visions of fancy, have been wrought by the hand of the sculptor on the temple, the altar, or the tomb; but plants, their foliage, flowers, or fruits, as the most graceful, varied, and pleasing objects that meet our view, have been more universally the object of design, and have supplied the most beautiful, and perhaps the earliest, embellishments of art. The pomegranate, the almond, and flowers were selected, even in the wilderness by divine appointment, to give form to the sacred utensils; the rewards of merit, the wreath of the victor, were arboraceous. In later periods the acanthus, the ivy, the lotus, the vine, the palm, and the oak flourished under the chisel or in the loom of the artist; and in modern days the vegetable world affords the almost exclusive decorations of ingenuity and art. The cultivation of flowers is, of all the amusements of mankind, the one to be selected and approved as the most innocent in itself, and most perfectly devoid of injury or annoyance to others; the employment is not only conducive to health and peace of mind, but probably more good-will has arisen and friendships been founded by the intercourse and communication connected with this pursuit than from any other whatsoever; the pleasures, the ecstasies of the horticulturist are harmless and pure; a streak, a tint, a shade, becomes his triumph, which, though often obtained by chance, are secured alone by morning care, by evening caution, and

the vigilance of days—an employ which in its various grades excludes neither the opulent nor the indigent, and, teeming with boundless variety, affords an unceasing excitement to emulation, without contempt or ill-will.

J. L. KNAPP.

CHINESE GARDENING.

What is it that we seek in the possession of a pleasure-garden? The art of laying out gardens consists in an endeavor to combine cheerfulness of aspect, luxuriance of growth, shade, solitude, and repose in such a manner that the senses may be deluded by an imitation of rural nature. Diversity, which is the main advantage of free landscape, must therefore be sought in a judicious choice of soil, an alternation of chains of hills and valleys, gorges, brooks, and lakes covered with aquatic plants. Symmetry is wearying, and ennui and disgust will soon be excited in a garden where every part betrays constraint and art.

LIEU-TSCHEN, _an ancient Chinese writer—taken from_ HUMBOLDT’S
“_Cosmos_.”

EMPLOYMENT.

If as a flower doth spread and die,
Thou wouldst extend me to some good,
Before I were by frost’s extremity,
Nipt in the bud—

The sweetness and the praise were thine;
But the extension and the room
Which in thy garland I should fill, were mine
At thy great doom.

For as thou dost impart thy grace,
The greater shall our glory be;
The measure of our joys is in this place,
The stuff with thee.

Let me not languish then, and send
A life as barren to thy praise
As is the dust, to which that life doth tend,
But with delays.

All things are busy; only I
Neither bring honey with the bees,
Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandry
To water these.

I am no link of thy great chain,
But all my company is as a weed:
Lord place me in thy concert—give one strain
To my poor reed.
GEORGE HERBERT, 1593–1632.

THE GARDEN.

When the light flourish of the blue-bird sounds, And the south wind comes blandly; when the sky Is soft in delicate blue, with melting pearl Spotting its bosom, all proclaiming Spring, Oh with what joy the garden spot we greet, Wakening from wintry slumbers. As we tread The branching walks, within its hollow’d nook We see the violet by some lingering flake Of melting snow, its sweet eye lifting up, As welcoming our presence; o’er our heads The fruit-tree buds are swelling, and we hail Our grateful task of molding into form The waste around us. The quick delving spade Upturns the fresh and odorous earth; the rake Smooths the plump bed, and in their furrow’d graves We drop the seed. The robin stops his work Upon the apple-bough, and flutters down Stealing, with oft check’d and uplifted foot And watchful gaze bent quickly either side, Toward the fall’n wealth of food around the mouth Of the light paper pouch upon the earth. But, fearful of our motions, off he flies, And stoops upon the grub the spade has thrown Loose from its den beside the wounded root. Days pass along. The pattering shower falls down And then the warming sunshine. Tiny clifts Tell that the seed has turn’d itself, and now Is pushing up its stem. The verdant pea Looks out; the twin-leaf’d scallop’d radish shows Sprinkles of green. The sturdy bean displays Its jaws distended wide and slightly tongued. The downy cucumber is seen; the corn Upshoots its close-wrapp’d spike, and on its mound The young potato sets its tawny ear. Meanwhile the fruit-trees gloriously have broke

Into a flush of beauty, and the grape, Casting aside in peels its shrivel’d skin, Shows its soft furzy leaf of delicate pink, And the thick midge-like blossoms round diffuse A strong, delicious fragrance. Soon along The trellis stretch the tendrils, sharply prong’d, Clinging tenacious with their winding rings, And sending on the stem. A sheet of bloom Then decks the garden, till the summer glows, Forming the perfect fruit. In showery nights The fire-fly glares with its pendent lamp Of greenish gold. Each dark nook has a voice, While perfume floats on every wave of air. The corn lifts up its bandrols long and slim; The cucumber has overflow’d its spot With massy verdure, while the yellow squash Looks like a trumpet 'mid its giant leaves; And as we reap the rich fruits of our care, We bless the God who rains his gifts on us— Making the earth its treasures rich to yield With slight and fitful toil. Our hearts should be Ever bent harps, to send unceasing hymns Of thankful praise to One who fills all space, And yet looks down with smiles on lowly man. ALFRED STREET.

