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FLOWERS.
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears!”
Wordsworth.
I.
Flowers, though of texture inexpressible, woven though they be of a mystic woof, are yet the Birth-day Apparel of Earth—her Raiment of Gladsomeness—her Festival-Drapery!
Her Virgin-Zone of Beauty they were—her Matron-Stole of Loveliness they are, but she putteth them off in the days of her Widowhood!—
Her Children too are they—the dear ones of her heart—but old Winter frighteneth them!
Who shall tell out the colours of their Glory? to what will ye liken the richness of their Odours?—mingling yet separately perceived they come,— like the hues of the Rainbow, that Wedding-ring of Sunlight and Cloud-gloom—like the streaks on the blade of the sheeny Striped-grass—like the colours of an eddying Banner—like Love.
Flowers and Female Beauty, peers in their peerlessness, though hardly in their tarriance;—their brief existence the theme of Song—their coming and going in eternal alternation, waxing and waning in their bloom and decay, like the brightness and dimness of an ever-revolving Beacon-light at sea—preserving the while such mysterious silence—may well be the subject of marvel and earnest curiosity.
The expressions of Flowers, as various and striking as though they were animated by indwelling Spirits, who made them their radiant Resting-places—their pure Pavilions—their silent Homes!
And oh that they had voice to explain the feelings which cause their diverse expressions—as the sky-roamer hath!—certes, it would be both sweet and strange—strange as the murmuring of the Spirit of the Seashell—strange as the melody of the finger-invoked Genie of the Handglass,
breathing forth his deep unearthly churming;—soft, as the footstep of a silver cloud—as the sound of melting snow,—as the fall of glittering dew—as the flickering of troubled gossamers, glancing in the Summer noontide air—subtle—evanescent!
And harmoniously would they discourse—haply of high regrets, and sorrowings after glorious and forfeited things—of lasting melancholy; haply of transient sadness—of private and passing afflictions—of griefs of every-day!
Flowers sympathise ever with us—share in our Triumph—lend their gaiety to our Joy, and soothe us when Sorrow is near—they are tender and pure—and tranquil in gladness—and calm in grief!
And mournfully and strangely doth contrast with their tranquillity our restlessness—our “pining for what is not”—our ambition and unsatisfying speculations—our toiling after shadows—our “looking before and after” —our regret—our anxiety!
And are they not, then, silent and delicate Teachers of the Littleness of Wealth and Fame and Power and Praise?—and meek and shining exemplars of extremes avoided and content attained?—
PART THE FIRST.
Sense and Reason say,
Your nature is like ours,
Ye are formed of clay;
They, methinks, cannot be right—
Ye are so delicate and bright!
And your food—it is the Dew;
The Rainbow is your Brother—
He is most like you!
Born of Light and gentle Rain,
Both are free from earthly stain!
The broad expanse of Earth—
In coloured radiance twinkling,
Filling her with mirth!
Her form in all-hued robes ye swathe,
Her limbs in precious odours bathe!
Ye follow with delight;
Plunge down into the Ocean
Of Darkness, every night;
And up again with her returning,
Freshly greet the Day-light burning!
From Earth's face ye fly,
As when dawn appeareth
Stars fade off the sky!
Scattered drops of light, ye fear,
Touch of one so cold and drear.
Sweet imaginings,
Shrink from all collisions
With cold, worldly things—
Aught less high and warm than they,
Sweeps them from his mind away!
PART THE SECOND.
Of the Maiden's brow;
Sweet is the azure brightness
Of her meek eyes' glow;
Her lip's geranium-red—the flush
Of her modest, mantling blush;
A tropic Bird's array;
The coloured clouds of Morning,
The tints of rising Day;
And sweet the Sun-set to behold—
The crimson, and the water-gold!
Through the bright green tide,
From Coral-reefs up-growing
Like gardens petrified—
Sweet and gay the rich sea-flowers
Which crown those insect-pilëd towers!
