 | The Poetical Language of Flowers |  |
xiii
TIME, LOVE, AND THE FLOWERS.
Said Time, “I cannot bear the flowers,
They spoil the look of old decay;
They cover all my ruined towers,
My fallen shrines, and abbeys grey:
I'll cut them down—why should they grow?
I marvel Death upon his graves
Allows so many buds to blow!
O'er all my works the Wallflower waves!”—
His scythe he sharpened as he spoke,
And deeper frowned at every stroke.
They spoil the look of old decay;
They cover all my ruined towers,
My fallen shrines, and abbeys grey:
I'll cut them down—why should they grow?
I marvel Death upon his graves
Allows so many buds to blow!
O'er all my works the Wallflower waves!”—
His scythe he sharpened as he spoke,
And deeper frowned at every stroke.
In vain did Beauty him entreat
To spare the flowers, as on the ground
She weeping knelt, and clasped his feet.
He only turned his head half round,
And sternly bade her go her way.
Said Time, “Were all the world to plead
They should not live another day,
No, not if Death did intercede!”—
He took his scythe and at one sweep
The flowers became a withered heap.
To spare the flowers, as on the ground
She weeping knelt, and clasped his feet.
He only turned his head half round,
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Said Time, “Were all the world to plead
They should not live another day,
No, not if Death did intercede!”—
He took his scythe and at one sweep
The flowers became a withered heap.
Time came again, and so did Spring;
The spot once more with flowers was strown,
He scarce could see a ruined thing,
So tall and thick the buds had grown.
“Oh, oh!” said Time, “I must upturn,
Dig deep, and cover in like Death;
I'll not leave one behind to mourn,
Or sweeten more the breeze's breath:
Full fathom five I'll lay them low,
Then leave them if they can to grow!”
The spot once more with flowers was strown,
He scarce could see a ruined thing,
So tall and thick the buds had grown.
“Oh, oh!” said Time, “I must upturn,
Dig deep, and cover in like Death;
I'll not leave one behind to mourn,
Or sweeten more the breeze's breath:
Full fathom five I'll lay them low,
Then leave them if they can to grow!”
Summer met Time in that same place,
It looked more lovely than of old,
For there had sprung another race
Of flowers from out the upturned mould,
Which had been buried long ago.
“How's this?” said Time, and rubbed his eyes.
“I have laid many a city low,
But never more saw turret rise.”—
Love at that moment chanced to pass,
He touched Time's arm, and shook his glass.
It looked more lovely than of old,
For there had sprung another race
Of flowers from out the upturned mould,
Which had been buried long ago.
“How's this?” said Time, and rubbed his eyes.
“I have laid many a city low,
But never more saw turret rise.”—
Love at that moment chanced to pass,
He touched Time's arm, and shook his glass.
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“Old man,” said Love, “the flowers are mine;
Leave them alone, and go thy way—
Destruction is the work of thine,
'Tis mine to beautify decay.
Is't not enough that thou hast power
To lay both youth and beauty low,
But thou must envy the poor flower
Which scarce a day sees in full blow?
I've seen thee smile on them for hours!”—
“'Tis true,” said Time, and spared the flowers.
Leave them alone, and go thy way—
Destruction is the work of thine,
'Tis mine to beautify decay.
Is't not enough that thou hast power
To lay both youth and beauty low,
But thou must envy the poor flower
Which scarce a day sees in full blow?
I've seen thee smile on them for hours!”—
“'Tis true,” said Time, and spared the flowers.
11
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.
13
FORGET-ME NOT.
LOVE, FORGET ME NOT, FOR IF FORSAKEN I DIE.
Thy very name is Love's own Poetry,
Born of the heart and of the eye begot,
Nursed amid sighs and smiles by Constancy,
And ever breathing, ‘Love, Forget me not.”
Born of the heart and of the eye begot,
Nursed amid sighs and smiles by Constancy,
And ever breathing, ‘Love, Forget me not.”
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[By the wold and by the wildwood]
By the wold and by the wildwood,By lonely mere, and water'd lea,
Haunts of age, and sportive childhood,
I am doomed to follow thee:
By the torrent it was utter'd,
'Mid the flowers that round it blow,
And upon the breeze was mutter'd
The sad sentence of our woe—
And each bud and bell that's hollow,
Bade thee lead where I must follow.
Till the flowers thy feet surrounding
Shall be planted everywhere,
No shaded stream but what they're found in,
Throughout the summers of each year:
And in remembrance of our sorrow,
Many a maid shall seek that spot
In twilight glooms,—and when the morrow
Gilds the sweet Forget-me-not—
Where the river murmurs hollow,
Lovers ages hence shall follow.
Shall be planted everywhere,
No shaded stream but what they're found in,
Throughout the summers of each year:
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Many a maid shall seek that spot
In twilight glooms,—and when the morrow
Gilds the sweet Forget-me-not—
Where the river murmurs hollow,
Lovers ages hence shall follow.
And where the forest brook runs brawling,—
Here in sunshine, there in shade,—
Lovers shall be oft heard calling,
While they traverse glen and glade:
As they search each woodland spot,
Hazelled dell and briery brake,
For the blue Forget-me-not,
Which they'll cherish for our sake—
And up to Heaven's high arching hollow,
Many a sigh our loves shall follow.
Here in sunshine, there in shade,—
Lovers shall be oft heard calling,
While they traverse glen and glade:
As they search each woodland spot,
Hazelled dell and briery brake,
For the blue Forget-me-not,
Which they'll cherish for our sake—
And up to Heaven's high arching hollow,
Many a sigh our loves shall follow.
And in the flower they shall see blended,
The golden star that emblems thee,
Rimmed with the blue thy wings descended—
The heaven thou'st lost, for love of me:
Without repining, or complaining,
Must thy weary task be done,
If thou hast hopes of e'er regaining
Those lost realms beyond the sun—
For the Voice said, low and hollow,
“Where he goest thou shalt follow.”
The golden star that emblems thee,
Rimmed with the blue thy wings descended—
The heaven thou'st lost, for love of me:
Without repining, or complaining,
Must thy weary task be done,
If thou hast hopes of e'er regaining
Those lost realms beyond the sun—
For the Voice said, low and hollow,
“Where he goest thou shalt follow.”
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FORGET-ME-NOT.
Forget thee, love?—no, not whilst heaven
Spans its starred vault across the sky;
Oh, may I never be forgiven,
If e'er I cause that heart a sigh!
Sooner shall the Forget-me-not
Shun the fringed brook by which it grows,
And pine for some sequestered spot,
Where not a silver ripple flows.
By the blue heaven that bends above me,
Dearly and fondly do I love thee!
Spans its starred vault across the sky;
Oh, may I never be forgiven,
If e'er I cause that heart a sigh!
Sooner shall the Forget-me-not
Shun the fringed brook by which it grows,
And pine for some sequestered spot,
Where not a silver ripple flows.
By the blue heaven that bends above me,
Dearly and fondly do I love thee!
They fabled not in days of old
That Love neglected soon will perish,—
Throughout all time the truth doth hold
That what we love we ever cherish.
For when the Sun neglects the Flower,
And the sweet pearly dews forsake it,
It hangs its head, and from that hour
Prays only unto Death to take it.
So may I droop, by all above me,
If once this heart doth cease to love thee!
That Love neglected soon will perish,—
Throughout all time the truth doth hold
That what we love we ever cherish.
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And the sweet pearly dews forsake it,
It hangs its head, and from that hour
Prays only unto Death to take it.
So may I droop, by all above me,
If once this heart doth cease to love thee!
The Turtle-Dove that's lost its mate,
Hides in some gloomy greenwood shade,
And there alone mourns o'er its fate,
With plumes for ever disarrayed:
Alone! alone! it there sits cooing:—
Deem'st thou, my love, what it doth seek?
'Tis Death the mournful bird is wooing,
In murmurs through its plaintive beak.
So will I mourn, by all above me,
If in this world I cease to love thee!
Hides in some gloomy greenwood shade,
And there alone mourns o'er its fate,
With plumes for ever disarrayed:
Alone! alone! it there sits cooing:—
Deem'st thou, my love, what it doth seek?
'Tis Death the mournful bird is wooing,
In murmurs through its plaintive beak.
So will I mourn, by all above me,
If in this world I cease to love thee!
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THE VIOLET OF THE VALLEY.
YOUR MODESTY AND AMIABILITY HAVE CAUSED ME
TO CONFESS MY LOVE.
[_]
Emblems. MODESTY—BLUE VIOLET: AMIABILITY—WHITE JASMINE: CONFESSION OF LOVE—MOSS-ROSE: PURE LOVE—PINK.
“Violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath.”
—Shakspere.
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath.”
—Shakspere.
36
FLOWERS OF LOVE.
With grey head bent upon the ground,
While wandering through a Saxon vale,
A Pilgrim first the Vi'let found,
Flinging its fragrance on the gale,
As he towards the holy shrine
Journey'd along with wearied feet:—
He smiled to think the saint divine
Should him with such sweet odours meet.
While wandering through a Saxon vale,
A Pilgrim first the Vi'let found,
Flinging its fragrance on the gale,
As he towards the holy shrine
Journey'd along with wearied feet:—
He smiled to think the saint divine
Should him with such sweet odours meet.
A Lover on the Indian sea,
Sighing for her left far behind,
Inhaled the scented Jasmine-tree,
As it perfumed the evening wind:
Shoreward he steer'd at dawn of day,
And saw the coast all round embower'd,
And brought a starry sprig away,
For her by whose green cot it flowered.
Sighing for her left far behind,
Inhaled the scented Jasmine-tree,
As it perfumed the evening wind:
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And saw the coast all round embower'd,
And brought a starry sprig away,
For her by whose green cot it flowered.