THE GARDENER.

AN OLD SCOTCH BALLAD.

A maiden stude in her bouir door,
As jimp as a willow wand;
When by there came a gardener lad
Wi’ a primrose in his hand.

“O ladye, are ye single yet,
Or will ye marry me?
Ye’se get a’ the flouirs in my garden,
To be a weed[10] for thee.”

“I love your flouirs,” the ladye said,
“But I winna marry thee;
For I can live without mankind,
And without mankind I’ll dee.”

“You shall not live without mankind,
But you shall marry me:
And among the flouirs in my garden,
I’ll shape a weed for thee.

“The lilye flouir to be your smock;
It becomes your bodie best;
Your head shall be bushit wi’ the gellye-flouir;
The primrose in your breist.

“Your gown sall be o’ the sweet-william
Your coat o’ the cammovine;
Your apron o’ the seel of downs—
Come smile, sweetheart o’ mine!

“Your gloves shall be o’ the green clover,
All glitterin to your hand;
Weil spread ower wi’ the blue blawort
That grows among corn-land.

“Your stockings shall be o’ the cabbage-leaf,
That is baith braid and lang;
Narrow, narrow at the kute,[11]
And braid, braid at the braune.[A*]

“Your shoon shall be o’ the gude rue red,
I trow it bodes nae ill;
The buckles o’ the marygold—
Come smile, sweetheart, your fill!”

“Young man, ye’ve shapit a weed for me
Amang the simmer flouirs;
Now I will shape anither for thee
Amang the winter showirs.

“The snaw so white shall be your shirt,
It becomes your body best;
The cold east wind shall wrap your heid,
And the cold rain on your breist.

“The steed that you shall ride upon
Shall be the weather snell;
Weil bridled wi’ the northern wind,
And cold, sharp shouirs o’ hail.

“The hat you on your heid shall wear
Shall be o’ the weather grey;
And aye when ye come into my sicht,
I’ll wish ye were away.”
_Anonymous._

LINES.

Sweetly breathing vernal air,
That with kind warmth doth repair
Winter’s ruins; from whose breast
All the gums and spice of th’ East
Borrow their perfumes; whose eye
Gilds the morn and clears the sky;
Whose disshevel’d tresses shed
Pearls upon the violet-bed;
On whose brow, with calm smiles drest,
The halcyon sits and builds her nest;
Beauty, youth, and endless spring,
Dwell upon thy rosy wing!

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws
Down whole forests when he blows,
With a pregnant, flowery birth,
Canst refresh the teeming earth;
If he nip the early bud;
If he blast what’s fair and good;
If he scatter our choice flowers;
If he shake our halls and bowers;
If his rude breath threaten us,
Thou canst strike great Æolus,
And from him the grace obtain,
To bind him in an iron chain.
THOMAS CAREW, _about 1600_.

]

XI.
=Summer.=

SAXON SONG OF SUMMER.

MODERN VERSION.

Summer is a coming in. Loud sing, cuckoo; Groweth seed, and bloweth mead, And springeth the wood new. Sing, cuckoo, cuckoo!

Ewe bleateth after lamb;
Loweth calf after cow;
Bullock starteth, buck departeth;
Merry sing, cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo;
Well singeth the cuckoo—
Sing ever, stop never,
Cuckoo, cuckoo;
Sing, cuckoo!
_Anonymous, about 1250_

LINES

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON OF KING ALFRED.

When the sun
Clearest shines
Serenest in the heaven,
Quickly are obscured
Over the earth
All other stars;
Because their brightness is not
Brightness at all
Compared with
The sun’s light.
When mild blows
The southwestern wind
Under the clouds,
Then quickly grow
The flowers of the field,
Joyful that they may.
But the stark storm,
When it comes strong
From north and east,
It quickly takes away
The beauty of the rose.
And also the northern storm,
Constrained by necessity,
That it is strongly agitated,
Lashes the spacious sea
Against the shore.
Alas! that our earth
Aught of permanent
Work in the world
Does not ever remain!
REV. S. FOX’S _version, 800_.

THE SUMMER MONTHS.

They come! the merry summer months of beauty, love, and flowers; They come! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers. Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad, fling work and care aside; Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide; Or underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal trees, See through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

The grass is soft; its velvet touch is grateful to the hand, And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland; The daisy and the butter-cup are nodding courteously; It stirs their blood with kindest love to bless and welcome thee. And mark how with thine own thin locks, they now are silvery gray— That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering “Be gay!”

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody. Thou see’st their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold, And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. God bless them all, these little ones, who, far above this earth, Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound—from yonder wood it came; The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name. Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind, Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western winds. Cuckoo! cuckoo! he sings again—his notes are void of art, But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart.

Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me, To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree! To suck once more in every breath, their little souls away, And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth’s bright summer day; When rushing forth, like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy— Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!

I’m sadder now—I have had cause; but O I’m proud to think That each pure joy-fount loved of yore I yet delight to drink; Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky, Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by. When summer’s loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold, I’ll bear indeed life’s heaviest curse, a heart that hath waxed old. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 1797–1835.

VIRTUE.

Sweet day! so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;
Thy root is ever in the grave,
And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses—
A box where sweets compacted lie—
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season’d timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
GEORGE HERBERT, 1593–1632.

