 | Memorials of Miss Catherine Maria Fanshawe |  |
II. EPISTLE ON THE SUBJECTS OF BOTANY,
CONTAINING A TALE AND MUCH GOOD ADVICE.
BY A LOVER OF BOTANISTS.
Humbly inscribed to Isabella Way and E. C. Fanshawe.
Ye Fair! who in this favour'd clime
Are taught t' employ, not murder, Time;
And see his reverend figure pass,
Without a wish to break his glass;
Who, skill'd to vary each successive hour,
Embroider now, and now dissect a flower,
And scientifically know
To pull to pieces all that blow;
And, as they lie in sad disorder,
Piecemeal, and litt'ring on the table,
Are with the more precision able
To name their genus, class, and order;
I joy to see this gen'rous age
Unclosing Nature's folio treasure,
Confine not to their sons the page,
But bid their daughters share the pleasure.
I joy to see your light feet tread
The dew-bespangled grass,
Benignly bending as ye pass
To raise the violet's drooping head,
Or pale-faced primrose from her lowly bed;
While your philosophic eyes
With honest pride despise
A tasteless gardener's pamper'd care,
Those gaudy monsters of the gay parterre.
I joy to see you fondly grope,
With vasculum and microscope,
Under bush, and under briar,
Thro' the bog, and in the mire;
Or, on the river's slippery bank,
Outstretch'd upon its utmost verge,
Struggle to grasp aquatics dank
That from its oozy wave emerge.
Are taught t' employ, not murder, Time;
And see his reverend figure pass,
Without a wish to break his glass;
Who, skill'd to vary each successive hour,
Embroider now, and now dissect a flower,
And scientifically know
To pull to pieces all that blow;
And, as they lie in sad disorder,
Piecemeal, and litt'ring on the table,
Are with the more precision able
To name their genus, class, and order;
I joy to see this gen'rous age
17
Confine not to their sons the page,
But bid their daughters share the pleasure.
I joy to see your light feet tread
The dew-bespangled grass,
Benignly bending as ye pass
To raise the violet's drooping head,
Or pale-faced primrose from her lowly bed;
While your philosophic eyes
With honest pride despise
A tasteless gardener's pamper'd care,
Those gaudy monsters of the gay parterre.
I joy to see you fondly grope,
With vasculum and microscope,
Under bush, and under briar,
Thro' the bog, and in the mire;
Or, on the river's slippery bank,
Outstretch'd upon its utmost verge,
Struggle to grasp aquatics dank
That from its oozy wave emerge.
Daughters of Britain, persevere,
Secure your envied places,
To science and to Nature dear,
As Muses and as Graces.
But ah! let Caution be your guide,
Be her's the devious path to trace,
Conform to her's your sprightly pace,
Nor quit her venerable side,
Nor feed rude mirth and giddy laughter,
By leaving her to hobble after.
It grieves your Poet much to see
What perils wait on Botany,
What dangers lurk in berries blue,
In berries black, or red, or yellow,
Rough or glossy, bright or sallow;
Berries of ev'ry shade and hue,
To those who taste as well as view.
Sad is the instance that's afforded,
By the first Female Botanist recorded.
Secure your envied places,
To science and to Nature dear,
As Muses and as Graces.
But ah! let Caution be your guide,
Be her's the devious path to trace,
Conform to her's your sprightly pace,
Nor quit her venerable side,
Nor feed rude mirth and giddy laughter,
18
It grieves your Poet much to see
What perils wait on Botany,
What dangers lurk in berries blue,
In berries black, or red, or yellow,
Rough or glossy, bright or sallow;
Berries of ev'ry shade and hue,
To those who taste as well as view.
Sad is the instance that's afforded,
By the first Female Botanist recorded.
Have ye not heard how Ceres' child,
Proserpina, in evil hour,
Gathering plants and flow'rets wild,
Herself a fairer flow'r,
By gloomy Dis was cropt, as poets tell,
Torn from Sicilian plains with him to dwell,
A hapless Bride, reluctant Queen of Hell.
Or have ye read that classic story,
Unmindful of the allegory?