Hues of Earth and Air,
But I know not any
May with yours compare—
With the million-coloured bloom
These gems of upper Earth assume!
Gush deliciously;
Such rich fragrance showering,
That the sense would be
Delighted to drink in the river
Of refreshing scent for ever!
Distinct, although combining,
Each sweet scent is present—
Like the intertwining
Voices of a choir, around
Dispensing silver threads of sound;
Which young bosoms prove—
Of fond feelings—Love!
Every Star in lustre blent
Of the Soul's deep firmament!
Of mixed tenderness,
No wave-like Emotion
Is discerned the less;
Each in different form and fashion
Adding to the Tide of Passion.
In the Parent's breast;
All that simply swelleth
In the child confest;
Love of Sister, Brother, Friend,
Distinctly in the Lover blend.
On either side can raise,
Humble, proud affection,
Serving while it sways—
Oh the sheaves that Lovers bind
Of golden ears of Feelings kind!
PART THE THIRD.
Hold with you communion;
Both are pure and fair,
And that simple union
Makes them cherish and befriend you,
And like younger sisters tend you.
Your short lives bewail;
And their sweet lays soften
To a tender tale,
As they tell how Beauty too,
Dies almost as soon as you.
So purely clear and bright,
That their tender features
Seem melting into Light!
Transparent cheek and sunny tress
Often mock your loveliness.
Will last until the heart
Of its love may be unladen;
And when it does depart
You, while our love is freshest, fly!—
Mysteries without clue,
Till the mind is weary,
Rise, on watching you—
What may be your end and aim,
Where ye go, or whence ye came?
In silence fast succeeding,
Come—smile—and pass away,
To oblivion speeding?
Why ye are so lovely made,
So lovely, if so soon to fade?
In a strain undying—
I would rather bring you
Life, than mourn your flying;
Not lament in idle lay,
But bid you bloom till Time decay.
PART THE FOURTH.
Lasting as ye're fair—
Many a summer wake you
Fresh as now ye are—
Should we, gazing on you so,
Have no more to ask or know?
To both of us belong
Than may have revealings
Or in prose or song—
There is such infectious power
In the sadness of a Flower!
Some look coy and shy;
Some seem grieving sadly
As the Moon on high,
When she floateth, full of sighs,
Asking some to sympathise!
Expressions all so true?—
I am sure that Spirit
Must reside in you,
There are looks so full of meaning!
Dives into your cells,
And insects not alone lie
In your cups and bells—
In your fragrant, tiny breasts,
Spirits must have made their nests!
It was idly thought
By romancing sages,
That our Spirits sought,
When their human life had ceased,
Ignoble home in bird or beast—
Of their forms of fire,
May the souls of Peri,
Into you retire—
If such After-homes were ours,
Might not they migrate to Flowers?
Sighs—forgotten too—
From our bosoms banished,
Fly at last to you,
To mimic all our feelings now?
PART THE FIFTH.
Grief attacketh me;
'Tis beyond believing
That just cause can be,
Cruel Sorrow should not spare
Things so innocent and fair!
Wherefore do you sigh?
Vainly Fancy guesses,
Idly would reply—
For your speaking looks alone
Make your gentle sorrows known!
The Profound of Heaven,
Is a lyre that singeth
All its feelings given;
Now in revelry loud-ringing,
Now low-moaning sweetness flinging!
Tells how they rejoice—
Would that we could borrow
Such an echoing voice,
For the hidden thoughts which dower
The mystic muteness of a Flower!
strange as the murmuring of the Spirit of the sea-shell— strange as the melody of the finger-invoked Genie of the hand-glass, breathing forth its deep unearthly Churming—soft as the foot-beat of a silver cloud, as the sound of the melting snow, as the fall of the glittering dew—as the flickering of troubled gossamers—glancing in the summer noontide—subtle, evanescent!
And sweet beyond compare!