FROM THE “HOLY DYING.”

But as when the sun approaches toward the gates of the morning, he first opens a little eye of heaven, and sends away the spirits of darkness, and gives light to a cock, and calls up the lark to matins, and by-and-by gilds the fringes of a cloud, and peeps over the eastern hills, thrusting out his golden horns—like those which decked the brows of Moses, when he was forced to wear a vail, because himself had seen the face of God; and still, while a man tells the story, the sun gets up higher till he shows a fair face and full light, and then he shines one whole day, under a cloud often, and sometimes weeping great and little showers, and sets quickly: so is a man’s reason and his life.

BISHOP JEREMY TAYLOR.

SIMILE.

As when the cheerful sun elamping wide, Glads all the world with his uprising ray, And woos the widowed earth afresh to pride, And paints her bosom with the flowery May— His silent sister steals him quite way. Wrapp’d in a sable cloud, from mortal eyes The hasty stars at noon begin to rise, And headlong to his early roost the sparrow flies.

But soon as he again disshadowed is, Restoring the blind world his blemish’d sight— As though another world were newly his; The cozened birds busily take their flight, And wonder at the shortness of the night, So Mercy once again herself displays, Out from her sister’s cloud, and open lays Those sunshine looks, whose beams would dim a thousand days. GILES FLETCHER.

THE SUN

But yonder comes the powerful King of Day, Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud, The kindling azure, and the mountain’s brow, Illum’d with fluid gold, his near approach Betoken glad. Lo! now apparent all, Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colored air, He looks in boundless majesty abroad, And sheds the shining day, that burnish’d plays On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams, High-gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer, light! Of all material beings, first and best! Efflux divine! Nature’s resplendent robe! Without whose vesting beauty all were wrapp’d In unessential gloom; and thou, O Sun, Soul of surrounding worlds! in whom best seen Shines out thy Maker! may I sing of thee?

* * * * *

The vegetable world is also thine, Parent of Seasons! who the pomp precede That waits thy throne, as through thy vast domain, Annual, along the bright ecliptic road, In world-rejoicing state, it moves sublime. Meantime th’ expecting nations, circled gay With all the various tribes of foodful earth, Implore thy bounty, or send grateful up A common hymn; while 'round thy beaming car, High seen, the seasons lead in sprightly dance. Harmonious limit; the rosy-finger’d hours, The zephyrs floating loose, the timely rains, Of bloom ethereal the light-footed dews, And, softened into joy, the surly storms. Here, in successive turn, with lavish hand Shower every beauty, every fragrance shower, Herbs, flowers, and fruits; till, kindling at thy touch, From land to land is flush’d the vernal year. JAMES THOMSON, 1700–1748.

THE SUN

* * * * *

Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles; Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn. Laughs the wild sea around her budding isles, When through their heaven thy changing car is borne; Thou wheel’st away thy flight, the woods are shorn Of all their waving locks, and storms awake— All that was once so beautiful is torn By the wild winds which plow the lonely lake, And in their maddening rush the crested mountains shake.

The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow; Life lingers and would die, but thy return Gives to their gladden’d hearts an overflow Of all the power that brooded in the urn Of their chill’d frames, and then they proudly spurn All bands that would confine, and give to air Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn, When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there Rich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the fair.

The vales are thine; and when the touch of spring Thrills them, and gives them gladness in thy light, They glitter as the glancing swallow’s wing Dashes the water in his winding flight, And leaves behind a wave that crumbles bright, And widens outward to the pebbled shore— The vales are thine; and when they wake from night, The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o’er Their soft and oozy beds, look upward, and adore.

The hills are thine; they catch the newest beam, And gladden in thy parting, where the wood Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream That flows from out thy fullness, as a flood Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food Of nations in its waters; so thy rays Flow and give brighter tints than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze Of many twinkling gems, as every gloss’d bough plays.

Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift
Snows that have never wasted in a sky
Which hath no stain; below the storm may drift
Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by;
Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie,
Dazzling, but cold; thy farewell glance looks there;
And when below thy hues of beauty die,
Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear
Into the high, dark vault a brow that still is fair.
JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

DELIGHT IN GOD.

I love, and have some cause to love, the earth;
She is my Maker’s creature, therefore good.
She is my mother, for she gave me birth.
She is my tender nurse; she gives me food.
But what’s a creature, Lord, compar’d to thee?
Or what’s my mother or my nurse to me?

I love the air; her dainty sweets refresh
My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;
Her shrill-mouth’d choir sustains me with their flesh,
And with their polyphonian notes delight me.
But what’s the air, or all the sweets that she
Can bless my soul withal, compar’d to thee?

I love the sea; she is my fellow-creature—
My careful purveyor; she provides me store;
She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore.
But, Lord of oceans, when compar’d with thee,
What is the ocean, or her wealth to me?

To heaven’s high city I direct my journey,
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;
Mine eye, by contemplation’s great attorney,
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky.
But what is heav’n, great God, compar’d to thee?
Without thy presence, heaven’s no heaven to me.

Without thy presence, earth gives no reflection;
Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure;
Without thy presence, air’s a rank infection;
Without thy presence, heav’n’s itself no pleasure;

If not possess’d, if not enjoy’d in thee,
What’s earth, or sea, or air, or heav’n to me?

The highest honors that the world can boast
Are subjects far too low for my desire;
The brightest beams of glory are, at most,
But dying sparkles of thy living fire.
The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be
But nightly glow-worms if compar’d to thee.

Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares;
Wisdom, but folly; joy, disquiet—sadness:
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;
Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness.
Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
Nor have they being, when compar’d with thee.

In having all things, and not thee, what have I?
Not having thee, what have my labors got?
Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I?
And having thee alone, what have I not?
I wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I be
Possess’d of heav’n, heav’n unpossess’d of thee!
FRANCIS QUARLES, 1592–1664.

NOON.

FROM THE SPANISH.

The sun, 'midst shining glory now concealed
Upon heaven’s highest seat,
Darts straightway down upon the parched field,
His fierce and burning heat;

And on revolving noonday calls, that he
His flushed and glowing face
May show the world, and, rising from the sea,
Aurora’s reign displace.

The wandering wind now rests his weary wings,
And, hushed in silence, broods;
And all the vocal choir of songsters sings
Among the whispering woods.

And sweetly warbling on his oaten pipe,
His own dear shepherd-maid,
The herd-boy leads along his flock of sheep
To the sequestered shade;

Where shepherd youths and maids in secret bowers,
In song and feast unite
In joyful band, to pass the sultry hours
Of their siesta light.

The sturdy hunter, bathed in moisture well,
Beneath an oak-tree’s boughs,
Beside his faithful dog, his sentinel,
Now yields him to repose.

All, all is calm, is silent. O how sweet,
On this enameled ground,
At ease recumbent, from its flowery seat,
To cast your eyes around!

The busy bee, that round your listening ear
Murmurs with drowsy hum;
The faithful turtles, perched on oak-trees near,
Moaning their mates’ sad doom.

And ever in the distance her sweet song
Murmurs lorn Philomel;
While the hoar forest’s echoing glades prolong
Her love and music well.

And 'midst the grass slow creeps the rivulet,
In whose bright limpid stream
The blue sky and the world of boughs are met,
Mirrored in one bright gleam.

And of the elm the hoar and silvery leaves,
The slumbering winds scarce blow,
Which, pictured in the bright and tremulous waves,
Follow their motion slow.

These airy mountains, and this fragrant seat,
Bright with a thousand flowers;
These interwoven forests, where the heat
Is tempered in their bowers!

The dark umbrageous woods, the dense array
Of trunks, through which there peers
Perchance the town, which, in the glow of day,
Like crystal light appears!

These cooling grottoes! O retirement blest!
Within thy calm abode
My mind alone can from her troubles rest,
With solitude and God.

Thou giv’st me life, and liberty, and love,
And all I now admire,
And from the winter of my soul dost move
The deep enthusiast fire.

O bounteous Nature, ’tis thy healing womb
Alone can peace procure!
Thither all ye, the weary, laden, come,
From storms of life secure.
_Anonymous Translation._ JUAN MELENDEZ VALDES, 1754–1817.

SUMMER DREAM.

FROM THE GERMAN MINNESINGERS.

’Twas summer; through the spring grass
The joyous flowers upsprang;
The birds in all their different tribes
Loud in the woodlands sang:
Then forth I went, and wandered far
The wide, green meadow o’er—
Where cool and clear the fountain play’d—
There strayed I in that hour.

Roaming on, the nightingale
Sang sweetly in my ear;
And by the greenwood’s shady side,
A dream came to me there.
Fast by the fountain, where bright flowers
Of sparkling hue we see;
Close sheltered from the summer heat,
That vision came to me.

All care was banished, and repose
Came o’er my wearied breast;
And kingdoms seemed to wait on me,
For I was with the blest.

Yet while it seemed as if away,
My spirit soared on high,
And in the boundless joys of heaven
Was rapp’d in ecstasy;
E’en then my body revel’d still
In earth’s festivity;
And surely never was a dream
So sweet as this to me.

Thus I dreamed on, and might have dwelt
Still on that rapturous dream,
When hark! a raven’s luckless note—
(Sooth ’twas a direful scream!)
Broke up the vision of delight.
Instant my joy was past;
O had a stone but met my hand,
That hour had been his last!
_Translation of_ E. TAYLOR. WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE, _about
1150_.

SUMMER.

The spring’s gay promise melted into thee, Fair summer! and thy gentle reign is here; The emerald robes are on each leafy tree; In the blue sky thy voice is rich and clear; And the free brooks have songs to bless thy reign— They leap in music midst thy bright domain.

The gales that wander from the unclouded west Are burden’d with the breath of countless fields; They teem with incense from the green earth’s breast, That up to heaven its grateful odor yields, Bearing sweet hymns of praise from many a bird, By nature’s aspect into rapture stirr’d.

In such a scene the sun-illumin’d heart Bounds like a prisoner in his narrow cell, When through its bars the morning glories dart, And forest anthems in his hearing swell; And like the heaving of the voiceful sea, His panting bosom labors to be free.

Thus, gazing on thy void and sapphire sky, O summer! in my inmost soul arise Uplifted thoughts, to which the woods reply, And the bland air with its soft melodies; Till basking in some vision’s glorious ray, I long for eagle’s plumes to flee away.

