 | Birds, Bees and Blossoms |  |
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BLOSSOMS.
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SONG OF THE DAISIES.
We are the poor children's flowers;
Scattered broadcast, like the showers
That on the good and evil fall:
For we were sent to gladden all.
They call us Children of the Spring,
Because we early tidings bring
Of the flowers all ways coming;
Of the bees they'll soon hear humming;
Of birds now crossing stormy floods,
To sing in England's summer woods;
Of increasing length of days;
Of miles of buttercups ablaze
With all their length and breadth of gold;—
All these are by our coming told.
Scattered broadcast, like the showers
That on the good and evil fall:
For we were sent to gladden all.
They call us Children of the Spring,
Because we early tidings bring
Of the flowers all ways coming;
Of the bees they'll soon hear humming;
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To sing in England's summer woods;
Of increasing length of days;
Of miles of buttercups ablaze
With all their length and breadth of gold;—
All these are by our coming told.
Poets dead and gone have sung
“The daisies they are ever young.”
Soon after Heaven's stars had birth,
We were made the stars of Earth;
And placed amid the grass so green,
That we might be the better seen.
We look up to the stars at night,
And they upon us shed their light:
It may be while we sing their praises,
The stars too hymn about the daisies!
Pluck us by millions—millions more
Will spring up where we sprang before,
And through all time fill up our place,
For we are an undying race.
“The daisies they are ever young.”
Soon after Heaven's stars had birth,
We were made the stars of Earth;
And placed amid the grass so green,
That we might be the better seen.
We look up to the stars at night,
And they upon us shed their light:
It may be while we sing their praises,
The stars too hymn about the daisies!
Pluck us by millions—millions more
Will spring up where we sprang before,
And through all time fill up our place,
For we are an undying race.
The snow-white lambs lie down to sleep,
When we close our starry eyes;
When at the rising sun we peep,
The lambs again prepare to rise.
Some say the lambs asleep can feel
Our star-shaped petals, when we wake,
And that their eyes they then unseal;
For by our sides their beds they make.
How, I cannot rightly tell,
But between the lamb and me,
There's ever been since Abel fell,
A strange mysterious sympathy.
For I was Abel's favourite flower,
And never bore a crimson stain,
Till he was in that fatal hour
Murdered by the hand of Cain.
The lark amongst us does alight,
And sleeps beside us all night long,
Till in the east the dawn breaks bright,
And then she wakes us with her song.
When we close our starry eyes;
When at the rising sun we peep,
The lambs again prepare to rise.
Some say the lambs asleep can feel
Our star-shaped petals, when we wake,
And that their eyes they then unseal;
For by our sides their beds they make.
How, I cannot rightly tell,
But between the lamb and me,
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A strange mysterious sympathy.
For I was Abel's favourite flower,
And never bore a crimson stain,
Till he was in that fatal hour
Murdered by the hand of Cain.
The lark amongst us does alight,
And sleeps beside us all night long,
Till in the east the dawn breaks bright,
And then she wakes us with her song.
Children do us daisies praise,
For we bring them sunny days;
Tell them winter's past and gone,
And that summer's coming on;
That the swallow o'er the sea
Is hast'ning—and the belted bee
Is getting restless in its hive;
That the birds will soon arrive:
All the singing summer band
Will on the trees and hedges stand,
And one another all day long,
Challenge and answer with a song,
Until their wild wood-notes fill
Ev'ry valley, dale, and hill.
For we bring them sunny days;
Tell them winter's past and gone,
And that summer's coming on;
That the swallow o'er the sea
Is hast'ning—and the belted bee
Is getting restless in its hive;
That the birds will soon arrive:
All the singing summer band
Will on the trees and hedges stand,
And one another all day long,
Challenge and answer with a song,
Until their wild wood-notes fill
Ev'ry valley, dale, and hill.
“The daisies they are ever young:”
When off our silver fringe we've flung,
Then to your eyes we still unfold
A rounded boss of chastest gold.
Oh! would you number us? first try
To count the stars upon the sky,
The leaves when summer decks the land,
The grains on ocean's beds of sand:
Then pluck as many as you may,
And more will come another day.
Gather us all, and have no fear
But more will come another year.
Then run, and laugh, and shout our praises—
Your trampling feet can't hurt the daisies.