Examine well the moral tale,
Unravel each mysterious part,
Divest it of the Muse's veil,
And bid it speak devoid of art.
Dame Ceres, once upon a time, 'tis said,
Was indispos'd and kept her bed;
Had caught, perhaps, as thought by some,
A surfeit at her harvest-home.
So, rather than bestow a fee
On any neighbouring M.D.,
She sent her daughter out to find
Cheap med'cines of the rural kind.
Less fraught with skill than filial duty,
The little botanizing beauty
Went simpling to the fields of Enna,
In quest of rhubarb, bark, or senna.
Long waited the impatient Dame,
Nor Proserpine, nor Physic came,
Nor could the tongue of comfort tell
That Proserpine was safe and well.
New pains the mother's bosom fill,
She has not leisure to be ill;
For fear has power to impart
Th' acuter sickness of the heart.
Proserpina, in evil hour,
Gathering plants and flow'rets wild,
Herself a fairer flow'r,
By gloomy Dis was cropt, as poets tell,
Torn from Sicilian plains with him to dwell,
A hapless Bride, reluctant Queen of Hell.
Or have ye read that classic story,
Unmindful of the allegory?
Examine well the moral tale,
Unravel each mysterious part,
Divest it of the Muse's veil,
And bid it speak devoid of art.
19
Was indispos'd and kept her bed;
Had caught, perhaps, as thought by some,
A surfeit at her harvest-home.
So, rather than bestow a fee
On any neighbouring M.D.,
She sent her daughter out to find
Cheap med'cines of the rural kind.
Less fraught with skill than filial duty,
The little botanizing beauty
Went simpling to the fields of Enna,
In quest of rhubarb, bark, or senna.
Long waited the impatient Dame,
Nor Proserpine, nor Physic came,
Nor could the tongue of comfort tell
That Proserpine was safe and well.
New pains the mother's bosom fill,
She has not leisure to be ill;
For fear has power to impart
Th' acuter sickness of the heart.
Binding up her aching head,
She springs all frantic from her bed,
And seeks each mossy dell or tangled grove,
Where haply Proserpine might chance to rove.
Wand'ring now by gushing fountains,
Fast flowing as her tears;
Now traversing volcanic mountains,
Less hideous than her fears;
Vainly she sought her thro' the land,
The livelong day and tedious night,
With two wax candles in her hand,
When Phœbus had withdrawn his light.
At length a stranger comes from far,
Who tells how he had seen the maid,
In grisly Pluto's ebon car,
Just entering the Stygian shade.
In our time he would have said,
“Poor little Proserpine is dead.”
The hapless parent, on the wings of love,
To high Olympus flies, and seeks redress of Jove.
If one might risk a supposition,
Said Jove was some renown'd physician.
Touch'd with the eloquence of sorrow,
He bids her call again to-morrow;
“And if,” says he, “we can discover,
And prove beyond dispute,
She has not eat of deadly fruit
The patient may recover.
Poor Ceres' hopes were soon appall'd
By the first witness that was call'd;
Ascalaphus, a surly wight,
The son of Acheron and Night,
Who did depose, he saw her feed
On the pomegranite's spicy seed.
“To his belief,” he swore by Styx,
“He saw her swallow number six:—
“Six grains at least, then died upon the spot,
“And further this deponent sayeth not.”
Sans perjury, a man may make,
Tho' upon oath, some small mistake.
This evidence, tho' not complete,
Yet went to prove the girl had eat.
She springs all frantic from her bed,
And seeks each mossy dell or tangled grove,
Where haply Proserpine might chance to rove.
Wand'ring now by gushing fountains,
Fast flowing as her tears;
Now traversing volcanic mountains,
Less hideous than her fears;
Vainly she sought her thro' the land,
The livelong day and tedious night,
20
When Phœbus had withdrawn his light.
At length a stranger comes from far,
Who tells how he had seen the maid,
In grisly Pluto's ebon car,
Just entering the Stygian shade.
In our time he would have said,
“Poor little Proserpine is dead.”
The hapless parent, on the wings of love,
To high Olympus flies, and seeks redress of Jove.
If one might risk a supposition,
Said Jove was some renown'd physician.