I long to cast this cumbrous clay aside, And the impure, unholy thoughts that cling To the sad bosom, torn with care and pride; I would soar upward, on unfetter’d wing, Far through the chambers of the peaceful skies, Where the high fount of summer brightness lies! WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, 1810–1841.

PORTUGUESE CANZONET.

OF CAMOENS.

Flowers are fresh, and bushes green,
Cheerily the linnets sing;
Winds are soft, and skies serene;
Time, however, soon shall throw,
Winter’s snow,
O’er the buxom breast of spring!

Hope that buds in lover’s heart,
Lives not through the scorn of years;
Time makes love itself depart;
Time and scorn congeal the mind—
Looks unkind—
Freeze affection’s warmest tears.

Time shall make the bushes green;
Time dissolve the winter snow;
Winds be soft, and skies serene;
Linnets sing their wonted strain.
But again,
Blighted love shall never blow!
_Translated by_ VISCOUNT STRANGFORD. LUIS DE CAMÕENS, 1524–1579.

XII.
=The Forest.=

FROM “EVANGELINE.”

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. H. W. LONGFELLOW.

SONG.

Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
There shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i’ the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas’d with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
There shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.
SHAKSPEARE.

A GROVE.

FROM “BRITANNIA’S PASTORAL.”

There stood the elme, whose shade so mildly dim Doth nourish all that groweth under him; Cipresse that like piramids rune topping, And hurt the least of any by their dropping, The alder whose fat shadow nourisheth, Each plant set neere to him long flourisheth. The heavy-headed plane-tree, by whose shade The grasse grows thickest, men are fresher made. The oake, that best endures the thunder-shocks; The everlasting ebene, cedar, boxe; The olive that in wainscot never cleans; The amorous vine which in the elme still weaves; The lotus, juniper, where worms ne’er enter; The pyne, with whom men through the ocean venter; The war-like yeugh, by which (more than the lance) The strong-arm’d English spirits conquer’d France. Among the rest the tamariske there stoode For huswife’s besoms only knowne most goode. The cold-place-loving birch, and servis-tree; The walnut loving vales, the mulberry. The maple, ashe, that doe delight in fountains, Which have their currents by the side of mountains. The laurell, mirtle, ivy, date, which hold Their leaves all winter, be it ne’er so cold. The firre, that often times doth rosins drop; The beach that scales the welkin with his top. All these, and thousand more, within this grove, By all the industry of nature strove To frame an arbour that might keep within it, The best of beauties that the world hath in it. WILLIAM BROWNE, 1590–1645.

OF THE SEMINARY, AND OF TRANSPLANTING.

FROM “THE SILVA.’

_Qui Vineas vel Arbustum constituere volet, Seminaria prius facere debebit_, was the precept of Columella (de Arb., cap. 1), speaking of vineyards and fruit-trees; and doubtless we can not pursue a better course for the propagation of timber-trees. For though it seem but a trivial design, that one should make a nursery of foresters; yet it is not to be imagined, without the experience of it, what prodigious numbers a very small spot of ground, well-cultivated, and destined for this purpose, would be able to furnish toward the sending forth of yearly colonies into all the naked quarters of a lordship, or demesne; being, with a pleasant industry, liberally distributed among the tenants, and disposed about the hedge-rows, and other waste and uncultivated places for timber, shelter, fuel, and ornament, to an incredible advantage. This being a cheap and laudable work, of so much pleasure in the execution, and so certain a profit in the event, when once well done (for, as I affirmed, a very small plantarium, or nursery, will, in a few years, stock a vast extent of ground), has made me sometimes in admiration at the universal negligence; as well as raised my admiration, that seeds and plants of such different kinds, should, like so many tender babes and infants suck and thrive at the same breasts; though there are some, indeed, will not so well prosper in company, requiring peculiar juices. But this niceness is more conspicuous in flowers and the herbaceous offspring, than in foresters, which require only diligent weeding and frequent cleansing, till they are able to shift for themselves; and as their vessels enlarge and introduce more copious nourishment, they often starve their neighbors.

JOHN EVELYN, 1628–1706.

WINDSOR FOREST.

The groves of Eden, vanish’d now so long, Live in description and look green in song; These, were my breast inspir’d with equal flame, Like them in beauty, should be like in fame. Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain, Here earth and water seem to strive again! Not chaos-like, together crush’d and bruis’d, But as the world, harmoniously confus’d; Where order in variety we see, And where, though all things differ, all agree.

Here waving groves a checker’d scant display, And part admit, and part exclude the day; As some coy nymph her lover’s warm address, Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress. There interspers’d in lawns and op’ning glades, Thin trees arise that shun each other’s shades; There, in full light, the russet plains extend; There, wrapt in clouds, the bluish hills extend. Ev’n the wild heath displays her purple dyes, And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise, That, crown’d with tufted trees and fringing corn, Like verdant isles, the sable waste adorn. Let India boast her plants, nor envy we The weeping amber or the balmy tree, While by our oaks the precious loads are borne And realms commanded which those trees adorn. Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight, Though gods assembled grace his tow’ring height, Than what more humble mountains offer here, Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear. See Pan, with flocks, with fruits Pomone crown’d; There blushing Flora paints th’ enamel’d ground, Here Ceres’ gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper’s hand; Rich Industry sits smiling on the plains, And peace and plenty tell a Stuart reigns. ALEXANDER POPE, 1688–1744.