And oft when from that scorching shore,
In after-days those odours came,
He pictured his green cottage door,
The shady porch, and window-frame,
Far, far away across the foam:
The very Jasmine-flower that crept
Round the thatch'd roof about his home,
Where she he loved still safely slept.
In after-days those odours came,
He pictured his green cottage door,
The shady porch, and window-frame,
Far, far away across the foam:
The very Jasmine-flower that crept
Round the thatch'd roof about his home,
Where she he loved still safely slept.
With raven-ringlets blown apart
And trembling like a startled dove,
A lovely girl press'd to her heart
A Moss-rose, to appease its love.
But all in vain, it still kept beating,—
And so she said, “'Tis all in vain!
Oh, this love, 'tis past defeating,—
What can I do but love again?”
And trembling like a startled dove,
A lovely girl press'd to her heart
A Moss-rose, to appease its love.
But all in vain, it still kept beating,—
And so she said, “'Tis all in vain!
Oh, this love, 'tis past defeating,—
What can I do but love again?”
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OLD SAXON FLOWERS.
YOUR HUMILITY, AND CONSTANCY, AND PURITY OF
HEART, CLAIM MY AFFECTIONATE REMEMBRANCE.
[_]
Emblems. HUMILITY—BROOM: CONSTANCY—CANTERBURY-BELL: PURITY OF HEART—WHITE WATER-LILY: AFFECTIONATE REMEMBRANCE—ROSEMARY.
Oft musing by the greenwood side,
'Mid Blue-bells deep, and golden Broom,
Time's ancient gate-way open wide,
And far adown the gathering gloom,
On many a mouldering Saxon tomb,
The oldest flowers of England bloom.
'Mid Blue-bells deep, and golden Broom,
Time's ancient gate-way open wide,
And far adown the gathering gloom,
On many a mouldering Saxon tomb,
The oldest flowers of England bloom.
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OLD SAXON FLOWERS.
The Lily on the water sleeping,
Enwreath'd with pearl, and boss'd with gold,
An emblem is, my love, of thee:
But when she like a nymph is peeping,
To watch her sister-buds unfold,
White-shoulder'd, on the flowery Lea,
Gazing about in sweet amazement,
Thy image, from the vine-clad casement,
Seems looking out, my love, on me.
Enwreath'd with pearl, and boss'd with gold,
An emblem is, my love, of thee:
But when she like a nymph is peeping,
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White-shoulder'd, on the flowery Lea,
Gazing about in sweet amazement,
Thy image, from the vine-clad casement,
Seems looking out, my love, on me.
No marvel that my heart became
Attached to thee—in all around me
I saw the likeness of thy face;
Within the Broom I spelt thy name,
In every Blue-bell'd flower I found thee,
In all fair things I could thee trace;
No bud, nor bell, the stem adorning,
Hung with the trembling gems of morning,
The dew,—but call'd up thy embrace.
Attached to thee—in all around me
I saw the likeness of thy face;
Within the Broom I spelt thy name,
In every Blue-bell'd flower I found thee,
In all fair things I could thee trace;
No bud, nor bell, the stem adorning,
Hung with the trembling gems of morning,
The dew,—but call'd up thy embrace.
In thee I found a new delight,—
Alone, my heart was ever sighing,
And pining for another heart;
Like flowers that bow beneath the night,
The very fragrance in them dying,
So did I droop from thee apart;
Till on me broke thy beauteous splendour,—
Thine eyes that looked—oh, heaven! how tender:
I cannot tell thee what thou art.
Alone, my heart was ever sighing,
And pining for another heart;
Like flowers that bow beneath the night,
The very fragrance in them dying,
So did I droop from thee apart;
Till on me broke thy beauteous splendour,—
Thine eyes that looked—oh, heaven! how tender:
I cannot tell thee what thou art.
Thou'rt like the Water-lily pure,
That grows where rippling waters rumble,
Constant as are the flowers of blue,
That every stormy change endure;
And, like the Broom, though ever Humble,
They die, but never change their hue:
The Rosemary, that in December
Still says, “I pray you, love, remember:”
Through storms and snow remaining true.
That grows where rippling waters rumble,
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That every stormy change endure;
And, like the Broom, though ever Humble,
They die, but never change their hue:
The Rosemary, that in December
Still says, “I pray you, love, remember:”
Through storms and snow remaining true.
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HOW THE ROSE BECAME RED.
YOUR PREFERENCE WOULD BRING ME CONSOLATION;
YOUR LOVE, A RETURN OF HAPPINESS.
[_]
Emblems. PREFERENCE—APPLE-BLOSSOM: CONSOLATION—POPPY: LOVE—ROSE: RETURN OF HAPPINESS— VIOLET OF THE VALLEY.
“Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand,
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground:
Sometimes her arms enfold him like a band;
She would:—he will not in her arms be bound;
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her fingers, (round him) one in one.”
Shakspere's Venus and Adonis.
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground:
Sometimes her arms enfold him like a band;
She would:—he will not in her arms be bound;
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her fingers, (round him) one in one.”
