VI—IN SWEDEN
It was his garden that began it all,A magical garden for a changeling child.“The garden has bewitched him!Carl! Carl! O, Carl! Now where is that elfkin hiding?”It was the voice of Christina, wife of the Pastor,Nils Linnæus, the Man of the Linden-tree.Youthful and comely, she stood at her door in the twilight,Calling her truant son.Her flaxen hairKerchiefed with crisp white wings; her rose-coloured apronAnd blue-grey gown, like a harebell, yielding a glimpseOf the shapeliest ankle and snowiest stocking in Sweden;She stood at her door, a picture breathed upon air.She called yet again, and tilted her head to listenAs a faint, flushed, wild anemone turning asideFrom a breeze out of elf-land, teasing her delicate petals,The breeze of the warm, white, green-veined wings of her wooer;And again, a little more troubled at heart, she called,“Supper-time, Carl!”But out of the fragrant pinewoodsDarkening round her, only the wood-pigeon cooed.Down by the lake, from the alders, only the red-capWhistled three notes. Then all grew quiet again.Yet, he was there, she knew, though he did not answer.The lad was at hand, she knew, though she could not see him.Her elf-child, nine years old, was about and around her,A queer little presence, invisible, everywhere, nowhere,Hiding, intensely still....She listened; the leavesAll whispered, “Hush!”It was just as though Carl had whispered,“Hush! I am watching.“Hush! I am thinking.“Hush! I am listening, too.”She tiptoed through the garden, her fair headTurning to left and right, with birdlike glances,Peeping round lichened boulders and clumps of fern.She passed by the little garden his father gave him,Elfdom within an elfdom, where he had sownNot only flowers that rightly grow in gardens,The delicate aristocracies of bloom,But hedgerow waifs and ragamuffin straysThat sprawled across his borders everywhereAnd troubled even the queendom of the roseWith swarming insurrections.At last she saw him,His tousled head a little golden cloudAmong the dark green reeds at the edge of the lake,Bending over the breathless water to watch—What?She tiptoed nearer, until she sawThe spell that bound him. Floating upon the lake,A yard away, a water-lily closedIts petals, as an elfin cygnet smoothsIts ruffled plumes, composing them for sleep.He watched it, rapt, intent.She watched her son,Intent and rapt, with a stirring at her heart,And beautiful shining wonder in her eyes,Feeling a mystery near her.Shadow-of-a-LeafWhispered. The garden died into the dark.Mother and child had gone—I knew not whither.It seemed as though the dark stream of the yearsFlowed round me.Then, as one that walks all nightLifts up his head in the early light of dawn,I found myself in a long deserted streetOf little wooden houses, with thatched roofs.It was Uppsala.Over the silent townI heard a skylark quivering, up and up,As though the very dew from its wild wingsWere shaken to silvery trills of elfin song.Tirile, tirile, tirile, it arose,Praising the Giver of one more shining day.Then, with a clatter of doors and a yodelling callOf young men’s voices, the Svartbäcken woke;And down the ringing street the students cameIn loose blue linen suits, knapsack on backAnd sturdy stick in hand, to rouse old CarlFor their long ramble through the blossoming fields.I saw them clustering round the Master’s door.I heard their jolly song—Papa Linnæus:Linnæus, Papa Linnæus,He gave his pipe a rap.He donned his gown of crimson.He donned his green fur-cap.He walked in a meadow at daybreakTo see what he might see;And the linnet cried, “Linnæus!O hide! Here comes Linnæus.Beware of old Linnæus,The Man of the Linden-tree.”So beautiful, bright and earlyHe brushed away the dews,He found the wicked wild-flowersAll courting there in twos;And buzzing loud for pardon,Sir Pandarus, the bee:“Vincit Amor, Linnæus,Linnæus, Papa Linnæus!”O, ho, quoth old Linnæus,The Man of the Linden-tree.Quoth he, ’Tis my convictionThese innocents must be wed!So he murmured a benediction,And blessed their fragrant bed;And the butterflies fanned their blushesAnd the red-cap whistled in glee,They are married by old Linnæus,Linnæus, Papa Linnæus!Vivat, vivat Linnæus,The Man of the Linden-tree.Vivat Linnæus!And out the old Master came,Jauntily as a throstle-cock in Spring,His big bright eyes aglow; the fine curved beak,The kindly lips, the broad well-sculptured brow,All looked as though the wisdom that had shaped themDesired that they should always wear a smileTo teach the world that kindness makes men happy.He shook his head at his uproarious troop,And chose his officers for the day’s campaign:One, for a marksman, with a fowling-piece,To bring down bird or beast, if need arose;One for a bugler, to recall their linesFrom echoing valley and hill, when something rareLay in the Master’s hand; one to make notesOf new discoveries; one for discipline; allFor seeking out the truth, in youth and joy.To-day they made for Jumkil, miles awayAlong the singing river, where that prizeTheSceptrum Carolinumused to grow.And, ever as they went, Linnæus touchedAll that they saw with gleams of new delight.As when the sun first rises over the seaMyriads of ripples wear a crest of fire;And over all the hills a myriad flowersLift each a cup of dew that burns like wine;And all these gleams reflect one heavenly light;He changed the world around him; filled the woodsWith rapture; made each footpath wind awayInto new depths of elfin-land. The fernsBecame its whispering fringe; and every stileA faerie bridge into a lovelier world.His magic sunlight touched the adventurous plantsThat grew on the thatch of wayside cottages,CrepisandBromus, with the straggling broodOf flowers he calledtectorum, dancing thereAbove the heads of mortals, like swart gnomesIn rusty red and gold.