FAIRLOP.

In a glade of Hainhault forest, in Essex, about a mile from Barkinside, stands an oak, which has been known through many centuries by the name of Fairlop. The traditions of the country trace it half way up the Christian era. It is still a noble tree, though it has now suffered greatly from the depredations of time. About a yard from the ground, where its rough, fluted stem is thirty-six feet in circumference, it divides into eleven arms; yet not in the horizontal manner of an oak, but rather in that of a beech. Beneath its shade, which overspreads an area of three hundred feet in circuit, an annual fair has long been held, on the 2d of July; and no booth is suffered to be erected beyond the extent of its boughs. But as their extremities are now become sapless, and age is yearly curtailing their length, the liberties of the fair seem to be in a desponding condition. The honor however is great. But honors are often accompanied with inconveniences; and Fairlop has suffered

from its distinctions. In the feasting that attends the fair, fires are often necessary; and no places seemed so proper to make them in, as the hollow cavities formed by the heaving roots of the tree. This practice has brought a speedier decay on Fairlop than it might otherwise have suffered.

WILLIAM GILPIN, 1724–1807.

AN OLD OAK.

FROM COWPER’S LETTERS.

Since your departure I have twice visited the oak, with an intention of pushing my inquiries a mile beyond it, where it seems I should have found another oak, much larger, and much more respectable than the former; but once I was hindered by the rain, and once by the sultriness of the day. This latter oak has been known by the name of “Judith” many ages, and is said to have been an oak at the time of the Conquest. If I have not an opportunity to reach it before your arrival here, we will attempt that exploit together, and even if I should have been able to visit it ere you come, I shall yet be glad to do so, for the pleasure of extraordinary sights, like all other pleasures, is doubled by the participation of a friend.

W. COWPER.—_Letter to S. Rose, Esq., Sept. 11, 1788._

YARDLEY OAK.

Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth, (Since which I number threescore winters past), A shatter’d veteran, hollow-trunk’d perhaps, As now, and with excoriate forks deform, Relics of ages! Could a mind, imbued With truth from Heaven, created thing adore, I might with rev’rence kneel, and worship thee.

It seems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather Druids in their oaks, Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet Unpurified by an authentic act Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Lov’d not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste Of fruit proscrib’d, as to a refuge, fled.

Thou wast a bauble once; a cup-and-ball, Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin’d The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs, And all thy embryo vastness, at a gulp. But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow’d the soil Design’d thy cradle; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof, nibbling the glebe, prepar’d The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.

So Fancy dreams. Disprove it if ye can Ye reas’ners broad awake, whose busy search Of argument employ’d too oft amiss, Sifts half the pleasure of short life away!

Thou fill’st nature; and in the loamy clod, Swelling with vegetative force instinct, Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins, Now stars; two lobes protruding, pair’d exact; A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, And, all the elements thy puny growth Fost’ring propitious, thou becam’st a twig.

Who liv’d when thou wast such? O couldst thou speak As in Dodona once, thy kindred trees, Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past.

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of History, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recov’ring, and misstated, setting right— Desp’rate attempt, till trees shall speak again!

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the wood; And Time hath made thee what thou art—a cave For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs O’erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocks That graz’d it stood beneath that ample cope Uncrowded, yet safe-shelter’d from the storm. No flocks frequent thee now. Thou hast outlived

Thy popularity, and art become (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing Forgotten as the foliage of thy youth.

While thus through all the stages thou hast push’d Of treeship—first a seedling, hid in grass; Then twig; then sapling; and as cent’ry roll’d Slow after century, a giant-bulk Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion’d root Upheav’d above the soil, and sides emboss’d With prominent wens globose—till at the last The rottenness, which time is charged to inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee.

* * * * *

WILLIAM COWPER, 1731–1800.

THE GROANING ELM OF BADESLEY.

The history of the Groaning Tree is this. About forty years ago, a cottager, who lived near the center of the village (Badesley, near Lymington), heard frequently a strange noise behind his house, like that of a person in extreme agony. Soon after it caught the attention of his wife, who was then confined to her bed. She was a timorous woman, and being greatly alarmed, her husband endeavored to persuade her that the noise she heard was only the bellowing of the stags in the forest. By degrees, however, the neighbors on all sides heard it, and the thing began to be much talked of. It was by this time plainly discovered that the groaning noise proceeded from an elm, which grew at the end of the garden. It was a young, vigorous tree, and, to all appearance, perfectly sound.

In a few weeks the fame of the groaning tree was spread far and wide, and people from all parts flocked to it. Among others, it attracted the curiosity of the late Prince and Princess of Wales,[12] who resided, at that time for the advantage of a sea-bath, at Pilewell, the seat of Sir James Worsley, which stood within a quarter of a mile of the groaning tree.

Though the country people assigned many superstitious causes for this strange phenomenon, the naturalist could assign no physical one that was in any degree satisfactory. Some thought that it was owing to the twisting and friction of the roots. Others thought it proceeded from water, which had collected in the body of the tree—or perhaps from pent air. But no cause that was alleged appeared equal to the effect. In the mean time the tree did not always groan—sometimes disappointing

its visitants; yet no cause could be assigned for its temporary cessations, either from seasons or weather. If any difference was observed, it was thought to groan least when the weather was wet, and most when it was clear and frosty; but the sound at all times seemed to arise from the root.