Shakspere's Venus and Adonis.
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THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY AND OF LOVE.
Fair Goddess, with heart-searching eyes,
In thy gold, dove-drawn car descend;
Lovely as when Olympian skies
Above thy braided brow did bend;
When Love upon thee used to tend,
And round thy sweet and matchless head
Did wreaths of richest Roses blend,
Blending the pale hue with the red,
Like cheeks o'er which young blushes spread.
In thy gold, dove-drawn car descend;
Lovely as when Olympian skies
Above thy braided brow did bend;
When Love upon thee used to tend,
And round thy sweet and matchless head
Did wreaths of richest Roses blend,
Blending the pale hue with the red,
Like cheeks o'er which young blushes spread.
Oh, visit us, fair as when thou
Sank on thy loved Adonis' breast,
With all the flush which on thy brow
Did at that very moment rest,
When feigning death, thou feltest blest;
The while thy rounded bosom rose,
As does a bird's within its nest,
Hemmed in with buds of snow-white sloes;
When kisses timed thy sweet repose.
Sank on thy loved Adonis' breast,
With all the flush which on thy brow
Did at that very moment rest,
When feigning death, thou feltest blest;
The while thy rounded bosom rose,
As does a bird's within its nest,
Hemmed in with buds of snow-white sloes;
When kisses timed thy sweet repose.
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Come to us in a cloud of flowers,—
Around our hearts their sweets diffuse;
Making them like Olympian bowers,
Where pearly blend with rosy hues.
Appear as when, through morning dews,
Thou didst thy mourned Adonis chase,
And he (poor hunter) did refuse
To kiss thy never-equalled face,—
But struggled in thy warm embrace.
Around our hearts their sweets diffuse;
Making them like Olympian bowers,
Where pearly blend with rosy hues.
Appear as when, through morning dews,
Thou didst thy mourned Adonis chase,
And he (poor hunter) did refuse
To kiss thy never-equalled face,—
But struggled in thy warm embrace.
Appear as on Olympus' brow,
When all the gods in love were driven,
And swore, by thy cheeks' rosy glow,
That every heart was rent and riven—
That thou wert Love, and Love was heaven.
And that the regions of the blest
Were unto thee for ever given—
That he who sank upon thy breast,
Would never seek another rest.
When all the gods in love were driven,
And swore, by thy cheeks' rosy glow,
That every heart was rent and riven—
That thou wert Love, and Love was heaven.
And that the regions of the blest
Were unto thee for ever given—
That he who sank upon thy breast,
Would never seek another rest.
Descend as when on Ida's hill
Thou there didst win the golden prize,
When beardless Paris felt a thrill
Go through him from thy azure eyes,
Down-glancing like the morning skies,
When all the world in sleep reposes,
Saving Aurora, who doth rise,
And to the wondering stars discloses
The couch that's curtained round with roses.
Thou there didst win the golden prize,
When beardless Paris felt a thrill
Go through him from thy azure eyes,
Down-glancing like the morning skies,
When all the world in sleep reposes,
Saving Aurora, who doth rise,
And to the wondering stars discloses
The couch that's curtained round with roses.
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Goddess of Love! it is to thee
All earthly happiness we owe,
All bliss that mortals here can see,
Who at the shrine of beauty bow.
Thou askest but a woman's vow,—
That we shall love until life ends:
Upon our lips we swear it now—
And by each kiss that here descends,
May Hate seize him who but pretends.
All earthly happiness we owe,
All bliss that mortals here can see,
Who at the shrine of beauty bow.
Thou askest but a woman's vow,—
That we shall love until life ends:
Upon our lips we swear it now—
And by each kiss that here descends,
May Hate seize him who but pretends.
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FLOWERS OF THOUGHT.
IN SOLITUDE AND SILENCE YOU OCCUPY MY THOUGHTS,
SUCH IS MY DEVOTED ATTACHMENT.
“Juliet leaning
Amid her window-flowers,—sighing—weaning,
Tenderly her fancy, from its maiden snow,
Doth more avail than these: the silver flow
Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen,
Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den,
Are things to brood on.”
—Keats' Endymion.
Amid her window-flowers,—sighing—weaning,
Tenderly her fancy, from its maiden snow,
Doth more avail than these: the silver flow
Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen,
Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den,
Are things to brood on.”
—Keats' Endymion.
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PANSIES.
“That's for thoughts.”
CHILDHOOD.
Sister, arise, the sun shines bright,The bee is humming in the air,
The stream is singing in the light,
The May-buds never looked more fair;
Blue is the sky, no rain to-day:
Get up, it has been light for hours,
And we have not begun to play,
Nor have we gather'd any flowers.
Time, who looked on, each accent caught,
And said, “He is too young for thought.”
YOUTH.
To-night beside the garden-gate?Oh, what a while the night is coming!
I never saw the sun so late,
Nor heard the bee at this time humming!
