 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
216
WILD FLOWERS.
Ye who courtly beauty prize,
Cast not here your scornful eyes
Nature's lowly children we,
Bred on bank, in brake, on lea,
By the meadow runlet's brink,
In the tall cliff's craggy chink,
On the seashore's arid shingle,
On bleak moor, in bosky dingle,
On old tower and ruined wall,
By the sparkling waterfall.
Cast not here your scornful eyes
Nature's lowly children we,
Bred on bank, in brake, on lea,
By the meadow runlet's brink,
In the tall cliff's craggy chink,
On the seashore's arid shingle,
On bleak moor, in bosky dingle,
On old tower and ruined wall,
By the sparkling waterfall.
Not a hue of gaudier glow,
Not a streak to art we owe;
Never hand but Nature's own—
Nature's “sweet and cunning one”—
Hath imparted charm and grace
To our unaspiring race:
All her elements of might,
Common air and common light,
Shower and sunshine, mist and dew;
And her labourers—blithe ones too—
All unhired, for love she finds—
Bees, and birds, and wandering winds.
Not a streak to art we owe;
Never hand but Nature's own—
Nature's “sweet and cunning one”—
Hath imparted charm and grace
To our unaspiring race:
All her elements of might,
Common air and common light,
Shower and sunshine, mist and dew;
And her labourers—blithe ones too—
All unhired, for love she finds—
Bees, and birds, and wandering winds.
Courtly scorners! not for ye
Bloom our tribes of low degree.
Stately aloe, tuberose tall,
Fitly grace baronial hall,
Flaunting in exotic pride,
Sculptured nymph or fawn beside,
From marble vase on terrace wide,
Where jewelled robes sweep rustling by,
And lordly idlers lounge and sigh;—
There intrude not such as we,
Commoners of low degree.
Yet have we our lovers too,
Hearts to holy Nature true,
Such as find in all her ways
Objects for delight and praise,
From the cedar, straight and tall,
To “the hyssop on the wall.”
Bloom our tribes of low degree.
Stately aloe, tuberose tall,
Fitly grace baronial hall,
Flaunting in exotic pride,
Sculptured nymph or fawn beside,
217
Where jewelled robes sweep rustling by,
And lordly idlers lounge and sigh;—
There intrude not such as we,
Commoners of low degree.
Yet have we our lovers too,
Hearts to holy Nature true,
Such as find in all her ways
Objects for delight and praise,
From the cedar, straight and tall,
To “the hyssop on the wall.”
Favoured mortals! to your eyes,
All unveiled, an Eden lies,
Hidden from the worldling's view;
Wells of water gush for you
Where his sealèd sight doth spy
Nought but dull aridity.
Hither come—to you we'll tell
Where our sweetest sisters dwell—
Show you every secret cell
Where the coy take sanctuary,
“Pale maids that unmarried die”—
Primroses, and paler yet,
The unstainèd, odorous violet.
Hither come, and you shall see
Where the loveliest lilies be—
They through forest vistas gleaming
(Azure clouds of heaven's own seeming)—
They their snowy heads that hide,
Cowering by the coppice side—
They that stand in nodding ranks,
All along the river's banks,
Golden daffodils; and they—
Brightest of the bright array—
With a swan-like grace that glide,
Anchored on the waveless tide,—
These and flowery myriads more,
All their charms—a countless store—
All their sweets shall yield to thee,
Nature's faithful votary!
All unveiled, an Eden lies,
Hidden from the worldling's view;
Wells of water gush for you
Where his sealèd sight doth spy
Nought but dull aridity.
Hither come—to you we'll tell
Where our sweetest sisters dwell—
Show you every secret cell
Where the coy take sanctuary,
“Pale maids that unmarried die”—
Primroses, and paler yet,
The unstainèd, odorous violet.
Hither come, and you shall see
Where the loveliest lilies be—
They through forest vistas gleaming
(Azure clouds of heaven's own seeming)—
They their snowy heads that hide,
Cowering by the coppice side—
They that stand in nodding ranks,
All along the river's banks,
Golden daffodils; and they—
218
With a swan-like grace that glide,
Anchored on the waveless tide,—
These and flowery myriads more,
All their charms—a countless store—
All their sweets shall yield to thee,
Nature's faithful votary!
Though we grace not lordly halls,
Yet, on rustic festivals,
Who than we are fitlier seen
Flaunting o'er the village green?
Many a kerchief deck we there,
Many a maiden's nut-brown hair;
Many a straw hat, plaited neat
By shepherd boy, we make complete
With cowslip cark'net:—Then to see
With what an air, how jauntily
On his curled pate 'tis stuck awry,
To snare some cottage beauty's eye!
Yet, on rustic festivals,
Who than we are fitlier seen
Flaunting o'er the village green?
Many a kerchief deck we there,
Many a maiden's nut-brown hair;
Many a straw hat, plaited neat
By shepherd boy, we make complete
With cowslip cark'net:—Then to see
With what an air, how jauntily
On his curled pate 'tis stuck awry,
To snare some cottage beauty's eye!
Joyous childhood, roving free,
With our sweet bells greedily
Both his chubby hands doth fill.
Welcome plunderer! pluck at will,
Nature's darling! dear to thee
More than garden tribes are we.
Pluck at will enough to deck,
Boy, thy favourite lambkin's neck.
With our sweet bells greedily
Both his chubby hands doth fill.
Welcome plunderer! pluck at will,
Nature's darling! dear to thee
More than garden tribes are we.
Pluck at will enough to deck,
Boy, thy favourite lambkin's neck.
Pineth some pale wretch away
In prison cell, where cheerful day
Only through the deep-set bars
Beams obliquely, and the stars
Scarce can glance a pitying eye
On the poor soul's misery?
Haply on some lodgment nigh,
Mossy bastion's mouldering edge,
Loophole chink, or grating ledge,
One of us (some fragrant thing)
Taketh stand, and thence doth fling
On the kind air soft perfume
Down to that dark prison room.
Entering with the balmy gale,
Thoughts of some dear native vale,
Some sweet home by mountain stream,
On the captive's soul may gleam,
Wafting him, in fondest dream,
To the grass-plat far away,
Where his little children play.
In prison cell, where cheerful day
Only through the deep-set bars
Beams obliquely, and the stars
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On the poor soul's misery?
Haply on some lodgment nigh,
Mossy bastion's mouldering edge,
Loophole chink, or grating ledge,
One of us (some fragrant thing)
Taketh stand, and thence doth fling
On the kind air soft perfume
Down to that dark prison room.
Entering with the balmy gale,
Thoughts of some dear native vale,
Some sweet home by mountain stream,
On the captive's soul may gleam,
Wafting him, in fondest dream,
To the grass-plat far away,
Where his little children play.
On the poor man's grave we're found,
Honouring the unhonoured ground;
To the grave—the grave, for aye—
Reverential dues we pay,
When all thought hath passed away
From all living, long ago,
Of the dust that sleeps below;
From the sunken hillock gone,
E'en the cold memorial stone,
Unforsaking, we alone
Year by year fresh tribute spread
O'er the long-forgotten dead.
Honouring the unhonoured ground;
To the grave—the grave, for aye—
Reverential dues we pay,
When all thought hath passed away
From all living, long ago,
Of the dust that sleeps below;
From the sunken hillock gone,
E'en the cold memorial stone,
Unforsaking, we alone
Year by year fresh tribute spread
O'er the long-forgotten dead.
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |