University of Virginia Library

Wild-flowers from England's Arcady!—By these,
Dear Rotha, thanks to Her whose gracious hand
Gather'd, and with hermetic skill preserved
For us the delicate treasures—we may yet,
Ev'n in the tame South, repossess the fells,
The dingles, and the haunts of water-falls
That cleave “the flowery rocks,” and we may roam
By lake and cataract along the banks
Where these were born and Thou,—For these dried flowers
Are Fancy's passports to their native land;
And though so far from home, and never more
To nod and balance to the mountain breeze
And sparkle through the spangles of the dew,
Yet is their summer glory but prolong'd
Within this dainty Herbal, and the bloom
That would have quickly shrivell'd into dust,
Here in perennial loveliness survives,
Breathing the breath of voices from the North.—
Thus sun-dyed fancies, airy reveries,
Freaks of imagination, waking dreams,
Ephemeral fantasies of playful hues,
Fade into nothing if uncropt, and die
Forgotten; but if seized on while yet fresh
In their rich tints of light, and so consigned
To the bland pressure of judicious thought
And chaste constraint of language, they become
Heirlooms for after-times; and when the door
Of life has closed upon their parent-mind,
They tell us of the garden where they grew:
Relics of Eden-land, with fondness prized
After the gates of paradise are shut.

What have we here? The Muse's own plant first:
Grass of Parnassus, with its lofty flowers
In silver lustre poised, each on its stalk,
A tall thin pillar leafless; while the leaves,
Each on its separate stem, dwell near the ground,
Like poor and lowly relatives, abash'd,
Yet clinging conscious to their common root.
Or, rather, those aspiring flowers are symbols
Of minds that soar to fancy's altitudes,
And live in radiance for a little while,
And wither in the sun; while the green leaves,
Content to 'bide near home, caress their roots,
And thence imbibe sure nurture.—What comes next?
The Silver Dew! so euphonously named!
A simple flower enough, in gilding rich,
But with such lovely foliage as might task
An Indian carver's skill on ivory—
Fan-moss as delicately elegant:—
And Lady's Mantle, fairer flowers and leaves
Than ever lady's fingers finely work'd;
Lo, deadly Nightshade, and its mate th' Enchanter,
Perfidious lurker in the rocky woods!
And baleful Hemlock!—Kindlier herbs are near.—
The Harebell blithe—pensive Forget-me-not;—
And gay Heart's-ease, “the pansy freakt with jet,”
“The little western flower” of many names,
And sweeter none than “Love in Idleness.”
Behold a stately wand, the Golden Rod
That waved o'er Stockghyll Force, as if to charm
The waters' tumult.—The Wild-thyme that stills
With bribes the wild bees' murmurs, and when crush'd
By upland wanderer's foot, for evil good
Returning, greets the oppressor with its balm.
The Bird's-eye Primrose, of pink flowers minute,
That flush the Kendal meads in stem and leaf
Expansive as the redbreast's outstretch'd wing.
Bird's-foot, wing-heel'd like Hermes! A tress or two
Of Maiden-hair: and Cotton-grass has lent
A carded whitelock from its elfin head.
Here Ragged Robin, undespised, finds place;
And here the Bramble, though its touch be rude.
Culbrake and Parsley-fern, and many a fern
Besides, and many a heath: and Sweet-gale, too,
Both for its balmy name, and flower-like cones
Diminutive.