Thus the groaning tree continued an object of astonishment during the space of eighteen or twenty months, to all the country around; and for the information of distant parts a pamphlet was drawn up containing a particular account of all the circumstances relating to it.

At length the owner of it, a gentleman of the name of Forbes, making too rash an experiment to discover the cause, bored a hole in its trunk. After this it never groaned. It was then rooted up, with a further view to making a discovery; but still nothing appeared which led to any investigation of the cause. It was universally, however, believed that there was no trick in the affair, but that some natural cause really existed, though never understood.

WILLIAM GILPIN, 1724–1807.

YEW-TREES.

There is a yew-tree, pride of Horton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore, Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands Of Umfraville or Percy, ere they marched To Scotland’s heaths; or those that crossed the sea And drew their sounding bows at Agincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or at Poitiers. Of vast circumference and gloom profound This solitary tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibers serpentine, Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved— Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane; a pillared shade, Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the piny umbrage tinged Perennially—beneath whose sable roof Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked

With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes May meet at noontide: Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight—Death the skeleton, And Time the shadow—here to celebrate, As in a natural temple scattered o’er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

LINES.

FROM THE ICELANDIC EDDA.

I know an ash,
Named _Ygg-drasill_,
A stately tree,
With white dust strewed.
Thence come the dews
That wet the dales;
It stands aye green
O’er Urda’s well.

Thence come the maids
Who much do know;
Three from the hall
Beneath the tree;
One they named _Was_,
And _Being_ next,
The third _Shall be_,
On the shield they cut.
HENDERSON’S “_Iceland_.”

LIME-TREES.

At Niestad,[13] in the duchy of Wurtemburg, stood a lime, which was for many ages so remarkable that the city frequently took its denomination from it, being often called _Neustadt an der grossen Linden_, or Niestad near the Great Lime. Scarce any person passed near Niestad without visiting this tree; and many princes and great men did honor to it by building obelisks, columns, and monuments of various kinds around it, engraved with their arms and names, to which the dates were added, and often some device. Mr. Evelin, who procured copies of several of

these monumental inscriptions, tells us there were two hundred of them. The columns on which they were fixed served also to bear up the vast limbs of the tree, which began through age to become unwieldy. Thus this mighty plant stood many years in great state, the ornament of the town, the admiration of the country, and supported, as it were, by the princes of the empire. At length it felt the effects of war. Niestad was surrounded by an enemy, and the limbs of this venerable tree were mangled in wantonness by the besieging troops. Whether it still exists, I know not; but long after these injuries it stood a noble ruin, discovering, by the foundations of the several monuments, which formerly propped its spreading boughs, how far its limits had once extended.

* * * I shall next celebrate the Lime of Cleves. This, also, was a tree of great magnificence. It grew in an open plain, just at the entrance of the city, and was thought an object worthy to exercise the taste of the magistracy. The burgomaster of his day had it surveyed with great accuracy, and trimmed into eight broad, pyramidal faces. Each corner was supported by a handsome stone pillar; and in the middle of the tree, among the branches, was cut a noble room, which the vast space contained within easily suffered, without injuring the regularity of any of the eight faces. To crown all, the top was curiously clipped into some kind of head, and adorned artificially, but in what manner, whether with the head of a lion, or a stag, a weather-cock, or a sun-dial, we are not told. It was something, however, in the highest style of Dutch taste. This tree was long the admiration and envy of all the states of Holland.

WILLIAM GILPIN, 1724–1807.

THE BIRCH-TREE.

Rippling through thy branches goes the sunshine, Among thy leaves that palpitate forever; Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned, The soul once of some tremulous, inland river, Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah! dumb, dumb forever!

While all the forest, witched with slumberous moonshine, Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence; Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended— I hear afar thy whispering, gleamy islands, And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung silence.

Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet, Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad, Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose shadow

Slopes quivering down the water’s dusky quiet, Thou shrink’st, as on her bath’s edge would some strolled Dryad.

Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers; Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping; Reuben writes here the happy name of Patience, And the lithe boughs hang murmuring and weeping Above her, as she steals the mystery from thy keeping.

Thou art to me like my beloved maiden, So frankly coy, so full of trembly confidences; Thy shadow scarce seems shade, thy pattering leaflets Sprinkle their gathered sunshine o’er my senses, And Nature gives me all her summer confidences.

Whether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble, Thou sympathized still; wild and unquiet, I fling me down; thy ripple, like a river, Flows valley-ward, where calmness is, and by it My heart is floated down into the land of quiet. J. R. LOWELL.

THE HEMLOCK-TREE.

FROM THE GERMAN.

O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!
Green not alone in summer time,
But in the winter’s frost and rime!
O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!

O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!
To love me in prosperity,
And leave me in adversity
O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom!

The nightingale! the nightingale thou tak’st for thine example!
So long as summer laughs she sings,
But in the autumn spreads her wings;
The nightingale! the nightingale thou tak’st for thine example!

The meadow-brook, the meadow-brook is mirror of thy falsehood!
It flows so long as falls the rain;
In drought its springs soon dry again;
The meadow-brook, the meadow-brook is mirror of thy falsehood!
_Anonymous._ _Translation of_ H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THE OAK.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF METASTASIO.

