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THE LEGEND OF THE FLOWERS.
I
There was a time, as fairy legends tell,Ere Rocs or Mastadoms created were:
When Ladies liv'd so lovely, mild, and belle,—
The snow of Etna ne'er was half so fair.
They mov'd, and smil'd; and all the embracing air,
Where'er they went, breath'd fragrance and delight;—
But they were dumb, and whether carking care
Fretted their innocence, with hate or spite,
Is not in all the roll from which I deftly write.
II
The gentlest nymph of those preadamites,Obedient answer'd to the name of Rose;
Soft single name!—then at baptismal rites,
No gossip might her adjectives impose—
But ah, what artist could such charms disclose,
As did that damsel in her modesty?—
Never could Miss, among admiring beaus,
Blush with such grace, or look so prettily.—
The world declines—our maids have no such piquancy.
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III
Rose, for companion, had one call'd Jonquil,A foil was she, and wore a yellow gown,—
For females then affected, (not so still,)
To make, by contrast, more their beauty known.
This smart Jonquil, as shall be after shown,
Twinkled her eyes in pertness, sad to see;
But all the floral race, for Rose alone,
Endur'd her taunting jibes, and jokerie;
Some thought her forward though, and really much too free.
IV
One day it chanc'd, as mortal ladies do,These loving friends within a garden walk'd;
Link'd were their arms—and ne'er a gayer two,
In shady Kensington, together talk'd
Of balls, and beaus, and belles of part'ners balk'd,
And painted Dowagers, advanc'd in years;
Of satins rare, and floors so charming, chalk'd,
Forsaken Spinsters, and fastidious Peers,
And whisper'd rumours strange, one scarce can trust one's ears.
V
As they along went speaking with their eyes,Upon a bench they gaily took a seat;
And Miss Jonquil, with eloquent surprise,
Beheld her friend, she thought, unjustly sweet.
Alas! when gentle hearts with envy beat,
The din disturbs old Malice, slumb'ring nigh,
And the fell crone, a haggard witch complete,
Grinning goes forth—ah, mark her evil eye!
And, by her apron hid, a dirk you may espy.
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VI
On her ill quest she had not wander'd far,When with a Fairy, saunt'ring there alone,
(His usual home was the bright morning star,)
She chanc'd to meet, and thus, with piteous moan,
Said to him, “Sir,”—and then she gave a groan—
“This would, indeed, be a right pleasant place,
But now, 'tis as if Mirth were dead and gone,
So dull and tiresome are the Floral race;—
There now, that creature Rose, she looks but in your face.”
VII
Fairies, 'tis known, are Sprites of glee and game,Who much delight in merry pranks and ploys;
And ours, confess'd, it was a shocking shame,
The Floral Nymphs should be forbidden Noise,
Although they had their fill of other joys;—
Yes; Noise from Labour springs, and never bliss
Was earn'd, unless it ratified the choice.—
In Toil, says Solomon, much profit is,
And I, not wiser, add—In Work there's Happiness.
VIII
Thus, when the Fairy heard how silence reign'dIn all the bow'rs of that delicious land,
He, straightway, to the Elfin King complain'd,
And pray'd the interdict might cease to stand.
The King, uprising, bade his courtly band
The peaceful gardens of the beauteous show—
And, with a flourish of his magic wand,
The whole cortege was presently below,
Exulting on the earth, and walking to and fro.
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IX
They saw around the gracious beauties there—The modest Daisy, all the red and pale,
The sweet Primrose, the Gilliflower so fair,
The Tulip gay, and Lily of the Vale—
All that could decorate a Poet's tale
And garland verse, they saw around them bloom,
And own'd the fanning of a fitful gale
Amidst the minglings of soft-breath'd perfume—
And Rose and Jonquil, too, they saw, but all were—dumb!
X
Yet, to allure the Elfin Monarch's eye—What will not ladies for a Monarch do?—
Jonquil resolv'd, with all her witcherie,
To charm his vision, and the courtiers' too;—
Ah, poor Jonquil! how I her fate must rue;—
She plied her glances, and diffus'd her spell—
The air, grown warm, around her kissing flew,
And, with'ring, leaves prepar'd to ring her knell—
Sweet Rose, the blushing Rose, had almost said farewell!
XI
The Fairy King, as doth a King befit,A chaste example to his subjects gave;
But Elves do harm, and never think of it:
He saw Jonquil, and look'd exceeding grave.
Anon, behold on high his sceptre wave,
That wizzard wand, which wond'rous change obeys:—
Nought from their doom the Floral race can save.—
The Lords and Gentlemen, all in amaze,
See only flowrets bloom, and buds and blossoms blaze.
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XII
For thus it was, in days of olden date,The garden gems, that shine so bright around,
Were ladies once, all sparkling and elate—
Fairer than women—meteors without sound,
And ever with immortal beauty crown'd:—
They sought—it might be in a playful mood—
To win dominion;—false, unstable ground!
There is no art to gain the guarded good,
But that sweet art which shuns the cunning and the rude.
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