The Poetical Language of Flowers or, The Pilgrimage of Love. By Thomas Miller. Second Edition |
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THE VALE OF ARCADIA. |
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 | The Poetical Language of Flowers |  |
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THE VALE OF ARCADIA.
It was a pleasant vale in the olden time,
When peaceful shepherds piped along the plains,
And the young world was in its golden prime,
When the green groves rung back their rustic strains,
When the old forest was their only town,
Their streets the flowery glades, their temples mountains brown.
When peaceful shepherds piped along the plains,
And the young world was in its golden prime,
When the green groves rung back their rustic strains,
When the old forest was their only town,
Their streets the flowery glades, their temples mountains brown.
A winding stream flowed through that verdant valley,
And pleasant music its sweet waters made,
As with the drooping flowers it there did dally,
Or, lower down, amid the pebbles played,
Then brawled along through many a mossy maze,
Here lit with struggling beams, there dark with drooping sprays.
And pleasant music its sweet waters made,
As with the drooping flowers it there did dally,
Or, lower down, amid the pebbles played,
Then brawled along through many a mossy maze,
Here lit with struggling beams, there dark with drooping sprays.
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And sunny slopes of green and flowery ground,
Went stretching far along the water's edge,
Seeming to listen to that slumberous sound;
For nought there moved save when the reedy sedge
Bowed to its shadow in the stream beneath,
Or some light ripple stirred the lily's pearly wreath.
Went stretching far along the water's edge,
Seeming to listen to that slumberous sound;
For nought there moved save when the reedy sedge
Bowed to its shadow in the stream beneath,
Or some light ripple stirred the lily's pearly wreath.
A velvet sward, its length deep-rimmed with flowers,
Wound by the stream, and formed a pleasant walk,
Shaded by boughs; sweet summer-woven bowers,
In which the leaves did oft together talk,
Now to themselves, then to the brook below,
Just as the fitful winds in fancy seemed to blow.
Wound by the stream, and formed a pleasant walk,
Shaded by boughs; sweet summer-woven bowers,
In which the leaves did oft together talk,
Now to themselves, then to the brook below,
Just as the fitful winds in fancy seemed to blow.
Sometimes a cloud, that seemed to have lost its way,
Went sailing o'er the ridge of sable pines,
Steeping their topmost boughs in silvery grey,
Or “glinting” downward on the purple vines,
Till their broad leaves threw back a moon-like gleam,
And then a shadow swept o'er valley, tree, and stream.
Went sailing o'er the ridge of sable pines,
Steeping their topmost boughs in silvery grey,
Or “glinting” downward on the purple vines,
Till their broad leaves threw back a moon-like gleam,
And then a shadow swept o'er valley, tree, and stream.
Sweet were the sounds that through Areadia flowed:
The gentle lambs bleated all summer long,
The spotted heifer from the thicket lowed,
The nightingale struck up her starlight song
A mournful coo the hidden ringdove made,
Now high, now low, now list, just as the branches swayed.
The gentle lambs bleated all summer long,
The spotted heifer from the thicket lowed,
The nightingale struck up her starlight song
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Now high, now low, now list, just as the branches swayed.
And Love and Psyche dwelt amid those bowers,
And there he first found how her gentle heart
Drew sweet emotions from the perfumed flowers,
Till of her soul they had become a part;
And how when summer's buds had passed away,
Their fragrance still within her parted lips did lay.
And there he first found how her gentle heart
Drew sweet emotions from the perfumed flowers,
Till of her soul they had become a part;
And how when summer's buds had passed away,
Their fragrance still within her parted lips did lay.
| The Poetical Language of Flowers | |