To hers in beauty nearest
Birds' merry warblings are—
Sweetly too the summer fly
Murmureth an instant by!
Of insect, bird or maiden,
To that a Flower were willing
Its soul should be conveyed in?
The tones a Flower would choose, to express
All its joy and its distress!
Her moss-fibred nest;
Sound of Bees upheaving
Waxen cells of rest;
Feathers rustling in the wing
Of a bright Moth fluttering;
In the slant sunbeam,
Floating—turning—glancing—
Rude and harsh would seem,
Harsh and rude all these would be,
To a Flower's euphony!
PART THE SIXTH.
To your meek complaining;
And our eyes would glisten,
Tears of pity raining,
As ye did in silver tone
Make your gentle sorrows known.
How, you could not smile
In a World so fair,
Filled with woe and guile—
How, you cannot cease to mourn
That for which you first were born!
Wept for fallen Man—
How some of you have never
Looked otherwise than wan
From a sinless Paradise!
Those olden glories well;
And how Tradition's ember
Glimmers yet to tell
How happy once, ye lived and grew
In Eden light, on Eden dew!
Tales of simpler sorrow;
Grief would soon be over
And forgot to-morrow;
Haply tell us how your tears
Fall for humbler pains and fears;
One whom oft his kisses
And his song delighted;
How, another misses
Warmly-wooing, faithless breezes—
And their coldness sore displeases!
From sunlight—overshaded;
How some Flower that loved you
Prematurely faded—
Droop your heads so pensively!—
Would your sweet plaint swell—
But vainly Fancy guesses
What you cannot tell;
For, alas! your looks alone
Make your gentle sorrows known!
PART THE SEVENTH.
Wreath of Flowers earneth;
Hero from high quarrel
Flower-crowned returneth:
Hero bold, and Poet too,
Half their Triumph owe to you!
Heighten gladsomeness;
Dear ones' graves adorning
Soothe our deep distress:
You smile with us when we are glad,
And you weep when we are sad!
Share your simple grace;
In some of you we trace—
Doves and Lambs of herbal kind—
Sometimes sad—alway resigned!
Which we could reprove—
Hate and guile ye know not,
Ye are full of Love!
Calm your tears as is your gladness—
That is tender as your sadness!
Envy—ye have none—
There is nothing charmless,
Which ye do not shun—
There is nothing pure and sweet
Misseth your serene retreat!
PART THE EIGHTH.
To your springs of Quiet—
Anxious Care is ours,
And distressing Riot;
Our joys are troubled at the best—
Our repose is seldom rest!
Joys which cannot be—
And weep—because they vary
From the ones we see;
You pass your lives exempt from pain,
Content with what ye may attain.
All the Pride of Mind;
Thirst for something higher
Than 'tis ours to find:
These our chance of Quiet mar,
Because our Will and Power jar.
Ever hang about us,
Enticing us to ponder,
Only then to flout us—
You live happily and well
By clinging to the visible!
Is often all we win;
Your lives are gladlier spent,
Who toil not, neither spin!
We grieve o'er all the Past—and sorrow
O'er that which may be ours Tomorrow!
To your Springs of Quiet!
Care has sorely tried us—
We are sick of Riot—
And would fain know where they be,
Those Fountains of Tranquillity!
PART THE NINTH.
Chambers of the Deep,
All my breast ye brighten,
All my bosom steep
In thought—delightful Calm bestowing
Till my eyes are overflowing!
Gold and Silver so?—
I have store of pleasure
Long as Flowers blow;
Joys that pall not may be mine
While dew falls, or sunbeams shine
Any more for Fame;
Not to quail at Anguish,
Wild Delight to tame—
Bidding lofty Thoughts away!
Friendships—very few;
Power in me raises
No wish to pursue;
Sunny fields—blue skies—the lyre—
These are all that I require!
Happy Flowers, do;
Love my Sunlight be—
Poesy my Dew;
Love and song all wants supply
Till tranquilly as you I die!
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