The tall oak, towering to the skies, The fury of the wind defies; From age to age, in virtue strong, Inured to stand, and suffer wrong.

O’erwhelmed at length, upon the plain It puts forth wings, and sweeps the main; The self-same foe undaunted braves, And fights the winds upon the waves. JAMES MONTGOMERY.

ON AN ANCIENT OAK.

FROM THE GREEK OF ANTIPHILUS.

Hail, venerable boughs, that in mid sky
Spread broad and deep your leafy canopy!
Hail, cool, refreshing shade, abode most dear
To the sun-wearied traveler, wand’ring near!
Hail, close inwoven bow’rs, fit dwelling-place
For insect tribes, and man’s imperial race!
Me, too, reclining in your green retreat,
Shield from the blazing day’s meridian heat.
_Translation of_ J. H. MERIVALE.

WOOD NOTES.

And such I knew a forest seer, A minstrel of the natural year, Foreteller of the vernal ides, Wise harbinger of spheres and tides— A lover true, who knew by heart, Each joy the mountain dales impart; It seemed that Nature could not raise A plant in any secret place; In quaking bog, or snowy hill. Beneath the grass that shades the rill, Under the snow, between the rocks, In damp fields, known to bird and fox;

But he would come in the very hour It opened in its virgin bower, As if a sunbeam showed the place, And tell its long-descended race. It seemed as if the breezes brought him; It seemed as if the sparrows taught him; As if by secret sight he knew Where, in far fields, the orchis grew. Many haps fall in the field, Seldom seen by wistful eyes; But all her shows did Nature yield, To please and win this pilgrim wise. He saw the partridge drum in the woods, He heard the woodcock’s evening hymn; He found the tawny thrush’s broods; And the sky-hawk did wait for him. What others did at distance hear, And guessed within the thicket’s gloom, Was showed to this philosopher, And at his bidding seemed to come.

In unplowed Maine he sought the lumberer’s gang, Where from a hundred lakes young rivers sprang; He trod the unplanted forest floor, whereon The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone; Where feeds the moose and walks the surly bear, And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker. He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds, The slight Linnea hang its twin-born heads; And blessed the monument of the man of flowers, Which breathes his sweet fame through the northern bowers. He heard, when in the grove, at intervals, With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls— One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree, Declares the close of its green century. Low lies the plant to whose creation went Sweet influence from every element; Whose living towers the years conspired to build— Whose giddy top the morning loved to gild. Through these green tents, by eldest Nature dressed, He roamed, content alike with man and beast. Where darkness found him he lay glad at night; There the red morning touched him with its light. Three moons his great heart him a hermit made, So long he roved at will the boundless shade.

The timid it concerns to ask their way, And fear what foe in caves and swamps can stray; To make no step until the event is known, And ills to come, as evils past, bemoan. Not so the wise; no coward watch he keeps, To spy what danger on his pathway creeps. Go where he will, the wise man is at home— His hearth the earth, his hall the azure dome; Where his clear spirit leads him, there his road, By God’s own light illumined and foreshowed. R. W. EMERSON.

A PINE-FOREST.

Those who have only lived in forest countries, where vast tracts are shaded by a dense growth of oak, ash, chestnut, hickory, and other trees of deciduous foliage, which present the most pleasing varieties of verdure and freshness, can have but little idea of the effect produced on the feelings by aged forests of pine, composed in great degree of a single species, whose towering summits are crowned with one dark-green canopy, which successive seasons find unchanged, and nothing but death causes to vary. Their robust and gigantic trunks rise a hundred or more feet high in purely proportioned columns before the limbs begin to diverge; and their tops, densely clothed with long, bristling foliage, intermingle so closely as to allow of but slight entrance to the sun. Hence the undergrowth of such forests is comparatively slight and thin, since none but shrubs and plants that love the shade can flourish under this perpetual exclusion of the animating and invigorating rays of the great exciter of the vegetable world. Through such forests, and by the merest foot-paths in great part, it was my lot to pass many miles almost every day; and had I not endeavored to derive some amusement and instruction from the study of the forest itself, my time would have been as fatiguing to me as it was certainly quiet and solemn. But wherever Nature is, and under whatever form she may present herself, enough is always proffered to fix attention and to produce pleasure, if we will condescend to observe with carefulness. I soon found that even a pine-forest was far from being devoid of interest.

JOHN M. GODMAN, 1795–1829.

A WOOD IN WINTER.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

Sweet, lonely wood, that like a friend art found
To soothe my weary thoughts that brood on woe,
While through dull days and short the north winds blow,
Numbing with winter’s breath the air and ground
Thy time-worn, leafy locks seem all around,
Like mine, to whiten with old age’s snow,
Now that thy sunny banks, where late did grow
The painted flowers, in frost and ice are bound.
As I go musing on the dim, brief light
That still of life remain, then I, too, feel
The creeping cold my limbs and spirits thrill;
But I with sharper frost than thine congeal;
Since ruder winds my winter brings, and nights
Of greater length, and days more scant and chill.
_Anonymous Translation._ GIOVANNI DELLA CASA, 1503–1556.

“LEAVES HAVE THEIR TIME TO FALL.”

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,
And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Day is for mortal care;
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth;
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer—
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day of grief’s overwhelming power,
A time for softer tears—but all are thine.