I thought the flowers an hour ago
Had closed their bells and sunk to rest:
How slowly flies that hooded crow!
How light it is along the west!
Said Time, “He yet hath to be taught
That I oft move too quick for thought.”
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MANHOOD.
What thoughts wouldst thou in me awaken!Not Love? for that brings only tears—
Nor Friendship? no, I was forsaken!
Pleasure I have not known for years:
The future I would not foresee,
I know too much from what is past,
No happiness is there for me,
And troubles ever come too fast.
Said Time, “No comfort have I brought,
The past to him's one painful thought.”
OLD AGE.
Somehow the flowers seem different now,The Daisies dimmer than of old;
There're fewer blossoms on the bough,
The Hawthorn buds look grey and cold;
The Pansies wore another dye
When I was young—when I was young
There's not that blue about the sky
Which every way in those days hung.
There's nothing now looks as it “ought.”
Said Time, “The change is in thy thought.”
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THE DAISY OF THE DALE.
YOUR INNOCENCE AND SINCERITY WOULD MAKE
RETIREMENT HAPPY.
“When that the month of May
Is coming, and that I do hear the birds sing,
And that the flowers begin to spring,
Farewell my book and my devotion:
Now have I then, too, this condition.
That, of the flowers in the mead,
Then I love most those flowers, white and red,
Such that men call daisies in our town.”
Written by Chaucer nearly 500 years ago.
Is coming, and that I do hear the birds sing,
And that the flowers begin to spring,
Farewell my book and my devotion:
Now have I then, too, this condition.
That, of the flowers in the mead,
Then I love most those flowers, white and red,
Such that men call daisies in our town.”
Written by Chaucer nearly 500 years ago.
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DROOPING DAISY.
Beside a richly sculptured urn,
The Daisy of the Dale was kneeling,
The tears were down her fair cheeks stealing,
And many an outward sign revealing
How deeply her young heart did mourn;
She held a portrait to her breast,
And sighing said, “Oh, be at rest!
Hush, heart! he will again return.”
The Daisy of the Dale was kneeling,
The tears were down her fair cheeks stealing,
And many an outward sign revealing
How deeply her young heart did mourn;
She held a portrait to her breast,
And sighing said, “Oh, be at rest!
Hush, heart! he will again return.”
Her glance upon the picture fell,
She kissed the face she loved so well,
Now she turned red, again was pale,
Just like the Daisy of the Dale,
Whose rim is ruffled by the gale,
When red and white in turn are seen,
Coming and going through the green
Of the ever-waving grass.
She kissed the face she loved so well,
Now she turned red, again was pale,
Just like the Daisy of the Dale,
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When red and white in turn are seen,
Coming and going through the green
Of the ever-waving grass.
A silken scarf that lady wore,—
'Twas picked up on a distant moor,
Only a day or so before,
And there the battle had been fought—
A faithful squire the token brought—
The young knight he in vain had sought.
“I wove him this. On this he swore,”
The Daisy said, “I'll think no more!
Dim doubts before my vision pass.”
'Twas picked up on a distant moor,
Only a day or so before,
And there the battle had been fought—
A faithful squire the token brought—
The young knight he in vain had sought.
“I wove him this. On this he swore,”
The Daisy said, “I'll think no more!
Dim doubts before my vision pass.”
“And yet when I this token see,
And think what nights these wakeful eyes
Bent o'er its dim embroidery,
Painful emotions will arise,
Such as I felt not till we parted,—
Such as but spring from doubts and fears,
And make the bearer broken-hearted,
Through nights of sighs and days of tears.
And think what nights these wakeful eyes
Bent o'er its dim embroidery,
Painful emotions will arise,
Such as I felt not till we parted,—
Such as but spring from doubts and fears,
And make the bearer broken-hearted,
Through nights of sighs and days of tears.
“Perhaps for me he cares not now,
Nor heeds either my tears or sighing,
Perchance he has forgot my vow!
Forgive me, Heaven! he may be dying,
And no one near! Oh, misery!
Breathing my name with his last breath!
And yet his image smiles on me.
Away!—I will not think of Death.
Nor heeds either my tears or sighing,
Perchance he has forgot my vow!
Forgive me, Heaven! he may be dying,
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Breathing my name with his last breath!
And yet his image smiles on me.
Away!—I will not think of Death.
“No! he will live to wear this token.
Hush, heart! be still, why dost thou sigh?
I will not think his vow is broken,—
I'll not believe it, though I die.
This scarf doth bring back many a scene
Of happiness amid those bowers,
Our walks along these alleys green,
When love was sweeter than the flowers.
Hush, heart! be still, why dost thou sigh?
I will not think his vow is broken,—
I'll not believe it, though I die.
This scarf doth bring back many a scene
Of happiness amid those bowers,
Our walks along these alleys green,
When love was sweeter than the flowers.
“I marked these corners with my hair,
I wove his name along with mine,
Letter with letter twined with care,
Hoping that so our hearts would twine;
Oh, Hope! delusive Hope! 'tis Time
Alone that proves thee a deceiver:
Thou bringest buds of promised prime,
But the keen frost attends thee ever.
