 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK.
Come, look at this Plant, with its narrow pale leaves,
And its tall, slim, delicate stem,
Thinly studded with flowers!—yes, with flowers!—There they are!
Don't you see at each joint there's a little brown star?
But, in truth, there's no beauty in them.
And its tall, slim, delicate stem,
Thinly studded with flowers!—yes, with flowers!—There they are!
Don't you see at each joint there's a little brown star?
But, in truth, there's no beauty in them.
So you ask why I keep it, the little mean thing!
Why I stick it up here, just in sight;—
'Tis a fancy of mine.—“A strange fancy!” you say;
“No accounting for tastes!”—In this instance you may,
For the flower. . . . But I'll tell you to-night.
Why I stick it up here, just in sight;—
'Tis a fancy of mine.—“A strange fancy!” you say;
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For the flower. . . . But I'll tell you to-night.
Some six hours hence, when the Lady Moon,
Looks down on that bastioned wall,
When the twinkling stars dance silently
On the rippling surface of the sea,
And the heavy night-dews fall;
Looks down on that bastioned wall,
When the twinkling stars dance silently
On the rippling surface of the sea,
And the heavy night-dews fall;
Then meet me again in this casement niche,
On the spot where we're standing now.—
Nay, question not wherefore! Perhaps, with me,
To look out on the night, and the broad, bright sea,
And to hear its majestic flow!
On the spot where we're standing now.—
Nay, question not wherefore! Perhaps, with me,
To look out on the night, and the broad, bright sea,
And to hear its majestic flow!
Well, we're met here again; and the moonlight sleeps
On the sea, and the bastioned wall;
And the flowers there below—how the night-wind brings
Their delicious breath on its dewy wings!—
“But there's one,” say you, “sweeter than all!”
On the sea, and the bastioned wall;
And the flowers there below—how the night-wind brings
Their delicious breath on its dewy wings!—
“But there's one,” say you, “sweeter than all!”
“Which is it? The myrtle, or jessamine,
Or their sovereign lady the rose?
Or the heliotrope? or the virgin's bower?
What! neither?”—Oh, no; 'tis some other flower,
Far sweeter than either of those.
Or their sovereign lady the rose?
Or the heliotrope? or the virgin's bower?
What! neither?”—Oh, no; 'tis some other flower,
Far sweeter than either of those.
Far sweeter! And where, think you, groweth the plant
That exhaleth such perfume rare?
Look about, up and down—but take care! or you'll break,
With your elbow, that poor little thing that's so weak.
. . . . “Why, 'tis that smells so sweet, I declare!”
That exhaleth such perfume rare?
Look about, up and down—but take care! or you'll break,
With your elbow, that poor little thing that's so weak.
. . . . “Why, 'tis that smells so sweet, I declare!”
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Ah ha! is it that? Have you found out now
Why I cherish that odd little fright?
“All is not gold that glitters,” you know;
And it is not all worth makes the greatest show
In the glare of the strongest light.
Why I cherish that odd little fright?
“All is not gold that glitters,” you know;
And it is not all worth makes the greatest show
In the glare of the strongest light.
There are human flowers full many, I trow,
As unlovely as that by your side,
That a common observer passeth by
With a scornful lip, and a careless eye,
In the heyday of pleasure and pride.
As unlovely as that by your side,
That a common observer passeth by
With a scornful lip, and a careless eye,
In the heyday of pleasure and pride.
But move one of those to some quiet spot,
From the mid-day sun's broad glare,
Where domestic peace broods with dove-like wing,
And try if the homely, despisèd thing,
May not yield sweet fragrance there.
From the mid-day sun's broad glare,
Where domestic peace broods with dove-like wing,
And try if the homely, despisèd thing,
May not yield sweet fragrance there.
Or wait till the days of trial come—
The dark days of trouble and woe;
When they shrink, and shut up, late so bright in the sun;—
Then turn to the little despisèd one,
And see if 'twill serve you so.
The dark days of trouble and woe;
When they shrink, and shut up, late so bright in the sun;—
Then turn to the little despisèd one,
And see if 'twill serve you so.
And judge not again at a single glance,
Nor pass sentence hastily:
There are many good things in this world of ours—
Many sweet things and rare—weeds that prove precious flowers—
Little dreamt of by you or me.
Nor pass sentence hastily:
There are many good things in this world of ours—
Many sweet things and rare—weeds that prove precious flowers—
Little dreamt of by you or me.
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |