 | New Poems by George Crabbe |  |
The Flowers
1
Custom has been, time out of mind,With Rose or Lily to compare
Our favourite maid; we love to find
And say she is so sweet and fair.
And Violets from the sun retired,
Whose fragrance scents the passing gale,
Are in their still retreats admired
As lasses in their lowly Vale.
2
'Tis well, but may we not our viewsExtend, and still a likeness find?
Flowers are of many forms and hues,
Of many a Class, of many a kind.
Not all are like the Rose, not all
Are like the lily, passing fair.
Come then, the sister beauties call
And let us see how like they are.
3
See first where spring these favourite flowers;The rocky Glen, the Wild has some,
Others are raised in sheltering bowers,
And some in common hedgerows bloom,
The open plain, the furrowed land,
The wide brown heath, the seaside sand.
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4
And thus are tribes of Females fixed,These in the Wild, the Wood, the Glen,
Those with the World's proud people mix'd
And in the seats of wealthier men,
Or in laborious lots of Life,
The Shepherd's Lass, the Seaman's Wife.
5
See Mary, like the Primrose wild,Retiring not, but placed from view,
All unaffected, Nature's child,
No stately form, no sprightly hue;
Her has no great admirer found,
She pleases but the swains around.
6
But take this primrose from its seat,Take Mary from her humble lot,
Let both the appropriate training meet,
And change of both the rustic lot,
They take a different air and name,
The Polyanthus and the Dame,
Improved, perhaps it may be said,
But not the Primrose or the Maid.
7
Some Flowers are famed for early bloom,And have their triumphs for the year,
But soon their beauty finds a Tomb,
They charm, they fade, they disappear.
They have their day, they have their doom,
None of the faded glories hear.
Some to a second season last,
But live upon the honors past.
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8
But Flowers there are of nobler fame,Who live when other Flowers decay;
Year after year they please the same,
The same the beauties they display;
Time, to all other charms severe,
Respects the beauty planted here.
9
So 'tis with many a lovely face,Admired its season, every Eye
Attracted to the favourite place,
That so much beauty can supply;
The season flies, and every grace
And glory with the season fly—
The Annuals of the sex, tho' some
A second year, with luck, may bloom.
10
But there are charms that long abide,Through years that other Charmers kill;
Through winter's frown, through summer's pride,
They flourish and are beauties still;
Perennials, they compel our praise,
The Rutlands of their happier days.
11
See with what mighty care & costThe fair Mimosa keeps alive;
Expose her but to one night's frost,
And not a beauty will survive,
And when you wear the tender thing,
And take the utmost care you can,
It is in vain, you cannot bring
Your nurseling to the gaze of man.
No! he must this with caution view,
And if he put a finger forth,
It shrinks away, as if it knew
Itself of a surprising worth.
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12
So was the tender Abra reared,With such attention, skill & cost,
As if the wondering parents feared
An atom of her should be lost.
She never felt the cold, rough seas,
That flaccid nerves and tendons brace,
She never felt the morning breeze,
That blows such freshness on the face.
She sits in her own drawing room,
Where only her admirers come,
And there they all agree in this,
That none is half so fair as Miss,
And Miss, the kindness to repay,
Thinks none are so polite as they.
13
Descending, we the Nettle view,Armed with an hundred thousand stings.
Who to such plant has likeness? Who
Such pain creates, such trouble brings?
Yet let us not be much alarmed,
We are not by the Nettle harmed,
For grasp it, as you've heard before,
Boldly, and it will sting no more.
14
Such is Corinna, she is sharp,And joy to her, her sharpness brings.
She has the mind that loves to carp,
And suck out blame from harmless things;
She never tries to soothe or please,
But deals in waspish repartees.
She has no beauty, but she lives
In some repute for giving pain,
Rejoicing in the pain she gives
By hints that sting, or worse, that stain.
Wit 'tis esteemed, but no, indeed,
'Tis poison in a wicked weed.
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Corinna's sting, and venom die.