“My Svartbäck Latin,”Linnæus laughed, “may make the pedants writhe;But I would sooner take three slaps from PriscianThan one from Mother Nature.”Ancient booksHad made their pretty pattern of the world.They had named and labelled all their flowers by rote,Grouping them in a little man-made schemeEmpty of true significance as the wheelOf stars that Egypt turned for her dead kings.His was the very life-stream of the flowers;And everywhere in Nature he revealedTheir subtle kinships; wedded bloom and bloom;Traced the proud beauty, flaunting in her garden,To gipsy grandsires, camping in a ditch;Linked the forgotten wanderers to their clan;Grouped many-coloured clans in one great tribe;And gathered scores of scattered tribes againInto one radiant nation.He revealedMysterious clues to changes wild as thoseThat Ovid sang—the dust that rose to a stem,The stem that changed to a leaf, the crowning leafThat changed to a fruitful flower; and, under all,Sustaining, moving, binding all in one,One Power that like a Master-Dramatist,Through every act and atom of the worldAdvanced the triumph that must crown thewhole. Unseen by man—that drama—here on earthIt must be; but could man survey the whole,As even now, in flashes, he discernsIts gleaming moments, vanishing sharp-etched scenesLoaded with strange significance, he would know,Like Shadow-of-a-Leaf, that not a cloud can sailAcross a summer sky, but plays its part.There’s not a shadow drifting on the hills,Or stain of colour where the sun goes down,Or least bright flake upon the hawk-moth’s wingBut that great drama needs them.The wild thrush,The falling petal, the bubble upon the brook,Each has its cue, to sing, to fall, to shine,And exquisitely responds. The drunken beeBlundering and stumbling through a world of flowersHas his own tingling entrances, unknownTo man or to himself; and, though he livesIn his own bee-world, following his own law,He is yet the unweeting shuttle in a loomThat marries rose to rose in other worlds,And shapes the wonder of Springs he cannot see.O, little bee-like man, thou shalt not raiseThy hand, or close thine eyes, or sigh in sleep;But, over all thy freedom, there abidesThe law of this world-drama.Under the stars,Between sweet-breathing gardens in the dusk,I heard the song of the students marching home.I saw their eyes, mad nightingales of joy,Shining with youth’s eternal ecstasy.I saw them tossing vines entwined with flowersOver girls’ necks, and drawing them all along;Flags flying, French horns blowing, kettle-drums throbbing,And Carl Linnæus marching at their head.Up to the great old barn they marched for supper,—Four rounds of beef and a cask of ripened ale;And, afterwards, each with his own flower-fettered girl,They’d dance the rest of the summer night away.Greybeards had frowned upon this frolic feast;But Carl Linnæus told them “Youth’s a flower,And we’re botanic students.”Many a time,In green fur-cap and crimson dressing-gown,He sat and smoked his pipe and watched them thereOn winter nights; and when the fiddles playedHis Polish dance, Linné would shuffle it too.But now, to-night—they had tramped too many miles.The old man was tired. He left them at the door,And turned to his own house, as one who leavesMuch that he loved behind him.As he wentThey cheered their chief—“Vivat, vivat, Linnæus!”And broke into their frolic song again.I saw him in the shadowy house aloneEntering the room, above whose happy doorThe watchword of his youth and his old ageWas written in gold—Innocue vivito.Numen adest.I saw him writing thereHis last great joyous testament, to be readOnly by his own children, as he thought,After he’d gone; an ecstasy of praise,As though a bird were singing in his mind,Praise, praise, to the Giver of life and love and death!God led him with His own Almighty Hand,And made him grow up like a goodly tree.God filled his heart with such a loving fireFor truth, that truth returned him love for love.God aided him, with all that his own ageHad yet brought forth, to speed him on his way.God set him in a garden, as of old,And gave him, for his duty and delight,The task that he loved best in all the world.God gave him for his help-mate, from his youthInto old age, the wife he most desired.And blessed him with her goodness.God revealedHis secrets to him; touched his eyes with lightAnd let him gaze into His Council Hall.God so determined even his defeatsThat they became his greatest victories.God made his enemies as a wind to fillHis homeward-rushing sails. Wherever he wentThe Lord was with him, and the Lord upheld him.And yet, O yet, one glory was to come;One strangest gate into infinitudeWas yet to be swung back and take him home.I know not how the fields that gave us birthDraw us with sweetness, never to be forgottenBack through the dark.I saw him groping out,As through a mist, into a shadowy garden;And this was not Uppsala any more,But the lost garden where his boyhood reigned.The little dwindling path at Journey’s EndRan through the dark, into a path he knew.Carl! Carl! Carl! Now where is that elfkin hiding!Down by the lake, from the alders, only the red-capWhistled three notes. Then all grew quiet again.Carl! O Carl!Her voice, though he could not answer,Called him. He knew she was there, though he could not see her.He stood and listened. The leaves were listening, too.He tiptoed through the garden. His grey headTurning to left and right with birdlike glances.He passed by the little garden his father gave him.He knew its breath in the night.His heart stood still.She was there. He saw her at last. Her back was towards him.He saw her fair young head, through the deepening shadows,Bending, breathlessly, forward to watch a childAt the edge of the lake, who watched a floating flower.He watched her, rapt, intent. She watched her son,Intent and rapt.Tears in his heart, he waited, dark and still,Feeling a mystery near him.