When off our silver fringe we've flung,
Then to your eyes we still unfold
A rounded boss of chastest gold.
Oh! would you number us? first try
To count the stars upon the sky,
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The grains on ocean's beds of sand:
Then pluck as many as you may,
And more will come another day.
Gather us all, and have no fear
But more will come another year.
Then run, and laugh, and shout our praises—
Your trampling feet can't hurt the daisies.
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BLUE-BELLS.
Deep embowered in mossy dells,We merrily shake our sweet blue-bells,
Nodding all our heads together
In green April's showery weather.
Come then and see us, as we lie,
Like a newly fallen sky,
So blue and tranquil, that has found
Its resting-place upon the ground;
Bordered too with clouds of gold,
Where primroses our beds infold.
You have heard the legend olden,
Sung upon those mornings golden,
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When earth was nearer heaven than now,
That the Fairies, good and true,
Dwelt within our bells so blue.
Think not they their flight have taken,
Or that we are left forsaken,
But rise in the morning early,
When the dews lie round and pearly,
And the bees within our bells
Are pounding honey for their cells—
And then the legend you'll believe.
New delights you will receive,
See sights your very eyes will bless,
And find a new-born happiness:
Visions of rich-dappled skies,
But seen by those who early rise;
Rare flowers the fragrant banks adorning,
Birds that sing but to the morning.
For on those that come too late,
The Fairies shut their palace gate,
Take the roses from the cheek,
Let not pearls drop when they speak.
Where idleness and no care is,
There you'll never find the Fairies.
They're but found in the sunrise early,
Where the dews lie bright and pearly.
Then don't forget the legend olden,
First sung upon those mornings golden,
By the birds from every bough,
When earth was nearer heaven than now.
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FLOWERS IN MOTION.
Look how they all move merrily,Like children dumb, but full of glee,
Out playing in the windy weather:
Now they are all astir together.
Their music is the winds that blow:
Hark! it strikes up, and off they go;
But this time to another tune—
It is a gentle air of June,
Played slower than the dance of March.
How prettily their necks they arch!
While some with timid look appear,
And seem to move as if in fear
They should through the wrong mazes glide.
See how they hang their heads aside:
Now this bed unto that bed bows,
Change hands, and off they go in rows,
While thousands stand as lookers on,
But when wind-summoned, they are gone.
This dances and then moves aside;
That stands as umpire to decide
Which bed of flowers dances best;
And that seems standing still to rest.
The front is still, up jumps the rear,
And to the hedge goes tripping clear.
The scattered Grasses now join in,
And do their best applause to win.
That tall Cowslip shows some taste,
With one bell resting on its waist,
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Just like the arm of lady fair;
Then daintily each golden finger
Just for a moment deigns to linger
In young Mr. Cowslip's hand.
Now louder blows the breezy band,
Quicker the flowery dancers fly,
Catching fresh colours from the sky.
Now they through golden sunshine sweep,
Anon in darker shadows creep,
As from the changing face of heaven
The shifting shine and shadow's given.
Now a huge cloud inwraps the hill,
The June-wind sleeps and all is still;
The night drops down, each bows its head,
Closes its bell and goes to bed,
And sleeps beneath the summer skies
More soundly through such exercise.
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MAY
There's nothing older than sweet May,
And there are Thorns so aged and hoary,
Which stood—and still stand to this day—
Far back as England's earliest story
Bears record of the bygone years:
When forests spread out every way,
And fertile vales were inland meres,
The land was lighted up with May.
But this was long and long before
The Saxons in their rude ships came
And landed on our island shore.
The Hawthorn is a Saxon name.
The hoary Hawthorn by the wood
Is named in deeds of ancient date,
And often as a landmark stood,
The boundary-line of some estate.
Saxon maidens came and went
Under its boughs at milking time;
And Saxon Alfred caught its scent,
As on his way to Godrum's tent
He hummed some quaint old Saxon rhyme,
Which to the Danish king he played.
It grew where Saxon Harold fell,
And where the conquering Normans laid
Their dead in many an English dell.
Wild birds upon its berries fed,
In the old winters long ago,
Ere human footstep left its tread
Imprinted on the silent snow.