I wove his name along with mine,
Letter with letter twined with care,
Hoping that so our hearts would twine;
Oh, Hope! delusive Hope! 'tis Time
Alone that proves thee a deceiver:
Thou bringest buds of promised prime,
But the keen frost attends thee ever.
“Oh! I am sadly altered now,
My summer's changed to winter's gloom,
I've torn the Daisies from my brow,
And hung them on my mother's tomb,
I seem upon a pathless sea,
A lonely ark that still remains,
Doomed to glide on in misery,
And float alone with all its pains.
My summer's changed to winter's gloom,
I've torn the Daisies from my brow,
And hung them on my mother's tomb,
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A lonely ark that still remains,
Doomed to glide on in misery,
And float alone with all its pains.
“Oh! I have loved, and still I love,
And yet my life is like a dream:
I look around—below—above,
And thoughts like hovering shadows seem,
Clouds drifting o'er the face of Heaven,
That float along in loose array,
The dark and bright together driven,
And mingling but to pass away.
And yet my life is like a dream:
I look around—below—above,
And thoughts like hovering shadows seem,
Clouds drifting o'er the face of Heaven,
That float along in loose array,
The dark and bright together driven,
And mingling but to pass away.
“And Love still lives, though Hope is fled,
And Memory that brings no delight.
Telling of Spring, whose flowers are shed,
A weary day long changed to night,
A music all in mournful tone,
Sounding awake, and heard asleep,
A solemn dirge that rings alone,
To tell me I am doomed to weep.
And Memory that brings no delight.
Telling of Spring, whose flowers are shed,
A weary day long changed to night,
A music all in mournful tone,
Sounding awake, and heard asleep,
A solemn dirge that rings alone,
To tell me I am doomed to weep.
“Though he is false I will not chide,
I feel my heart is all to blame,
And though I may not be his bride,
But see another bear that name,
Yet will I pray that every blessing;—
Alas! I cannot pray for weeping,
A coldness round my heart is pressing,
A tremor through my veins is creeping.
I feel my heart is all to blame,
And though I may not be his bride,
But see another bear that name,
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Alas! I cannot pray for weeping,
A coldness round my heart is pressing,
A tremor through my veins is creeping.
“Oh! I am weary of my life;
My eyes with weeping have grown weary,
Nature too long hath been at strife,
My very thoughts to me are dreary.
Oh! I am weary of the day,
And wish again that it were night,
Night comes, I wish it were away—
It goes, I'm weary of the light.”
My eyes with weeping have grown weary,
Nature too long hath been at strife,
My very thoughts to me are dreary.
Oh! I am weary of the day,
And wish again that it were night,
Night comes, I wish it were away—
It goes, I'm weary of the light.”
She on that marble urn did rest,
'Twas sacred to her mother's name,
She clasped its coldness to her breast,
She called on death, but no death came;
The grave is far too cold for Love:
Why should it sleep within a tomb,
When for its mate the wand'ring dove
But coos amid the forest gloom?
'Twas sacred to her mother's name,
She clasped its coldness to her breast,
She called on death, but no death came;
The grave is far too cold for Love:
Why should it sleep within a tomb,
When for its mate the wand'ring dove
But coos amid the forest gloom?
She paused, she heard a distant sound,
Like war-horse tramp it shook the ground;
The jingling ring of arms drew near,
She drew her breath 'tween hope and fear.
Oh, Mary, thanks! her own true knight
Did from his foam-flecked steed alight.
Though loss of blood had left him pale,
He kissed the Daisy of the Dale.
Like war-horse tramp it shook the ground;
The jingling ring of arms drew near,
She drew her breath 'tween hope and fear.
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Did from his foam-flecked steed alight.
Though loss of blood had left him pale,
He kissed the Daisy of the Dale.
105
LEGEND OF THE FLOWER-SPIRITS.
YOUR FIDELITY AND CANDOUR HAVE WON MY
AFFECTION.
Sweet shapes were there—the Spirits of the Flowers;
Sent down to see the summer beauties dress,
And feed their fragrant mouths with silver showers;
Their eyes peeped out from many a green recess,
And their fair forms made light the thick-set bowers;
The very flowers seemed eager to caress
Such living sisters,—and the boughs, long-leaved,
Clustered to catch the sighs their pearl-flushed bosoms heaved.
Sent down to see the summer beauties dress,
And feed their fragrant mouths with silver showers;
Their eyes peeped out from many a green recess,
And their fair forms made light the thick-set bowers;
The very flowers seemed eager to caress
Such living sisters,—and the boughs, long-leaved,
Clustered to catch the sighs their pearl-flushed bosoms heaved.
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SONG OF THE FLOWER-SPIRITS.
Sister, sister, what dost thou twine?