It was his garden that began it all,A magical garden for a changeling child.“The garden has bewitched him!Carl! Carl! O, Carl! Now where is that elfkin hiding?”It was the voice of Christina, wife of the Pastor,Nils Linnæus, the Man of the Linden-tree.Youthful and comely, she stood at her door in the twilight,Calling her truant son.Her flaxen hairKerchiefed with crisp white wings; her rose-coloured apronAnd blue-grey gown, like a harebell, yielding a glimpseOf the shapeliest ankle and snowiest stocking in Sweden;She stood at her door, a picture breathed upon air.She called yet again, and tilted her head to listenAs a faint, flushed, wild anemone turning asideFrom a breeze out of elf-land, teasing her delicate petals,The breeze of the warm, white, green-veined wings of her wooer;And again, a little more troubled at heart, she called,“Supper-time, Carl!”But out of the fragrant pinewoodsDarkening round her, only the wood-pigeon cooed.Down by the lake, from the alders, only the red-capWhistled three notes. Then all grew quiet again.Yet, he was there, she knew, though he did not answer.The lad was at hand, she knew, though she could not see him.Her elf-child, nine years old, was about and around her,A queer little presence, invisible, everywhere, nowhere,Hiding, intensely still....She listened; the leavesAll whispered, “Hush!”It was just as though Carl had whispered,“Hush! I am watching.“Hush! I am thinking.“Hush! I am listening, too.”She tiptoed through the garden, her fair headTurning to left and right, with birdlike glances,Peeping round lichened boulders and clumps of fern.She passed by the little garden his father gave him,Elfdom within an elfdom, where he had sownNot only flowers that rightly grow in gardens,The delicate aristocracies of bloom,But hedgerow waifs and ragamuffin straysThat sprawled across his borders everywhereAnd troubled even the queendom of the roseWith swarming insurrections.At last she saw him,His tousled head a little golden cloudAmong the dark green reeds at the edge of the lake,Bending over the breathless water to watch—What?She tiptoed nearer, until she sawThe spell that bound him. Floating upon the lake,A yard away, a water-lily closedIts petals, as an elfin cygnet smoothsIts ruffled plumes, composing them for sleep.He watched it, rapt, intent.She watched her son,Intent and rapt, with a stirring at her heart,And beautiful shining wonder in her eyes,Feeling a mystery near her.Shadow-of-a-LeafWhispered. The garden died into the dark.Mother and child had gone—I knew not whither.It seemed as though the dark stream of the yearsFlowed round me.Then, as one that walks all nightLifts up his head in the early light of dawn,I found myself in a long deserted streetOf little wooden houses, with thatched roofs.It was Uppsala.Over the silent townI heard a skylark quivering, up and up,As though the very dew from its wild wingsWere shaken to silvery trills of elfin song.Tirile, tirile, tirile, it arose,Praising the Giver of one more shining day.Then, with a clatter of doors and a yodelling callOf young men’s voices, the Svartbäcken woke;And down the ringing street the students cameIn loose blue linen suits, knapsack on backAnd sturdy stick in hand, to rouse old CarlFor their long ramble through the blossoming fields.I saw them clustering round the Master’s door.I heard their jolly song—Papa Linnæus:Linnæus, Papa Linnæus,He gave his pipe a rap.He donned his gown of crimson.He donned his green fur-cap.He walked in a meadow at daybreakTo see what he might see;And the linnet cried, “Linnæus!O hide! Here comes Linnæus.Beware of old Linnæus,The Man of the Linden-tree.”So beautiful, bright and earlyHe brushed away the dews,He found the wicked wild-flowersAll courting there in twos;And buzzing loud for pardon,Sir Pandarus, the bee:“Vincit Amor, Linnæus,Linnæus, Papa Linnæus!”O, ho, quoth old Linnæus,The Man of the Linden-tree.Quoth he, ’Tis my convictionThese innocents must be wed!So he murmured a benediction,And blessed their fragrant bed;And the butterflies fanned their blushesAnd the red-cap whistled in glee,They are married by old Linnæus,Linnæus, Papa Linnæus!Vivat, vivat Linnæus,The Man of the Linden-tree.Vivat Linnæus!And out the old Master came,Jauntily as a throstle-cock in Spring,His big bright eyes aglow; the fine curved beak,The kindly lips, the broad well-sculptured brow,All looked as though the wisdom that had shaped themDesired that they should always wear a smileTo teach the world that kindness makes men happy.He shook his head at his uproarious troop,And chose his officers for the day’s campaign:One, for a marksman, with a fowling-piece,To bring down bird or beast, if need arose;One for a bugler, to recall their linesFrom echoing valley and hill, when something rareLay in the Master’s hand; one to make notesOf new discoveries; one for discipline; allFor seeking out the truth, in youth and joy.To-day they made for Jumkil, miles awayAlong the singing river, where that prizeTheSceptrum Carolinumused to grow.And, ever as they went, Linnæus touchedAll that they saw with gleams of new delight.As when the sun first rises over the seaMyriads of ripples wear a crest of fire;And over all the hills a myriad flowersLift each a cup of dew that burns like wine;And all these gleams reflect one heavenly light;He changed the world around him; filled the woodsWith rapture; made each footpath wind awayInto new depths of elfin-land. The fernsBecame its whispering fringe; and every stileA faerie bridge into a lovelier world.His magic sunlight touched the adventurous plantsThat grew on the thatch of wayside cottages,CrepisandBromus, with the straggling broodOf flowers he calledtectorum, dancing thereAbove the heads of mortals, like swart gnomesIn rusty red and gold.