 | Birds and flowers and other country things |  |
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THE PASSION-FLOWER.
I love sweet flowers of every sort,
High-spired or trailing low;
I love the musky roses red,
The lilies white as snow.
High-spired or trailing low;
I love the musky roses red,
The lilies white as snow.
The aster and the columbine,
Sweet-pea and virgin-bower,
I love them all — but most I love
The good old passion-flower!
Sweet-pea and virgin-bower,
I love them all — but most I love
The good old passion-flower!
Oh yes, the good old passion-flower!
It bringeth to my mind,
The young days of the Christian church,
Dim ages left behind.
It bringeth to my mind,
The young days of the Christian church,
Dim ages left behind.
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I see the bloody streets of Rome;
The throng—the burning pyre,
And christians stand with clasped hands
Amid the raging fire.
The throng—the burning pyre,
And christians stand with clasped hands
Amid the raging fire.
I hear the women, angel-toned,
The men with courage high,
Preach their dear Lord amid their pangs,—
Forgive their foes—and die.
The men with courage high,
Preach their dear Lord amid their pangs,—
Forgive their foes—and die.
I see, far from the world apart,
In desert-places dwell,
The early fathers of the church,
In wood or mountain-cell.
In desert-places dwell,
The early fathers of the church,
In wood or mountain-cell.
And there the wondering thousands come,
By love and pity brought,
To hear them tell of Jesus Christ,
And the new truths he taught.
By love and pity brought,
To hear them tell of Jesus Christ,
And the new truths he taught.
I see the fearless fathers stand,
Amid the eager throng,
Preaching like Paul at Ephesus,
In burning words and strong.
Amid the eager throng,
Preaching like Paul at Ephesus,
In burning words and strong.
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—Again I see a lonely man,
Of spirit sad and mild,
Who hath his little dwelling-place
Amid a region wild.
Of spirit sad and mild,
Who hath his little dwelling-place
Amid a region wild.
The wild flowers of the desert
Grow round him thick as weeds,
And, in their beautiful array,
Of holy things he reads.
Grow round him thick as weeds,
And, in their beautiful array,
Of holy things he reads.
The red is the dear blood of Christ,
The white, the pure from sin,
The yellow, is the seamless robe
Christ was apparelled in.
The white, the pure from sin,
The yellow, is the seamless robe
Christ was apparelled in.
All four-leaved flowers bring to his mind
The cross whereon he died;
And every thorn the cruel spear,
That pierced his blessed side.
The cross whereon he died;
And every thorn the cruel spear,
That pierced his blessed side.
I see him as he mused one day
Beneath a forest-bower,
With clasped hands stand, and upturned eyes,
Before an open flower;
Exclaiming with a fervent joy,
“I have found the Passion-flower!
Beneath a forest-bower,
With clasped hands stand, and upturned eyes,
Before an open flower;
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“I have found the Passion-flower!
“The Passion of our blessed Lord,
With all his pangs and pain,
Set forth within a little flower,
In shape and colour plain!
With all his pangs and pain,
Set forth within a little flower,
In shape and colour plain!
“Behold the ladder, and the cord
With which his limbs were tied;
Behold his five deep, cruel wounds
In hands, and feet, and side!
With which his limbs were tied;
Behold his five deep, cruel wounds
In hands, and feet, and side!
“Behold the hammer and the nails;
The bloody crown of thorn;
And these his precious tears, when left
Of God and man forlorn!
The bloody crown of thorn;
And these his precious tears, when left
Of God and man forlorn!
Up, I will forth into the world,
And take this flower with me,
To preach the death of Christ to all,
As it has preached to me!”
And take this flower with me,
To preach the death of Christ to all,
As it has preached to me!”
And thus the good old passion-flower
Throughout the world was sent,
To breathe into all Christian hearts
It's holy sentiment.
Throughout the world was sent,
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It's holy sentiment.
And in the after-times, when kings
Of Christian fathers came;
And to profess the faith of Christ
No longer purchased shame:
Of Christian fathers came;
And to profess the faith of Christ
No longer purchased shame:
When abbeys rose in towered state;
And over wood and dell,
Went sounding, with a royal voice,
The stately minster-bell:
And over wood and dell,
Went sounding, with a royal voice,
The stately minster-bell:
Then was the abbey-garden made
All with the nicest care;
Its little borders quaintly cut
In fancies rich and rare.
All with the nicest care;
Its little borders quaintly cut
In fancies rich and rare.
And there they brought all curious plants,
With sainted names, a flower
For every saint's day of the year,—
For every holy hour;
And there was set, in pride of place,
The noble passion-flower.
With sainted names, a flower
For every saint's day of the year,—
For every holy hour;
And there was set, in pride of place,
The noble passion-flower.
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And there they kept, the pious monks,
Within a garden small,
All plants that had a healing power,
All herbs medicinal.
Within a garden small,
All plants that had a healing power,
All herbs medicinal.
And thither came the sick, the maimed,
The moonstruck and the blind,
For holy flower, for wort of power,
For charmed root and rind!
The moonstruck and the blind,
For holy flower, for wort of power,
For charmed root and rind!
—Oh, those old abbey-gardens
With their devices rich,
Their fountains, and green, solemn walks,
And saint in many a niche!
With their devices rich,
Their fountains, and green, solemn walks,
And saint in many a niche!
I would I could call back again
Those gardens in their pride,
And see slow walking up and down,
The Abbot dignified.
Those gardens in their pride,
And see slow walking up and down,
The Abbot dignified.
And the fat monk with sleepy eyes,
Half dozing in his cell;
And him, the poor lay-brother,
That loved the flowers so well;
Half dozing in his cell;
And him, the poor lay-brother,
That loved the flowers so well;
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That laid the abbey-gardens out,
With all their fancies quaint,
And loved a little flower as much
As his own patron saint!
With all their fancies quaint,
And loved a little flower as much
As his own patron saint!
That gardened late and early,
And twined into a bower,
Wherein he set the crucifix
The good old passion-flower!
And twined into a bower,
Wherein he set the crucifix
The good old passion-flower!
Oh, would I could bring back again,
Those abbey-gardens old,
And see the poor lay-brother
So busy in the mould;
Those abbey-gardens old,
And see the poor lay-brother
So busy in the mould;
Tying up his flowers and thinking
The while, with streaming eyes,
Of Jesus in the garden;
Of Eve in Paradise!
The while, with streaming eyes,
Of Jesus in the garden;
Of Eve in Paradise!
—Alas, the abbey lieth low;
The Abbot's tomb is bare;
And he, the abbey-gardener,
Is all forgotten there;
The Abbot's tomb is bare;
And he, the abbey-gardener,
Is all forgotten there;
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His garden is a pasture-field
Wherein the flocks repose;
And where his choicest flowers were set
The common clover grows!
Wherein the flocks repose;
And where his choicest flowers were set
The common clover grows!
But still we have the passion-flower,
Although he lieth low,
And ever may its holy flowers
In pleasant gardens grow!
Although he lieth low,
And ever may its holy flowers
In pleasant gardens grow!
To garland bower and window pane,
And ever bring to mind,
The young days of the Christian church,
Long ages left behind!
And ever bring to mind,
The young days of the Christian church,
Long ages left behind!
To bring the abbey's garden back,
With its quaint beds and bowers,
And him the good lay-brother
That worked among the flowers.
With its quaint beds and bowers,
And him the good lay-brother
That worked among the flowers.
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