And there are Thorns so aged and hoary,
Which stood—and still stand to this day—
Far back as England's earliest story
Bears record of the bygone years:
When forests spread out every way,
And fertile vales were inland meres,
The land was lighted up with May.
But this was long and long before
The Saxons in their rude ships came
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The Hawthorn is a Saxon name.
The hoary Hawthorn by the wood
Is named in deeds of ancient date,
And often as a landmark stood,
The boundary-line of some estate.
Saxon maidens came and went
Under its boughs at milking time;
And Saxon Alfred caught its scent,
As on his way to Godrum's tent
He hummed some quaint old Saxon rhyme,
Which to the Danish king he played.
It grew where Saxon Harold fell,
And where the conquering Normans laid
Their dead in many an English dell.
Wild birds upon its berries fed,
In the old winters long ago,
Ere human footstep left its tread
Imprinted on the silent snow.
When you look at me think of the years of yore,
That I stood when the tusked and savage boar
Rushed through the wild forest with hideous roar;
That I stood when this isle was a wilderness rude,
And the gray wolf's long howl broke the deep solitude;
When the long row of trees, which for leagues stretched away,
Was a forest-land filled with huge beasts of prey;
Ere an axe had been laid to the root of a tree;
When high up the eagle I often could see,
Until he shot down like a sun-ray at dawn,
And in his sharp talons swept up the young fawn,
While it gracefully tripped by the side of the doe.
All these wild scenes I, the hoary Thorn, saw,
While shipless and mastless lay round the wide sea,
And no human hand took a blossom from me,
And nought save the breeze with my fragrance was playing,
When the winds left the sea and came out a-Maying;
When the mammoth's huge hoof shook the ancient greenwood,
In the primeval forests securely I stood.
That I stood when the tusked and savage boar
Rushed through the wild forest with hideous roar;
That I stood when this isle was a wilderness rude,
And the gray wolf's long howl broke the deep solitude;
When the long row of trees, which for leagues stretched away,
Was a forest-land filled with huge beasts of prey;
Ere an axe had been laid to the root of a tree;
When high up the eagle I often could see,
Until he shot down like a sun-ray at dawn,
And in his sharp talons swept up the young fawn,
While it gracefully tripped by the side of the doe.
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While shipless and mastless lay round the wide sea,
And no human hand took a blossom from me,
And nought save the breeze with my fragrance was playing,
When the winds left the sea and came out a-Maying;
When the mammoth's huge hoof shook the ancient greenwood,
In the primeval forests securely I stood.
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PRIMROSES.
We come to gladden heavy eyes;
We are the earliest of “spring cries.”
The needle girl her door uncloses,
When in the street she hears, “Primroses,
Come buy my pretty primroses.”
We are the earliest of “spring cries.”
The needle girl her door uncloses,
When in the street she hears, “Primroses,
Come buy my pretty primroses.”
The invalid beside the fire
Knows that the sunny days are nigher,
That he has passed the wintry gloom,
When that cry's ringing through his room:
“Come buy my pretty primroses.”
Knows that the sunny days are nigher,
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When that cry's ringing through his room:
“Come buy my pretty primroses.”
Old age smiles when our flowers are bought;
They call back many a pleasant thought;
Memories of far-distant springs
That cheerful sound for ever brings:
“Come buy my pretty primroses.”
They call back many a pleasant thought;
Memories of far-distant springs
That cheerful sound for ever brings:
“Come buy my pretty primroses.”
Memories of pleasant places,
Memories of happy faces,
Whose smiles were like sweet sunny weather;
When we all were young together:
“Come buy my pretty primroses.”
Memories of happy faces,
Whose smiles were like sweet sunny weather;
When we all were young together:
“Come buy my pretty primroses.”
In the pleasant paths of spring
Where we grow the skylarks sing,
And as they soar to heaven's gate,
Seem singing to their speckled mate:
“Come buy my pretty primroses.”
Where we grow the skylarks sing,
And as they soar to heaven's gate,
Seem singing to their speckled mate:
“Come buy my pretty primroses.”
Black thorns blossom where we grow,
Beside us early violets blow;
And the lambs with pleasant bleating,
Seem to give a welcome greeting:
“Come buy my pretty primroses.”