Touch'd with the eloquence of sorrow,
He bids her call again to-morrow;
“And if,” says he, “we can discover,
And prove beyond dispute,
She has not eat of deadly fruit
The patient may recover.
Poor Ceres' hopes were soon appall'd
By the first witness that was call'd;
Ascalaphus, a surly wight,
The son of Acheron and Night,
Who did depose, he saw her feed
On the pomegranite's spicy seed.
21
“He saw her swallow number six:—
“Six grains at least, then died upon the spot,
“And further this deponent sayeth not.”
Sans perjury, a man may make,
Tho' upon oath, some small mistake.
This evidence, tho' not complete,
Yet went to prove the girl had eat.
Ill-fated Nymph, 'twas thine, perchance, to stray
Where poisonous weeds and deadly berries grow,
These closed thine eyelids on the cheerful day,
And sent thee struggling to the shades below;
The baleful Luridœ, with wizard powers,
Haply entic'd thee to their “insane root;”
Allur'd thee to explore their specious flowers,
Or rashly taste their fatal, fatal fruit!
Datura there her purple blossoms shed,
Or sad Solanum hung his murky head;
Or fell Atropa, who presumes to claim
Of lovely woman the attractive name;
Or Daphne there her sickly visage shows,
Whose pale corolla murd'rous fruits enclose.
Alas! if these she ate,
Too certain was her fate;
For Withering—immortal sage
Whose name shall never die,
Where poisonous weeds and deadly berries grow,
These closed thine eyelids on the cheerful day,
And sent thee struggling to the shades below;
The baleful Luridœ, with wizard powers,
Haply entic'd thee to their “insane root;”
Allur'd thee to explore their specious flowers,
Or rashly taste their fatal, fatal fruit!
Datura there her purple blossoms shed,
Or sad Solanum hung his murky head;
Or fell Atropa, who presumes to claim
Of lovely woman the attractive name;
Or Daphne there her sickly visage shows,
Whose pale corolla murd'rous fruits enclose.
Alas! if these she ate,
Too certain was her fate;
For Withering—immortal sage
Whose name shall never die,
22
But wither on in his perennial page,
Still flourishing, tho' dry—
Asserts that if a wolf shall be inclin'd,
Driven by hunger's pinching pain,
To eat six berries of the Daphne kind,
He'd never eat again.
It grieves your Poet then to see
The perils that environ
This dang'rous branch of Botany,
More fatal than cold iron.
Still flourishing, tho' dry—
Asserts that if a wolf shall be inclin'd,
Driven by hunger's pinching pain,
To eat six berries of the Daphne kind,
He'd never eat again.
It grieves your Poet then to see
The perils that environ
This dang'rous branch of Botany,
More fatal than cold iron.
With harmless buds, and wholesome roots,
While Nature decks your bowers;
Why should ye taste forbidden fruits
Or touch pernicious flowers?
Such various perfume, growth and hue,
Her blooming scenes present;
The dear pursuit may still be new,
And still be innocent.
While Nature decks your bowers;
Why should ye taste forbidden fruits
Or touch pernicious flowers?
Such various perfume, growth and hue,
Her blooming scenes present;
The dear pursuit may still be new,
And still be innocent.
Or, if ye must experience pain,
To render pleasure sweet,
Nor the extreme of bliss attain,
But where their boundaries meet;
With many a safe but glorious wound
Your flowery toils may yet be crown'd;
Ere all that sting, and all that prick us,
Be numbered in your Hortus Siccus.
To render pleasure sweet,
Nor the extreme of bliss attain,
But where their boundaries meet;
With many a safe but glorious wound
Your flowery toils may yet be crown'd;
Ere all that sting, and all that prick us,
Be numbered in your Hortus Siccus.
Not that fair field
Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis
Was gather'd, which cost Ceres all that pain
To seek her through the world.
Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis
Was gather'd, which cost Ceres all that pain
To seek her through the world.
—Paradise Lost, Book iv., 268-272.
Hearing Pluto has carried her off, she entreats Jupiter to get her restored, who promises to do it, in case she has tasted no fruit in Hell.
| Memorials of Miss Catherine Maria Fanshawe | |