Stone-bramble, from the top of Silverhow,
For Barber's memory (and a yew-tree sprig
Were welcome from his grave on Grasmere side).
This purple bell is of the Foxglove tall,
“A weed of glorious feature,” the delight
Of rocky Westmoreland's melodious bees,
The glory of its craggy wildernesses,
And fondly designated “Fairy's Love.”
Flower of the wind, the wild Anemone,
Queen of the meadows, the tall Meadow-sweet,
Oppressive sweet on Rotha's banks, are here;
And here from soft Winander's, the Livelong,
A bud of Elleray; for Wilson's sake,
For Hamilton's and gentle Farquhar's sakes,
Welcome and kindly welcome!—The Musk-mallow,
Blue Violet, and Summer Violet blond;
Here is White heather from Winander's isle;
And Lily of the Vale of Windermere,
Blue glistening Eye-bright, delicate of stem,
Fibre, and leaflet, with consummate flowers,
Fit wreath for Ariel's self, to match his eyes.
Look at the fen-born lady, Pimpernel,
The purple Money-wort, whose sentient petals
Close to the touch of damp, (although its roots,
In fine thread cables clinging to the joints
Of its prone stems, cast anchor in the moist
And spongy turf,) and so th' affected flower,
Nurtured in moisture yet, with low-bred airs
Fastidious, shrinking from the external damp,
Has yet its use—“the Shepherd's Weather-glass.”
The pretty Speedwell, and of larger leaf
Though bud as small, its namesake, also call'd
“Man's Faith” by rural maidens: would'st thou know
Wherefore? then listen to the veriest tale
Of falseness, and the saddest.

Patient hopes
Sustain'd the heart of Emily for years,
While in the Babel upon Thames afar,
The vicar's son, her lover, tried his way
To wealth, whose distant prospect was his heaven,
Up through the slippery mazes of the Law;
That hollow, hideous, slime-cemented pile
Which ends in jargon. Poor as he began,
He long remain'd; but honest not so long.
Keen student in a circumventive school,
Villain he soon became, and when that word
Was writ in ink Satanic on his mind,
Saint on his breast he labell'd. He became
So smooth all over: sentiment, voice, look,
Were so quicksilvery smooth; and then his eye,
Demurely bland, would ever and anon,
Upturning, roll and quiver with a zeal
So sanctimonious, and he so would make
The trembling vowels bleat between his lips,
And make some consonants so strangely twang,
That many a worthy soul, devoid of guile,
Was wheedled into confidences rash
And treacherous toils of law: a fleecing caitiff,
Fleece-clad, he keenly prowl'd among the flocks.
Such was true Emily's false love! but how?
Her passion was the prejudice of chance
Ingrafted on her childhood. They were mates
Who hunted butterflies, and daisies pick'd,
And laugh'd and wept together, trifle-moved,
In infancy's sweet spring. Through youth they lived
By neighbourhood allied, just not so near
But that a blank of absence now and then,
Made itself felt: and when the hour was come
That call'd the slender youth of silvery voice
To charm his way to fortune in the south,
He hung upon her neck, and kiss'd her cheek,
And vow'd a hundred vows, and all sincere:
For he was yet a novice, and believed
Himself, and Emily believed him too.
She was the daughter of a Cumbrian squire,
A luckless man, whose acres were but few,
And children many: this, the fairest girl
Of all his household, not uncultured grew
Like the wild shoots among the rocky clefts
Of those Arcadian moors and pastures, green
For flocks as wildly devious as the rills
That filter slowly through the grass, or leap
From stone to stone at random. Careful hands
Had train'd her up to womanhood: and home
To her had been a plain domestic school
Of duties strictly taught and aptly learnt:
And, being one of many, she had miss'd
A share undue of those caresses fond,
And cares minute, and praises undeserved,
Which suffocate young virtue with a warmth
To nought but folly genial, and conceit.
Thus nurtured, mind and frame together grew
In health and strength, each fortifying each,
And each supplying to the other, grace
And beauty, or perpetual interchange
With gain to both; substance and spirit freshening
Each other, as the broad-leaved branches fan
And cool the air that fans and freshens them.
Hers was a temper less by nature tuned
Than harmonised by discipline to rule,
And by religion sanctified to peace.
Through the small trials of a crowded home,
And all the petty interests that jar,
She soothed and smiled her way to happiness.
From eyes that seldom wept, that youth's farewell
Drew virtuous tears: but she was happy still,
For she was true and trustful. Now and then,
While yet a struggler in the jostling crowds
That haunt the dens impure misnamed of Law,
He homeward turn'd his course, rebraced his pale
And dissolute frame among his native hills,
And sunn'd the wretched thing he call'd his heart
In Emily's clear loveliness. At last
He came in triumph: the attorney's clerk
Was now a partner in the Belial-house,
Where he had served apprenticeship to guile.
He came to ask a bride: the parents heard
Without dissent, for poverty's shrewd pinch
Rebuked the faint suspicion that disturb'd
Their tenderness by whispering, Lurks there not
Beneath this smooth mind's varnish something false?
It could not be! They knew him from his cradle,
And he was ever gentle. Not a fear
Speck'd the serene security of bliss,
The heaven in Emily's bosom. One fair noon
They saunter'd up a dingle of gray rocks
With oaken wildwood crested to a bank
Alive with Speedwell flowers, whose bright blue eyes
Glisten'd in welcome, as it seem'd, to greet
The happy lovers. On that slope they sat,
And while he wreathed a garland of those flowers
Sportive around her neck, as if she were
A lamb for sacrifice, he told her how
“A German maiden saw a tuft of Speedwell
More beauteous than its fellows, half-way lodged
Down a steep margin of the Danube flood.
‘Pluck me that wild germander!’ to the youth
She said, whose place was at her side. He stoop'd
And pluck'd it, but the slippery ground betray'd
His feet, and deep into the stream he sunk;
He rose and struggled towards the bank, and threw
The prize ashore, and to the maiden cried
‘Forget-me-not,’ and sunk to rise no more.
And hence that flower was call'd Forget-me-not,
The name we give a smaller flower as blue,
A floweret golden-eyed:—behold!”—And here
He show'd a ring whereon were radiant stones,
Five sapphires, and a beryl in the midst,
Set in the likeness of that well-known flower
Of memory! Saying thus, her hand he took—
It trembled unresisting—and that ring
Upon the bridal finger as he placed,
“Wear this, dear Emily,” he added, “till,
A few weeks hence it be displaced by one
Of simpler structure, but of force to link
Thee and thy fate to me and mine for ever.”—
Think you the brook that warbled to that bank
A mountain melody, was half so sweet
As was the voice of him who thus address'd
The observant heart of Emily? Was he
A traitor then?—oh, no! he yet believed
His spirit true to Her, although he knew
'Twas false to all things else of pure and good.

