Honeysuckle.
SSTOP! taste the balmy essence of this flower,That fondly twines about the dark-green fir;The air is sweet, and, like a mild-eyed saint,It liveth doing good. The balmy galeFar wafts its odours to the lowly doorOf yon small cot thatched with the dying heath,And the old dame doth bless the laden wind.I do not think that e’er a tender eyeLooked on thee but with love,—that e’er a tongueSpoke of thee but with blessings and with praise.Thy lean red shanks cling round the dusty trunk,And send their white shoots through the brown rough bark,So true, so fond and frail-like that when oneLooks on thee, his mind’s eye sees round God’s throneWhite spirits breathing hymns and fed with love.Ye sweet, sweet flowers! ye must have mutual love,For when one stalk, with its own beauty, droops,With oily leaves and breathing blossoms heavy,The others haste their sister to upraise,And, winding round it with affection’s grasp,Lift it from off the earth’s dark dreaded breast.How many nosegays have I often culledOf thee, fair guiltless thief, for even thy nameTells how thousucklestnature’shoneyedsweets,And leav’st her less wherewith to bless the rest.Thou art notverybeauteous; many flowers,With high-fringed crests and gaudy-spotted leaves,Outstrip thy homely dress; but tell me oneThat blesseth ether with more fragrant smell?’Tis ever thus. Furred robes and shining silksOft hide a poppy’s smell—a dastard mind;And homely garments oft adorn a breastThat heaves at pity’s tale and tale of wrong,And, known by none, yet is a friend to all.
SSTOP! taste the balmy essence of this flower,That fondly twines about the dark-green fir;The air is sweet, and, like a mild-eyed saint,It liveth doing good. The balmy galeFar wafts its odours to the lowly doorOf yon small cot thatched with the dying heath,And the old dame doth bless the laden wind.I do not think that e’er a tender eyeLooked on thee but with love,—that e’er a tongueSpoke of thee but with blessings and with praise.Thy lean red shanks cling round the dusty trunk,And send their white shoots through the brown rough bark,So true, so fond and frail-like that when oneLooks on thee, his mind’s eye sees round God’s throneWhite spirits breathing hymns and fed with love.Ye sweet, sweet flowers! ye must have mutual love,For when one stalk, with its own beauty, droops,With oily leaves and breathing blossoms heavy,The others haste their sister to upraise,And, winding round it with affection’s grasp,Lift it from off the earth’s dark dreaded breast.How many nosegays have I often culledOf thee, fair guiltless thief, for even thy nameTells how thousucklestnature’shoneyedsweets,And leav’st her less wherewith to bless the rest.Thou art notverybeauteous; many flowers,With high-fringed crests and gaudy-spotted leaves,Outstrip thy homely dress; but tell me oneThat blesseth ether with more fragrant smell?’Tis ever thus. Furred robes and shining silksOft hide a poppy’s smell—a dastard mind;And homely garments oft adorn a breastThat heaves at pity’s tale and tale of wrong,And, known by none, yet is a friend to all.
SSTOP! taste the balmy essence of this flower,That fondly twines about the dark-green fir;The air is sweet, and, like a mild-eyed saint,It liveth doing good. The balmy galeFar wafts its odours to the lowly doorOf yon small cot thatched with the dying heath,And the old dame doth bless the laden wind.I do not think that e’er a tender eyeLooked on thee but with love,—that e’er a tongueSpoke of thee but with blessings and with praise.Thy lean red shanks cling round the dusty trunk,And send their white shoots through the brown rough bark,So true, so fond and frail-like that when oneLooks on thee, his mind’s eye sees round God’s throneWhite spirits breathing hymns and fed with love.Ye sweet, sweet flowers! ye must have mutual love,For when one stalk, with its own beauty, droops,With oily leaves and breathing blossoms heavy,The others haste their sister to upraise,And, winding round it with affection’s grasp,Lift it from off the earth’s dark dreaded breast.How many nosegays have I often culledOf thee, fair guiltless thief, for even thy nameTells how thousucklestnature’shoneyedsweets,And leav’st her less wherewith to bless the rest.Thou art notverybeauteous; many flowers,With high-fringed crests and gaudy-spotted leaves,Outstrip thy homely dress; but tell me oneThat blesseth ether with more fragrant smell?’Tis ever thus. Furred robes and shining silksOft hide a poppy’s smell—a dastard mind;And homely garments oft adorn a breastThat heaves at pity’s tale and tale of wrong,And, known by none, yet is a friend to all.
S