I am weaving a wreath of the wild Woodbine,
I have streak'd it without like the sunset hue,
And silver'd it white with the morning dew:
And there is not a perfume which on the breeze blows
From the lips of the Pink or the mouth of the Rose,
That's sweeter than mine—that's sweeter than mine—
I have mingled them all in my wild Woodbine.
I am weaving a wreath of the wild Woodbine,
I have streak'd it without like the sunset hue,
And silver'd it white with the morning dew:
And there is not a perfume which on the breeze blows
From the lips of the Pink or the mouth of the Rose,
That's sweeter than mine—that's sweeter than mine—
I have mingled them all in my wild Woodbine.
White watcher of blossoms, what weavest thou?
I am stringing the Hawthorn-buds on a green bough;
I have dyed them with pearl, and stolen the flush
Of the dawn from the hills, in the morning's faint blush;
And the odours they breathe of, to me were first given
By an angel I knew in the gardens of heaven:
And Love, should he ever remember the tale,
Shall tell how I perfumed the May of the vale.
I am stringing the Hawthorn-buds on a green bough;
I have dyed them with pearl, and stolen the flush
Of the dawn from the hills, in the morning's faint blush;
And the odours they breathe of, to me were first given
By an angel I knew in the gardens of heaven:
And Love, should he ever remember the tale,
Shall tell how I perfumed the May of the vale.
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Beautiful spirit, why dost thou sigh?
Sad thoughts float about me, like clouds on the sky,
Of the false vows that may on these blossoms be sworn,
Of the Rose that will wither, and leave but the thorn:
Of hopes that may live after Love is long dead,
Like the stem left behind when the flower is shed.
And that is the cause why I sigh—why I sigh—
To think that the heart must be broken, to die.
Sad thoughts float about me, like clouds on the sky,
Of the false vows that may on these blossoms be sworn,
Of the Rose that will wither, and leave but the thorn:
Of hopes that may live after Love is long dead,
Like the stem left behind when the flower is shed.
And that is the cause why I sigh—why I sigh—
To think that the heart must be broken, to die.
Sister, sister, what hast thou found
Half hidden amid the green leaves on the ground?
They are the dim Violets, daughters of Spring,
Deeper dyed than the blue of the butterfly's wing;
Yet modest as Love in the bud of the Rose,
When the green can no longer its blushes enclose:
All the perfumes I've tried in the buds that I wreathe,
Yet found none half so sweet as the one that they breathe.
Half hidden amid the green leaves on the ground?
They are the dim Violets, daughters of Spring,
Deeper dyed than the blue of the butterfly's wing;
Yet modest as Love in the bud of the Rose,
When the green can no longer its blushes enclose:
All the perfumes I've tried in the buds that I wreathe,
Yet found none half so sweet as the one that they breathe.
Beautiful spirit, why dost thou weep?
For the death and decay that come swifter than sleep;
For the Rose which my blushes at morn dyed with red,
That by night, in the full bloom of beauty, was dead.
For the beautiful lips they will to it compare,
For the cheeks that will fade be they never so fair:
They are mortal, sweet sister: here Death severs love,—
Lasting beauty but lives in the gardens above.
For the death and decay that come swifter than sleep;
For the Rose which my blushes at morn dyed with red,
That by night, in the full bloom of beauty, was dead.
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For the cheeks that will fade be they never so fair:
They are mortal, sweet sister: here Death severs love,—
Lasting beauty but lives in the gardens above.
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CUPID AND PSYCHE.
YOUR ANGER CAUSES ME PAIN, YOUR FRIENDSHIP
AND LOVE ARE AN EVERLASTING PLEASURE.
[_]
Emblems. ANGER—GORSE: PAIN, OR GRIEF—MARIGOLD: FRIENDSHIP —ACACIA: EVERLASTING PLEASURE—SWEET PEA.
“Fly, Zephyrus! on top of yonder mount
My fair love sits; on thy soft swelling wings
Let Psyche ride: you, Voices, that attend me,
Dance in the air, like wantons, to entice
My love to dwell in Cupid's paradise;
Music, with ravishing tones enchant her ears:
She that doth Cupid wed, thus shall she live.”
The Queen's Mask, 1615.
My fair love sits; on thy soft swelling wings
Let Psyche ride: you, Voices, that attend me,
Dance in the air, like wantons, to entice
My love to dwell in Cupid's paradise;
Music, with ravishing tones enchant her ears:
She that doth Cupid wed, thus shall she live.”
The Queen's Mask, 1615.
143
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.
144
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
145
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.
146
ELLEN NEVILLE.
I AM YOUR CAPTIVE AND HOPE TO POSSESS SUCH
LASTING BEAUTY.
“Why did she love him? she would answer still,
‘Is human love the growth of human will?’
To her he might be gentleness; the stern
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern;
And when they love, your smilers guess not how
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow.”
Byron's Lara.
‘Is human love the growth of human will?’
To her he might be gentleness; the stern
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern;
And when they love, your smilers guess not how
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow.”
Byron's Lara.
152
THE OLD CASTLE GARDEN.