That night they parted:—and they never met
Again!—To London journeying, he paused
To seek at Harrogate a dwelling where
He and his bride-elect might shortly pass
Their earliest weeks of wedlock. There indeed
His honeymoon was pass'd: but the betroth'd
Was not the bride! A golden dupe he found,
A serious heiress: she was charm'd to see
His grave peculiar smile, and charm'd yet more
To hear his voice, still sweeter than his smile.
He smiled, and talk'd, and snared the splendid prize.
The twain were quickly one. No word was sent
To Emily; no friend was interposed
To break the tidings; 'twas a perfidy
Too gross for explanation. When she read
The strange announcement mix'd with common news,
She lifted up her soul to Heaven and pray'd
For strength to bear the trial: strength was given.
Her spirit droop'd not in its gentle pride;
But, for the agony was sharp, the rose
Was stricken out for ever from her cheek,
For ever and at once; and in a night,
Strange freak of suffering and yet true, one lock
Of her rich hair, and one alone, was blanched;
And gleam'd among her auburn tresses dark
In signal contrast, like the first snow-flake
That nestles on a copper beech-tree's bough.
Her rounded form, too, by degrees refined
To such sylph-like tenuity, that it seem'd
A plaything for a zephyr, yet endured
The mountain blasts, unshatter'd, many a year.
And years had pass'd away, and never word
Had she of him once utter'd; till, one day,
Upon that very bank, enamell'd still
With flowers of wild germander, a small child,
Her pupil, holding up a flower new-pluck'd,
Inquired its name. The marble cheek and brow
Of Emily to paler whiteness turn'd:—
Her eyes commerced with memory; the string
That tied the tongue of agony was snapt;
She wrung her hands and wept aloud, and cried
“Man's Faith!”—The name is constant to the flower.