Beside us early violets blow;
And the lambs with pleasant bleating,
Seem to give a welcome greeting:
“Come buy my pretty primroses.”
Summer crowned with all her roses,
Cheers not like our “sweet primroses;”
For we to courts and alleys bring
With us that pleasant cry of spring:
“Come buy my sweet primroses.”
Cheers not like our “sweet primroses;”
For we to courts and alleys bring
With us that pleasant cry of spring:
“Come buy my sweet primroses.”
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THE ROSE AND THE VIOLET.
Though the rose is very sweet,And very pleasing to the eye,
Yet there's many a flower we meet
In perfume does the rose outvie.
Sweet mignonette, to look upon,
Is nothing by this queen-like flower;
Yet soon her crimson beauty's gone—
It falls beneath that self same shower
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Although it is an humble thing,
And at the poor man's window blows.
The violet, darling of the spring!
An emblem is of modesty;
No sweeter perfume scents the gale;
And yet how humble its degree!
Among the moss in lowly vale,
'Mid the dead leaves we do it find,
Led to it by the perfume sweet
It scatters on the wandering wind.
So unaware we goodness meet,
That's hidden in a lowly heart,
Though not so pleasing to the eye;
While soon through that disguised by art,
Its real deformity we spy.
It cannot stand truth's searching storm,
Its gaudy petals are blown down;
The other shows a sweeter form,
And opens out its starry crown,
When wind and rain have passed away.
'Tis not the grandest that's the best;
True modesty makes no display,
But shrinks back like “a timid guest.”
Real virtue is not worn for look,
Nor carried in an open hand;
Choice flowers much love the hidden nook:
The poppy grows on barren land,
Out in the glaring eye of day;
The primrose 'neath the hedge retires;
Their sweets the violets betray.
He who the little flower admires
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Not high above their heads they thrust;
Who looks aloft will by them pass.
So do “the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.”
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THE HARE-BELL.
Mistake me not for the blue bell of Spring;I can only be seen when the corn reapers sing:
When Summer her long leaves casts on the ground,
And the fern's turning red, then may I be found.
No slenderer stem doth a wild flower show
Than the light limber stalk on which my bells blow;
And there isn't a flower that bears such a blue,
For mine is the only one you can call “true.”
A breeze which the light thistle down will not spread,
Makes me shake all my bells and keep nodding my head;
And a breath that the tall feathered grasses won't move,
Makes me shake as if March winds were rocking the grove.
Oh, I love to hear the ripe golden corn rustle,
The glad shout of harvest and all its loud bustle;
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As they're borne through the lanes, and shake down the leaves:
To hear the brown reapers all clapping their hands,
And the shouts of the gleaners from off the cleared lands.
Had I but grown in the green lap of Spring,
None of these sounds unto me could she bring;
No voices of children who blackberrying go,
Who pull down the wild crabs and pluck the black sloe.
And oh! what a pleasure I've felt as I stood
And heard the glad nutters shout in the green wood,
And felt some blue eye all its love on me shower,
And a sweet voice exclaim, “What a beautiful flower!
I'll pluck it and wear it, for it is true blue.”
What a pleasure to be near a heart that is true,
Where neither deceit nor falsehood can reign;—
Who wouldn't be plucked such a true friend to gain?
To me the sweet pleasure is more than the pain.
A real noble nature would suffer and perish,
For the sake of the loved ones it laboured to cherish.
But I am forgetting I'm only a flower,
And the pleasure I give can but last a brief hour.
Though my life is so short I will not repine,
For the blue-bell's of Spring is not happier than mine.
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THE WATER LILY.
I am the Lady of the Lake;
On a green couch my rest I take;
The ripples rock me to and fro:
While wild swans arch their necks of snow,
Forget-me-nots around me blow.
On a green couch my rest I take;
The ripples rock me to and fro:
While wild swans arch their necks of snow,
Forget-me-nots around me blow.
Often on my leafy brink
The little birds will stand to drink,
Then sing to me all the long day:
The dragon-flies around me play,
Bulrushes nod their heads alway.
The little birds will stand to drink,
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The dragon-flies around me play,
Bulrushes nod their heads alway.
I need not turn my head to see,
For all is mirrored before me;
The swallow with its skimming wing,
The butterflies that sit and swing
Upon me, and then upward spring.
