THE DAISY IN INDIA.
[_]
The simple history of these stanzas is the following. A friend
of mine, a scientific botanist, residing near Sheffield, had
sent a package of sundry kinds of British seeds to the
learned and venerable Doctor William Carey, one of the
first Baptist Missionaries to India, where they had established
themselves in the small Danish settlement of
Serampore, in the province of Bengal. Some of the seeds
had been enclosed in a bag, containing a portion of their
native earth. In March, 1821, a letter of acknowledgment
was received by his correspondent from the Doctor, who
was himself well skilled in botany, and had a garden rich
in plants both tropical and European. In this enclosure
he was wont to spend an hour every morning, before he
entered upon those labours and studies which have rendered
his name illustrious both at home and abroad, as one of
the most accomplished of oriental scholars, and a translator
of the Holy Scriptures into many of the Hindoo languages.
In the letter afore-mentioned, which was shown to me, the
good man says,—“That I might be sure not to lose any
part of your valuable present, I shook the bag over a patch
of earth in a shady place: on visiting which, a few days afterwards,
I found springing up, to my inexpressible delight,
a bellis perennis of our English pastures. I know not that
I ever enjoyed, since leaving Europe, a simple pleasure so
exquisite as the sight of this English Daisy afforded me;
not having seen one for upwards of thirty years, and never
expecting to see one again.”
On the perusal of this passage, the following stanzas seemed
to spring up almost spontaneously in my mind, as the “little
English Flower” in the good Doctor's garden, whom I
imagined to be thus addressing it on its sudden appearance.
—With great care and attention he was able to perpetuate
“the Daisy in India,” as an
annual only, raised by seed
from season to season. It may be observed that, amidst
the luxuriance of tropical vegetation, there are comparatively
few
small plants, like the multifarious progeny of
our native Flora.
There is a beautiful coincidence between a fact and a fiction in
this circumstance. Among the many natural and striking
expedients by which the ingenious author of Robinson
Crusoe contrives to supply his hero on the desolate island
with necessaries and comforts of life, not indigenous, we
are informed that Crusoe one day, long after his shipwreck
and residence there, perceived some delicate blades of vegetation
peeping forth, after the rains, on a patch of ground
near his dwelling-place. Not knowing what they were, he
watched their growth from day to day, till he ascertained,
to his “inexpressible delight,” that they were plants of
some kind of English corn. He then recollected having
shaken out on that spot the dusty refuse of “a bag” which
had been used to hold grain for the fowls on shipboard.
“With great care and attention” he was enabled to preserve
the precious stalks till the full corn ripened in the
ear. He then reaped the first fruits of this spontaneous
harvest, sowed them again, and, till his release from captivity
there, ate bread in his lonely abode,
“Placed far amid the melancholy main.”
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
My mother-country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me such beauty spread:
Transplanted from thine island-bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Whose tribes, beneath our natal skies,
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower;
But, when the sun's gay beams arise,
With unabash'd but modest eyes,
Follow his motion to the west,
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant offspring tower
In gorgeous liveries all the year:
Thou, only thou, art little here,
Like worth unfriended and unknown,
Yet to my British heart more dear
Than all the torrid zone.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Of early scenes beloved by me,
While happy in my father's bower,
Thou shalt the blithe memorial be;
The fairy sports of infancy,
Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime,
Home, country, kindred, friends,—with thee
I find in this far clime.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand:
Oh, for the April sun and shower,
The sweet May dews, of that fair land,
Where Daisies, thick as star-light, stand
In every walk!—that here may shoot
Thy scions, and thy buds expand,
A hundred from one root.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To me the pledge of hope unseen:
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower,
For joys that were, or might have been,
I'll call to mind, how, fresh and green,
I saw thee waking from the dust;
Then turn to heaven with brow serene,
And place in God my trust.
1822.