“My Svartbäck Latin,”Linnæus laughed, “may make the pedants writhe;But I would sooner take three slaps from PriscianThan one from Mother Nature.”Ancient booksHad made their pretty pattern of the world.They had named and labelled all their flowers by rote,Grouping them in a little man-made schemeEmpty of true significance as the wheelOf stars that Egypt turned for her dead kings.His was the very life-stream of the flowers;And everywhere in Nature he revealedTheir subtle kinships; wedded bloom and bloom;Traced the proud beauty, flaunting in her garden,To gipsy grandsires, camping in a ditch;Linked the forgotten wanderers to their clan;Grouped many-coloured clans in one great tribe;And gathered scores of scattered tribes againInto one radiant nation.He revealedMysterious clues to changes wild as thoseThat Ovid sang—the dust that rose to a stem,The stem that changed to a leaf, the crowning leafThat changed to a fruitful flower; and, under all,Sustaining, moving, binding all in one,One Power that like a Master-Dramatist,Through every act and atom of the worldAdvanced the triumph that must crown thewhole. Unseen by man—that drama—here on earthIt must be; but could man survey the whole,As even now, in flashes, he discernsIts gleaming moments, vanishing sharp-etched scenesLoaded with strange significance, he would know,Like Shadow-of-a-Leaf, that not a cloud can sailAcross a summer sky, but plays its part.There’s not a shadow drifting on the hills,Or stain of colour where the sun goes down,Or least bright flake upon the hawk-moth’s wingBut that great drama needs them.The wild thrush,The falling petal, the bubble upon the brook,Each has its cue, to sing, to fall, to shine,And exquisitely responds. The drunken beeBlundering and stumbling through a world of flowersHas his own tingling entrances, unknownTo man or to himself; and, though he livesIn his own bee-world, following his own law,He is yet the unweeting shuttle in a loomThat marries rose to rose in other worlds,And shapes the wonder of Springs he cannot see.O, little bee-like man, thou shalt not raiseThy hand, or close thine eyes, or sigh in sleep;But, over all thy freedom, there abidesThe law of this world-drama.Under the stars,Between sweet-breathing gardens in the dusk,I heard the song of the students marching home.I saw their eyes, mad nightingales of joy,Shining with youth’s eternal ecstasy.I saw them tossing vines entwined with flowersOver girls’ necks, and drawing them all along;Flags flying, French horns blowing, kettle-drums throbbing,And Carl Linnæus marching at their head.Up to the great old barn they marched for supper,—Four rounds of beef and a cask of ripened ale;And, afterwards, each with his own flower-fettered girl,They’d dance the rest of the summer night away.Greybeards had frowned upon this frolic feast;But Carl Linnæus told them “Youth’s a flower,And we’re botanic students.”Many a time,In green fur-cap and crimson dressing-gown,He sat and smoked his pipe and watched them thereOn winter nights; and when the fiddles playedHis Polish dance, Linné would shuffle it too.But now, to-night—they had tramped too many miles.The old man was tired. He left them at the door,And turned to his own house, as one who leavesMuch that he loved behind him.As he wentThey cheered their chief—“Vivat, vivat, Linnæus!”And broke into their frolic song again.I saw him in the shadowy house aloneEntering the room, above whose happy doorThe watchword of his youth and his old ageWas written in gold—Innocue vivito.Numen adest.I saw him writing thereHis last great joyous testament, to be readOnly by his own children, as he thought,After he’d gone; an ecstasy of praise,As though a bird were singing in his mind,Praise, praise, to the Giver of life and love and death!God led him with His own Almighty Hand,And made him grow up like a goodly tree.God filled his heart with such a loving fireFor truth, that truth returned him love for love.God aided him, with all that his own ageHad yet brought forth, to speed him on his way.God set him in a garden, as of old,And gave him, for his duty and delight,The task that he loved best in all the world.God gave him for his help-mate, from his youthInto old age, the wife he most desired.And blessed him with her goodness.God revealedHis secrets to him; touched his eyes with lightAnd let him gaze into His Council Hall.God so determined even his defeatsThat they became his greatest victories.God made his enemies as a wind to fillHis homeward-rushing sails. Wherever he wentThe Lord was with him, and the Lord upheld him.And yet, O yet, one glory was to come;One strangest gate into infinitudeWas yet to be swung back and take him home.I know not how the fields that gave us birthDraw us with sweetness, never to be forgottenBack through the dark.I saw him groping out,As through a mist, into a shadowy garden;And this was not Uppsala any more,But the lost garden where his boyhood reigned.The little dwindling path at Journey’s EndRan through the dark, into a path he knew.Carl! Carl! Carl! Now where is that elfkin hiding!Down by the lake, from the alders, only the red-capWhistled three notes. Then all grew quiet again.Carl! O Carl!Her voice, though he could not answer,Called him. He knew she was there, though he could not see her.He stood and listened. The leaves were listening, too.He tiptoed through the garden. His grey headTurning to left and right with birdlike glances.He passed by the little garden his father gave him.He knew its breath in the night.His heart stood still.She was there. He saw her at last. Her back was towards him.He saw her fair young head, through the deepening shadows,Bending, breathlessly, forward to watch a childAt the edge of the lake, who watched a floating flower.He watched her, rapt, intent. She watched her son,Intent and rapt.Tears in his heart, he waited, dark and still,Feeling a mystery near him.
It was his garden that began it all,A magical garden for a changeling child.
It was his garden that began it all,
A magical garden for a changeling child.
“The garden has bewitched him!Carl! Carl! O, Carl! Now where is that elfkin hiding?”
“The garden has bewitched him!
Carl! Carl! O, Carl! Now where is that elfkin hiding?”
It was the voice of Christina, wife of the Pastor,Nils Linnæus, the Man of the Linden-tree.Youthful and comely, she stood at her door in the twilight,Calling her truant son.Her flaxen hairKerchiefed with crisp white wings; her rose-coloured apronAnd blue-grey gown, like a harebell, yielding a glimpseOf the shapeliest ankle and snowiest stocking in Sweden;She stood at her door, a picture breathed upon air.
It was the voice of Christina, wife of the Pastor,
Nils Linnæus, the Man of the Linden-tree.
Youthful and comely, she stood at her door in the twilight,
Calling her truant son.
Her flaxen hair
Kerchiefed with crisp white wings; her rose-coloured apron
And blue-grey gown, like a harebell, yielding a glimpse
Of the shapeliest ankle and snowiest stocking in Sweden;
She stood at her door, a picture breathed upon air.
She called yet again, and tilted her head to listenAs a faint, flushed, wild anemone turning asideFrom a breeze out of elf-land, teasing her delicate petals,The breeze of the warm, white, green-veined wings of her wooer;And again, a little more troubled at heart, she called,“Supper-time, Carl!”But out of the fragrant pinewoodsDarkening round her, only the wood-pigeon cooed.Down by the lake, from the alders, only the red-capWhistled three notes. Then all grew quiet again.Yet, he was there, she knew, though he did not answer.The lad was at hand, she knew, though she could not see him.Her elf-child, nine years old, was about and around her,A queer little presence, invisible, everywhere, nowhere,Hiding, intensely still....She listened; the leavesAll whispered, “Hush!”It was just as though Carl had whispered,“Hush! I am watching.“Hush! I am thinking.“Hush! I am listening, too.”
She called yet again, and tilted her head to listen
As a faint, flushed, wild anemone turning aside
From a breeze out of elf-land, teasing her delicate petals,
The breeze of the warm, white, green-veined wings of her wooer;
And again, a little more troubled at heart, she called,
“Supper-time, Carl!”
But out of the fragrant pinewoods
Darkening round her, only the wood-pigeon cooed.
Down by the lake, from the alders, only the red-cap
Whistled three notes. Then all grew quiet again.
Yet, he was there, she knew, though he did not answer.
The lad was at hand, she knew, though she could not see him.
Her elf-child, nine years old, was about and around her,
A queer little presence, invisible, everywhere, nowhere,
Hiding, intensely still....
She listened; the leaves
All whispered, “Hush!”
It was just as though Carl had whispered,
“Hush! I am watching.
“Hush! I am thinking.
“Hush! I am listening, too.”
She tiptoed through the garden, her fair headTurning to left and right, with birdlike glances,Peeping round lichened boulders and clumps of fern.She passed by the little garden his father gave him,Elfdom within an elfdom, where he had sownNot only flowers that rightly grow in gardens,The delicate aristocracies of bloom,But hedgerow waifs and ragamuffin straysThat sprawled across his borders everywhereAnd troubled even the queendom of the roseWith swarming insurrections.At last she saw him,His tousled head a little golden cloudAmong the dark green reeds at the edge of the lake,Bending over the breathless water to watch—What?She tiptoed nearer, until she sawThe spell that bound him. Floating upon the lake,A yard away, a water-lily closedIts petals, as an elfin cygnet smoothsIts ruffled plumes, composing them for sleep.
She tiptoed through the garden, her fair head
Turning to left and right, with birdlike glances,
Peeping round lichened boulders and clumps of fern.
She passed by the little garden his father gave him,
Elfdom within an elfdom, where he had sown
Not only flowers that rightly grow in gardens,
The delicate aristocracies of bloom,
But hedgerow waifs and ragamuffin strays
That sprawled across his borders everywhere
And troubled even the queendom of the rose
With swarming insurrections.
At last she saw him,
His tousled head a little golden cloud
Among the dark green reeds at the edge of the lake,
Bending over the breathless water to watch—
What?
She tiptoed nearer, until she saw
The spell that bound him. Floating upon the lake,
A yard away, a water-lily closed
Its petals, as an elfin cygnet smooths
Its ruffled plumes, composing them for sleep.
He watched it, rapt, intent.She watched her son,Intent and rapt, with a stirring at her heart,And beautiful shining wonder in her eyes,Feeling a mystery near her.Shadow-of-a-LeafWhispered. The garden died into the dark.Mother and child had gone—I knew not whither.It seemed as though the dark stream of the yearsFlowed round me.Then, as one that walks all nightLifts up his head in the early light of dawn,I found myself in a long deserted streetOf little wooden houses, with thatched roofs.It was Uppsala.Over the silent townI heard a skylark quivering, up and up,As though the very dew from its wild wingsWere shaken to silvery trills of elfin song.Tirile, tirile, tirile, it arose,Praising the Giver of one more shining day.
He watched it, rapt, intent.
She watched her son,
Intent and rapt, with a stirring at her heart,
And beautiful shining wonder in her eyes,
Feeling a mystery near her.
Shadow-of-a-Leaf
Whispered. The garden died into the dark.
Mother and child had gone—I knew not whither.
It seemed as though the dark stream of the years
Flowed round me.
Then, as one that walks all night
Lifts up his head in the early light of dawn,
I found myself in a long deserted street
Of little wooden houses, with thatched roofs.
It was Uppsala.
Over the silent town
I heard a skylark quivering, up and up,
As though the very dew from its wild wings
Were shaken to silvery trills of elfin song.
Tirile, tirile, tirile, it arose,
Praising the Giver of one more shining day.
Then, with a clatter of doors and a yodelling callOf young men’s voices, the Svartbäcken woke;And down the ringing street the students cameIn loose blue linen suits, knapsack on backAnd sturdy stick in hand, to rouse old CarlFor their long ramble through the blossoming fields.I saw them clustering round the Master’s door.I heard their jolly song—Papa Linnæus:
Then, with a clatter of doors and a yodelling call
Of young men’s voices, the Svartbäcken woke;
And down the ringing street the students came
In loose blue linen suits, knapsack on back
And sturdy stick in hand, to rouse old Carl
For their long ramble through the blossoming fields.
I saw them clustering round the Master’s door.
I heard their jolly song—Papa Linnæus:
Linnæus, Papa Linnæus,He gave his pipe a rap.He donned his gown of crimson.He donned his green fur-cap.He walked in a meadow at daybreakTo see what he might see;And the linnet cried, “Linnæus!O hide! Here comes Linnæus.Beware of old Linnæus,The Man of the Linden-tree.”
Linnæus, Papa Linnæus,
He gave his pipe a rap.
He donned his gown of crimson.
He donned his green fur-cap.
He walked in a meadow at daybreak
To see what he might see;
And the linnet cried, “Linnæus!
O hide! Here comes Linnæus.
Beware of old Linnæus,
The Man of the Linden-tree.”
So beautiful, bright and earlyHe brushed away the dews,He found the wicked wild-flowersAll courting there in twos;And buzzing loud for pardon,Sir Pandarus, the bee:“Vincit Amor, Linnæus,Linnæus, Papa Linnæus!”O, ho, quoth old Linnæus,The Man of the Linden-tree.
So beautiful, bright and early
He brushed away the dews,
He found the wicked wild-flowers
All courting there in twos;
And buzzing loud for pardon,
Sir Pandarus, the bee:
“Vincit Amor, Linnæus,
Linnæus, Papa Linnæus!”
O, ho, quoth old Linnæus,
The Man of the Linden-tree.
Quoth he, ’Tis my convictionThese innocents must be wed!So he murmured a benediction,And blessed their fragrant bed;And the butterflies fanned their blushesAnd the red-cap whistled in glee,They are married by old Linnæus,Linnæus, Papa Linnæus!Vivat, vivat Linnæus,The Man of the Linden-tree.
Quoth he, ’Tis my conviction
These innocents must be wed!
So he murmured a benediction,
And blessed their fragrant bed;
And the butterflies fanned their blushes
And the red-cap whistled in glee,
They are married by old Linnæus,
Linnæus, Papa Linnæus!
Vivat, vivat Linnæus,
The Man of the Linden-tree.
Vivat Linnæus!And out the old Master came,Jauntily as a throstle-cock in Spring,His big bright eyes aglow; the fine curved beak,The kindly lips, the broad well-sculptured brow,All looked as though the wisdom that had shaped themDesired that they should always wear a smileTo teach the world that kindness makes men happy.He shook his head at his uproarious troop,And chose his officers for the day’s campaign:One, for a marksman, with a fowling-piece,To bring down bird or beast, if need arose;One for a bugler, to recall their linesFrom echoing valley and hill, when something rareLay in the Master’s hand; one to make notesOf new discoveries; one for discipline; allFor seeking out the truth, in youth and joy.To-day they made for Jumkil, miles awayAlong the singing river, where that prizeTheSceptrum Carolinumused to grow.And, ever as they went, Linnæus touchedAll that they saw with gleams of new delight.As when the sun first rises over the seaMyriads of ripples wear a crest of fire;And over all the hills a myriad flowersLift each a cup of dew that burns like wine;And all these gleams reflect one heavenly light;He changed the world around him; filled the woodsWith rapture; made each footpath wind awayInto new depths of elfin-land. The fernsBecame its whispering fringe; and every stileA faerie bridge into a lovelier world.His magic sunlight touched the adventurous plantsThat grew on the thatch of wayside cottages,CrepisandBromus, with the straggling broodOf flowers he calledtectorum, dancing thereAbove the heads of mortals, like swart gnomesIn rusty red and gold.“My Svartbäck Latin,”Linnæus laughed, “may make the pedants writhe;But I would sooner take three slaps from PriscianThan one from Mother Nature.”Ancient booksHad made their pretty pattern of the world.They had named and labelled all their flowers by rote,Grouping them in a little man-made schemeEmpty of true significance as the wheelOf stars that Egypt turned for her dead kings.His was the very life-stream of the flowers;And everywhere in Nature he revealedTheir subtle kinships; wedded bloom and bloom;Traced the proud beauty, flaunting in her garden,To gipsy grandsires, camping in a ditch;Linked the forgotten wanderers to their clan;Grouped many-coloured clans in one great tribe;And gathered scores of scattered tribes againInto one radiant nation.He revealedMysterious clues to changes wild as thoseThat Ovid sang—the dust that rose to a stem,The stem that changed to a leaf, the crowning leafThat changed to a fruitful flower; and, under all,Sustaining, moving, binding all in one,One Power that like a Master-Dramatist,Through every act and atom of the worldAdvanced the triumph that must crown thewhole. Unseen by man—that drama—here on earthIt must be; but could man survey the whole,As even now, in flashes, he discernsIts gleaming moments, vanishing sharp-etched scenesLoaded with strange significance, he would know,Like Shadow-of-a-Leaf, that not a cloud can sailAcross a summer sky, but plays its part.There’s not a shadow drifting on the hills,Or stain of colour where the sun goes down,Or least bright flake upon the hawk-moth’s wingBut that great drama needs them.The wild thrush,The falling petal, the bubble upon the brook,Each has its cue, to sing, to fall, to shine,And exquisitely responds. The drunken beeBlundering and stumbling through a world of flowersHas his own tingling entrances, unknownTo man or to himself; and, though he livesIn his own bee-world, following his own law,He is yet the unweeting shuttle in a loomThat marries rose to rose in other worlds,And shapes the wonder of Springs he cannot see.O, little bee-like man, thou shalt not raiseThy hand, or close thine eyes, or sigh in sleep;But, over all thy freedom, there abidesThe law of this world-drama.Under the stars,Between sweet-breathing gardens in the dusk,I heard the song of the students marching home.I saw their eyes, mad nightingales of joy,Shining with youth’s eternal ecstasy.I saw them tossing vines entwined with flowersOver girls’ necks, and drawing them all along;Flags flying, French horns blowing, kettle-drums throbbing,And Carl Linnæus marching at their head.Up to the great old barn they marched for supper,—Four rounds of beef and a cask of ripened ale;And, afterwards, each with his own flower-fettered girl,They’d dance the rest of the summer night away.