Hard by the crumbling castle wall,
That old and gloomy garden spread,
With many a quaintly-shapen bed,
And many a mazy path that led
To postern, drawbridge, bower, and hall,
Through gloomy groves of evergreens,
Dark low-browed rocks, and shady scenes,
Hemmed in by fir-trees black and tall.
And all around
That dreary ground
Was heard the sound
Of many a mournful fountain falling,
And many an echo faintly calling
To waving trees and low-voiced streams,
Where Day but rarely spread his beams,—
It seemed a living land of dreams.
That old and gloomy garden spread,
With many a quaintly-shapen bed,
And many a mazy path that led
To postern, drawbridge, bower, and hall,
Through gloomy groves of evergreens,
Dark low-browed rocks, and shady scenes,
Hemmed in by fir-trees black and tall.
And all around
That dreary ground
Was heard the sound
Of many a mournful fountain falling,
And many an echo faintly calling
To waving trees and low-voiced streams,
Where Day but rarely spread his beams,—
It seemed a living land of dreams.
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There ruined summer-arbours stood,
Mantled with moss and untwined vine,
A wilderness of sweet woodbine,
Ivy and starry jessamine,
And mirrored in a murmuring flood
Were marble forms of many a god,
Some gazing on the daisied sod,
Or half-seen through the underwood;
And Venus fair
With parted hair
Was bending there.
She seemed to mock the Sculptor's art,
And listening stood with lips apart.
Others were buried 'mid the flowers,—
Dryads, and Fauns, and Nymphs, and Hours,
Stood peeping through the leafy bowers.
Mantled with moss and untwined vine,
A wilderness of sweet woodbine,
Ivy and starry jessamine,
And mirrored in a murmuring flood
Were marble forms of many a god,
Some gazing on the daisied sod,
Or half-seen through the underwood;
And Venus fair
With parted hair
Was bending there.
She seemed to mock the Sculptor's art,
And listening stood with lips apart.
Others were buried 'mid the flowers,—
Dryads, and Fauns, and Nymphs, and Hours,
Stood peeping through the leafy bowers.
158
THE SNOWDROP.
“Once more I see thee bend
Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend,
Like an unbidden guest.”
—Wordsworth.
Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend,
Like an unbidden guest.”
—Wordsworth.
As Hope, with bowed head, silent stood,
And on her golden anchor leant,
Watching below the angry flood,
While Winter, 'mid the dreariment
Half-buried in the drifted snow,
Lay sleeping on the frozen ground,
Not heeding how the wind did blow,
Bitter and bleak on all around:
She gazed on Spring, who at her feet
Was looking on the snow and sleet.
And on her golden anchor leant,
Watching below the angry flood,
While Winter, 'mid the dreariment
Half-buried in the drifted snow,
Lay sleeping on the frozen ground,
Not heeding how the wind did blow,
Bitter and bleak on all around:
She gazed on Spring, who at her feet
Was looking on the snow and sleet.
Spring sighed, and through the driving gale
Her warm breath caught the falling snow,
And from the flakes a flower as pale
Did into spotless whiteness blow;
Hope smiling saw the blossom fall,
And watched its root strike in the earth,—
“I will that flower the Snowdrop call,”
Said Hope, “In memory of its birth:
And through all ages it shall be
In reverence held, for love of me.”
Her warm breath caught the falling snow,
And from the flakes a flower as pale
Did into spotless whiteness blow;
Hope smiling saw the blossom fall,
And watched its root strike in the earth,—
“I will that flower the Snowdrop call,”
Said Hope, “In memory of its birth:
And through all ages it shall be
In reverence held, for love of me.”
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“And ever from my hidden bowers,”
Said Spring, “it first of all shall go,
And be the herald of the flowers,
To warn away the sheeted snow:
Its mission done, then by thy side
All summer long it shall remain.
While other flowers I scatter wide,
O'er every hill, and wood, and plain,
This shall return, and ever be
A sweet companion, Hope, for thee.”
Said Spring, “it first of all shall go,
And be the herald of the flowers,
To warn away the sheeted snow:
Its mission done, then by thy side
All summer long it shall remain.
While other flowers I scatter wide,
O'er every hill, and wood, and plain,
This shall return, and ever be
A sweet companion, Hope, for thee.”
Hope stooped and kissed her sister Spring,
And said, “For hours, when thou art gone,
I'm left alone without a thing
That I can fix my heart upon;
'Twill cheer me many a lonely hour,
And in the future I shall see
Those who would sink raised by that flower,—
They'll look on it, then think of thee:
And many a sadful heart shall sing,
The Snowdrop bringeth Hope and Spring.”
And said, “For hours, when thou art gone,
I'm left alone without a thing
That I can fix my heart upon;
'Twill cheer me many a lonely hour,
And in the future I shall see
Those who would sink raised by that flower,—
They'll look on it, then think of thee:
And many a sadful heart shall sing,
The Snowdrop bringeth Hope and Spring.”
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