15
The Plant that we the Climber call,And in our bowers with care dispose,
Mounts quickly o'er the lofty wall,
And spreads her branches where she goes,
Will her abundant flowers produce,
With great display and little use.
16
So Martha climbs, ambitious dame,By all she reaches, foes, or friends;
Tho' from the very dust she came,
She to the very height ascends,
And mounted thus, she stretches forth
Her riches, and displays her worth.
17
But climbers have no native strength,They must upon their props rely;
With these they fail, and must at length
Drop on the ground to get supply
From earth's bare bosom, where they feed
And mix with every vulgar weed.
18
So will the lofty Martha droop,Should her supporters fail or die,
For aid will to the humble stoop,
And to the poorest refuge fly;
High as she rose, will sink as deep,
And show that pride who climbs can creep.
19
Thou art the very wormwood, Ruth,Art bitter, blossomless, and grey,
But thou hast virtues &, in truth,
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Thy hair is silvered, and thy look
Proclaims thee, let not man despise.
Thou art not by the seasons shook,
Thou drawest no idle herd of flies,
No gaudy insects light by thee,
But one there comes who knows thy worth,
His aid and helper, thou shalt be,
Who calmly takes, and bears thee forth.
Thou very bitter art, 'tis true,
But thou art very wholesome, too.
20
Who is that Tulip, who can showColours of that transcendent kind?
Thou, Daphne, thine the kindred glow,
That stately form in thee we find.
How do all eyes thy charms explore,
Admire, and pass, and look no more?
Pity that one so praised & known
Should call no single grace her own.
The heath flower, bruised by Shepherds' feet,
Is far less fine, but far more sweet.
21
Deep is the Poppey's blushing red;Ah! take it from our joyous bowers.
With baneful Dew its flower is fed,
Until, replete with deadly powers,
Its heavy influence round is shed,
That ease and cheerfulness o'erpowers.
No being loves it, all would hate,
Did it not men intoxicate.
Ah! Lais, thou art like that Herb,
Its baneful properties are thine,
So formed the reason to disturb,
So gaudy, flimsy, flaunting fine,
And yet thou hast the witchcraft, too,
That can the sense of man subdue.
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22
Yon roving Woodbine, now beholdHow she her flexile beauty flings
On all supporters, young and old,
On hedge row thorns & baser things,
As Phillis with each decent charm
Will hang on every offered arm.
23
But spite of this, if you can bindThose roving branches round a tree,
If Phillis can an Husband find,
Both pleasant in their way may be;
But then to have the pleasure last,
You watch them well, & hold them fast.
24
See Larkspurs, blooming on that bed,'Twas wisdom to assemble these;
Their different looks! their pale and red,
Borrow and lend a power to please.
So nymphs in many a pleasant dress
In our assemblies take their place,
And when together, All confess
They lend by turns and borrow grace.
What one alone, had failed to do,
They make a very pretty view.
25
Then we have Sunflowers, large & tall,Who spread their beauty to the day,
And we have Daisies, neat & small,
Pinks, bright and smart, & Pansies gay,
And there are Lilies of the Vale,
So sweet, so pure, so fresh, so pale,
Of modest growth and humble kind,
But very scarce, and hard to find.
Of some of these, go where you may,
You find a likeness every day,
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An Habitat that few can trace.
26
Come, let us look discreetly round,In fear let us the charmers view,
The prizes may no doubt be found,
The blanks, Alas! are many, too.
Much care it asks, to seek, to shun,
For choose we must, and choose but one.
27
Shall we the blooming Rose select?There's beauty, modesty & grace.
What more in flower can man expect,
What more in woman's lovely race?
Alas! and yet her beauties all
Charm but a day, and fade & fall.
28
Say, in the Myrtle shall we findResemblance to the favourite maid?
There's nothing of a sweeter kind
For man's approving eye displayed.
It loves the shade, & yet the sun
No sweeter blossom smiles upon;
A poet's brow it loves to bind,
But other wreaths are there entwined;
All seasons it alone will brave
To spend its freshness o'er his grave.
But where shall we this Fair behold?
Ah! that the muse will not unfold.—
| New Poems by George Crabbe | |