Vivat Linnæus!And out the old Master came,
Jauntily as a throstle-cock in Spring,
His big bright eyes aglow; the fine curved beak,
The kindly lips, the broad well-sculptured brow,
All looked as though the wisdom that had shaped them
Desired that they should always wear a smile
To teach the world that kindness makes men happy.
He shook his head at his uproarious troop,
And chose his officers for the day’s campaign:
One, for a marksman, with a fowling-piece,
To bring down bird or beast, if need arose;
One for a bugler, to recall their lines
From echoing valley and hill, when something rare
Lay in the Master’s hand; one to make notes
Of new discoveries; one for discipline; all
For seeking out the truth, in youth and joy.
To-day they made for Jumkil, miles away
Along the singing river, where that prize
TheSceptrum Carolinumused to grow.
And, ever as they went, Linnæus touched
All that they saw with gleams of new delight.
As when the sun first rises over the sea
Myriads of ripples wear a crest of fire;
And over all the hills a myriad flowers
Lift each a cup of dew that burns like wine;
And all these gleams reflect one heavenly light;
He changed the world around him; filled the woods
With rapture; made each footpath wind away
Into new depths of elfin-land. The ferns
Became its whispering fringe; and every stile
A faerie bridge into a lovelier world.
His magic sunlight touched the adventurous plants
That grew on the thatch of wayside cottages,
CrepisandBromus, with the straggling brood
Of flowers he calledtectorum, dancing there
Above the heads of mortals, like swart gnomes
In rusty red and gold.
“My Svartbäck Latin,”
Linnæus laughed, “may make the pedants writhe;
But I would sooner take three slaps from Priscian
Than one from Mother Nature.”
Ancient books
Had made their pretty pattern of the world.
They had named and labelled all their flowers by rote,
Grouping them in a little man-made scheme
Empty of true significance as the wheel
Of stars that Egypt turned for her dead kings.
His was the very life-stream of the flowers;
And everywhere in Nature he revealed
Their subtle kinships; wedded bloom and bloom;
Traced the proud beauty, flaunting in her garden,
To gipsy grandsires, camping in a ditch;
Linked the forgotten wanderers to their clan;
Grouped many-coloured clans in one great tribe;
And gathered scores of scattered tribes again
Into one radiant nation.
He revealed
Mysterious clues to changes wild as those
That Ovid sang—the dust that rose to a stem,
The stem that changed to a leaf, the crowning leaf
That changed to a fruitful flower; and, under all,
Sustaining, moving, binding all in one,
One Power that like a Master-Dramatist,
Through every act and atom of the world
Advanced the triumph that must crown the
whole. Unseen by man—that drama—here on earth
It must be; but could man survey the whole,
As even now, in flashes, he discerns
Its gleaming moments, vanishing sharp-etched scenes
Loaded with strange significance, he would know,
Like Shadow-of-a-Leaf, that not a cloud can sail
Across a summer sky, but plays its part.
There’s not a shadow drifting on the hills,
Or stain of colour where the sun goes down,
Or least bright flake upon the hawk-moth’s wing
But that great drama needs them.
The wild thrush,
The falling petal, the bubble upon the brook,
Each has its cue, to sing, to fall, to shine,
And exquisitely responds. The drunken bee
Blundering and stumbling through a world of flowers
Has his own tingling entrances, unknown
To man or to himself; and, though he lives
In his own bee-world, following his own law,
He is yet the unweeting shuttle in a loom
That marries rose to rose in other worlds,
And shapes the wonder of Springs he cannot see.
O, little bee-like man, thou shalt not raise
Thy hand, or close thine eyes, or sigh in sleep;
But, over all thy freedom, there abides
The law of this world-drama.
Under the stars,
Between sweet-breathing gardens in the dusk,
I heard the song of the students marching home.
I saw their eyes, mad nightingales of joy,
Shining with youth’s eternal ecstasy.
I saw them tossing vines entwined with flowers
Over girls’ necks, and drawing them all along;
Flags flying, French horns blowing, kettle-drums throbbing,
And Carl Linnæus marching at their head.
Up to the great old barn they marched for supper,—
Four rounds of beef and a cask of ripened ale;
And, afterwards, each with his own flower-fettered girl,
They’d dance the rest of the summer night away.
Greybeards had frowned upon this frolic feast;But Carl Linnæus told them “Youth’s a flower,And we’re botanic students.”Many a time,In green fur-cap and crimson dressing-gown,He sat and smoked his pipe and watched them thereOn winter nights; and when the fiddles playedHis Polish dance, Linné would shuffle it too.But now, to-night—they had tramped too many miles.The old man was tired. He left them at the door,And turned to his own house, as one who leavesMuch that he loved behind him.As he wentThey cheered their chief—“Vivat, vivat, Linnæus!”And broke into their frolic song again.
Greybeards had frowned upon this frolic feast;
But Carl Linnæus told them “Youth’s a flower,
And we’re botanic students.”
Many a time,
In green fur-cap and crimson dressing-gown,
He sat and smoked his pipe and watched them there
On winter nights; and when the fiddles played
His Polish dance, Linné would shuffle it too.
But now, to-night—they had tramped too many miles.
The old man was tired. He left them at the door,
And turned to his own house, as one who leaves
Much that he loved behind him.
As he went
They cheered their chief—“Vivat, vivat, Linnæus!”
And broke into their frolic song again.
I saw him in the shadowy house aloneEntering the room, above whose happy doorThe watchword of his youth and his old ageWas written in gold—Innocue vivito.Numen adest.I saw him writing thereHis last great joyous testament, to be readOnly by his own children, as he thought,After he’d gone; an ecstasy of praise,As though a bird were singing in his mind,Praise, praise, to the Giver of life and love and death!
I saw him in the shadowy house alone
Entering the room, above whose happy door
The watchword of his youth and his old age
Was written in gold—Innocue vivito.
Numen adest.
I saw him writing there
His last great joyous testament, to be read
Only by his own children, as he thought,
After he’d gone; an ecstasy of praise,
As though a bird were singing in his mind,
Praise, praise, to the Giver of life and love and death!
God led him with His own Almighty Hand,And made him grow up like a goodly tree.God filled his heart with such a loving fireFor truth, that truth returned him love for love.God aided him, with all that his own ageHad yet brought forth, to speed him on his way.God set him in a garden, as of old,And gave him, for his duty and delight,The task that he loved best in all the world.God gave him for his help-mate, from his youthInto old age, the wife he most desired.And blessed him with her goodness.God revealedHis secrets to him; touched his eyes with lightAnd let him gaze into His Council Hall.God so determined even his defeatsThat they became his greatest victories.God made his enemies as a wind to fillHis homeward-rushing sails. Wherever he wentThe Lord was with him, and the Lord upheld him.And yet, O yet, one glory was to come;One strangest gate into infinitudeWas yet to be swung back and take him home.I know not how the fields that gave us birthDraw us with sweetness, never to be forgottenBack through the dark.I saw him groping out,As through a mist, into a shadowy garden;And this was not Uppsala any more,But the lost garden where his boyhood reigned.The little dwindling path at Journey’s EndRan through the dark, into a path he knew.
God led him with His own Almighty Hand,
And made him grow up like a goodly tree.
God filled his heart with such a loving fire
For truth, that truth returned him love for love.
God aided him, with all that his own age
Had yet brought forth, to speed him on his way.
God set him in a garden, as of old,
And gave him, for his duty and delight,
The task that he loved best in all the world.
God gave him for his help-mate, from his youth
Into old age, the wife he most desired.
And blessed him with her goodness.
God revealed
His secrets to him; touched his eyes with light
And let him gaze into His Council Hall.
God so determined even his defeats
That they became his greatest victories.
God made his enemies as a wind to fill
His homeward-rushing sails. Wherever he went
The Lord was with him, and the Lord upheld him.
And yet, O yet, one glory was to come;
One strangest gate into infinitude
Was yet to be swung back and take him home.
I know not how the fields that gave us birth
Draw us with sweetness, never to be forgotten
Back through the dark.
I saw him groping out,
As through a mist, into a shadowy garden;
And this was not Uppsala any more,
But the lost garden where his boyhood reigned.
The little dwindling path at Journey’s End
Ran through the dark, into a path he knew.
Carl! Carl! Carl! Now where is that elfkin hiding!Down by the lake, from the alders, only the red-capWhistled three notes. Then all grew quiet again.
Carl! Carl! Carl! Now where is that elfkin hiding!
Down by the lake, from the alders, only the red-cap
Whistled three notes. Then all grew quiet again.
Carl! O Carl!Her voice, though he could not answer,Called him. He knew she was there, though he could not see her.He stood and listened. The leaves were listening, too.
Carl! O Carl!Her voice, though he could not answer,
Called him. He knew she was there, though he could not see her.
He stood and listened. The leaves were listening, too.
He tiptoed through the garden. His grey headTurning to left and right with birdlike glances.He passed by the little garden his father gave him.He knew its breath in the night.His heart stood still.She was there. He saw her at last. Her back was towards him.He saw her fair young head, through the deepening shadows,Bending, breathlessly, forward to watch a childAt the edge of the lake, who watched a floating flower.He watched her, rapt, intent. She watched her son,Intent and rapt.Tears in his heart, he waited, dark and still,Feeling a mystery near him.
He tiptoed through the garden. His grey head
Turning to left and right with birdlike glances.
He passed by the little garden his father gave him.
He knew its breath in the night.
His heart stood still.
She was there. He saw her at last. Her back was towards him.
He saw her fair young head, through the deepening shadows,
Bending, breathlessly, forward to watch a child
At the edge of the lake, who watched a floating flower.
He watched her, rapt, intent. She watched her son,
Intent and rapt.
Tears in his heart, he waited, dark and still,
Feeling a mystery near him.