For all is mirrored before me;
The swallow with its skimming wing,
The butterflies that sit and swing
Upon me, and then upward spring.
At myself I look all day,
Can see the fishes under me play:
No queen has such a glass as I,
That throws deep down the trees and sky,
And all the birds that o'er it fly.
Can see the fishes under me play:
No queen has such a glass as I,
That throws deep down the trees and sky,
And all the birds that o'er it fly.
I sit upon a silver ground,
With silver I am hemmed all round,
Save where laburnum flowers unfold,
And o'er me swing their chains of gold,
Which in my mirror I behold.
With silver I am hemmed all round,
Save where laburnum flowers unfold,
And o'er me swing their chains of gold,
Which in my mirror I behold.
The water hen shows me her brood,
When paddling round in search of food;
The fishes make a silvery light,
Flashing their scaly armour bright,
Then starting at my shadow white.
When paddling round in search of food;
The fishes make a silvery light,
Flashing their scaly armour bright,
Then starting at my shadow white.
At night my coronet I close;
Beneath the water I repose;
Nor from my crystal couch arise,
Until I see the eastern skies
Dappled with gold and silver dyes.
Beneath the water I repose;
Nor from my crystal couch arise,
Until I see the eastern skies
Dappled with gold and silver dyes.
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The ripples murmur me to sleep,
The stars a watch around me keep;
I see them in my chamber lie,
Bright as if burning in the sky,
And Lady of the Lake am I.
The stars a watch around me keep;
I see them in my chamber lie,
Bright as if burning in the sky,
And Lady of the Lake am I.
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THE SNOWDROP.
I come when the cold drifting snow
Lies white upon the frozen ground,
When Winter winds do loudly blow,
And all is bare and bleak around;
While Spring lies 'neath a winding sheet,
Protected from the snow and sleet.
Lies white upon the frozen ground,
When Winter winds do loudly blow,
And all is bare and bleak around;
While Spring lies 'neath a winding sheet,
Protected from the snow and sleet.
I am the herald of the flowers,
Usher them in and then I go;
In vain you search the Summer bowers,
And Spring's sweet face I scarcely know;
Though for her eager watch I keep,
Till Winter wakens from his sleep.
Usher them in and then I go;
In vain you search the Summer bowers,
And Spring's sweet face I scarcely know;
Though for her eager watch I keep,
Till Winter wakens from his sleep.
Though trembling to her skirt I cling,
I never meet her face to face;
Although I am the child of Spring,
I never feel her warm embrace.
When April comes with sun and showers,
I am not found among the flowers.
I never meet her face to face;
Although I am the child of Spring,
I never feel her warm embrace.
When April comes with sun and showers,
I am not found among the flowers.
And so I come, and so I go,
A little white neglected thing,
Left to stand out amid the snow:
And yet I know my mother Spring
Oft comes near me when I'm asleep,
And in my dreams I hear her weep.
A little white neglected thing,
Left to stand out amid the snow:
And yet I know my mother Spring
Oft comes near me when I'm asleep,
And in my dreams I hear her weep.
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I come from a far distant land,
But cannot see for sleet and snow
His face who leads me by the hand
But 'tis an angel's voice, I know,
That cheers me in my lonely hours,
And sends me here to wake the flowers.
But cannot see for sleet and snow
His face who leads me by the hand
But 'tis an angel's voice, I know,
That cheers me in my lonely hours,
And sends me here to wake the flowers.
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HOW MAY WAS FIRST MADE.
As Spring upon a silver cloud
Lay looking on the world below,
Watching the breezes as they bowed
The buds and blossoms to and fro,
She saw the fields with hawthorns walled;
Said Spring, “New buds I will create.”
She to a flower spirit called
Who on the month of May did wait,
And bade her fetch a hawthorn spray,
That she might make the buds of May.
Lay looking on the world below,
Watching the breezes as they bowed
The buds and blossoms to and fro,
She saw the fields with hawthorns walled;
Said Spring, “New buds I will create.”
She to a flower spirit called
Who on the month of May did wait,
And bade her fetch a hawthorn spray,
That she might make the buds of May.
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Said Spring, “The grass looks green and bright,
The hawthorn hedges too are green,
I'll sprinkle them with flowers of light,
Such stars as Earth hath never seen;
And all through England's velvet vales,
Her steep hill-sides and haunted streams,
Where woodlands dip into the dales,
Where'er the hawthorn stands and dreams,
Where thick-leaved trees make dark the day,
I'll light the land with flowers of May.
The hawthorn hedges too are green,
I'll sprinkle them with flowers of light,
Such stars as Earth hath never seen;
And all through England's velvet vales,
Her steep hill-sides and haunted streams,
Where woodlands dip into the dales,
Where'er the hawthorn stands and dreams,
Where thick-leaved trees make dark the day,
I'll light the land with flowers of May.
“Like pearly dew-drops, white and round,
The shut-up buds shall first appear,
And in them be such fragrance found
As breeze before did never bear;
Such as in Eden only dwelt
When angels hovered round its bowers,
And long-haired Eve at morning knelt
In innocence amid the flowers;
While the whole air was, every way,
Filled with a perfume sweet as May.
The shut-up buds shall first appear,
And in them be such fragrance found
As breeze before did never bear;
Such as in Eden only dwelt
When angels hovered round its bowers,
And long-haired Eve at morning knelt
In innocence amid the flowers;
While the whole air was, every way,
Filled with a perfume sweet as May.
“And oft shall groups of children come,
Threading their way through shady places,
From many a peaceful English home,
The sunshine falling on their faces;
Starting with merry voice the thrush,
As through green lanes they wander singing,
To gather the sweet hawthorn bush,
Which homeward in the evening bringing
With smiling faces, they shall say,
‘There's nothing half so sweet as May.’
Threading their way through shady places,
From many a peaceful English home,
The sunshine falling on their faces;
Starting with merry voice the thrush,
As through green lanes they wander singing,
To gather the sweet hawthorn bush,
Which homeward in the evening bringing
With smiling faces, they shall say,
‘There's nothing half so sweet as May.’
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“And many a poet yet unborn
Shall link its name with some sweet lay,
And children oft at early morn
Shall gather blossoms of the May;
With eyes bright as the silver dews
Which on the rounded May-buds sleep,
And parted lips whose smiles diffuse
A sunshine o'er the watch they keep,
Shall open all their white array
Of pearls, ranged like the buds of May.”
Shall link its name with some sweet lay,
And children oft at early morn
Shall gather blossoms of the May;
With eyes bright as the silver dews
Which on the rounded May-buds sleep,
And parted lips whose smiles diffuse
A sunshine o'er the watch they keep,
Shall open all their white array
Of pearls, ranged like the buds of May.”
Spring shook the cloud on which she lay,
And silvered o'er the hawthorn spray,
Then showered down the buds of May.
And silvered o'er the hawthorn spray,
Then showered down the buds of May.
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THE GOLDEN CELANDINE.
In February's bleakest day,When sparrows hide beneath the eaves,
Thou dost thy golden flowers display,
And all thy dark-green polished leaves.
And yet there are but few that know thee,
Star-shaped golden celandine:
Too many give the praise they owe thee
Unto flowers that are not thine.
Long weeks ere buttercups appear,
Under the hedge I see thee peeping,
With a sweet face that doth me cheer,
Telling that Spring is nearer creeping.
The primrose also comes with thee,
From the mysterious land of flowers,
As if it tried which first should be
With us to herald brighter hours.
I often have stooped down and found
Both your buds but half unrolled,
Both looking glad, and green, and round,
And tipped alike with points of gold;
Yet fearful, as it seemed, to show
All your open wealth of bloom,
Lest winter winds should colder blow,
And o'er ye cast a darker gloom.
And I have watched day after day,
To see which flower would first appear,
And to the sun its gold display:
Sometimes I fancied it was fear
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Grim killing Winter still was near.
I've seen you struggling through the snow,
And thought how cold you both must be,
To sit amid it hours and hours:
I thought the robin pitied thee,
Sweet celandine, above all flowers;
That in his song I heard him say,
“Don't let your pretty head be seen,
Till surly Winter's gone away,
Lest he destroy your gold and green;
'Twould grieve my heart so if he were.
I've waited for you many an hour;
I've crept in here, and crept out there,
And hunted for your yellow flower.
Don't let him strike you with his eye:
'Twould break my heart were you to die.”
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