I am not old,—though years have castTheir shadows on my way;I am not old,—though youth has passed,On rapid wings away.For in my heart a fountain flows,And round it pleasant thoughts repose;And sympathies, and feelings high,Spring like stars on evening’s sky.Park Benjamin.
I am not old,—though years have castTheir shadows on my way;I am not old,—though youth has passed,On rapid wings away.For in my heart a fountain flows,And round it pleasant thoughts repose;And sympathies, and feelings high,Spring like stars on evening’s sky.Park Benjamin.
I am not old,—though years have castTheir shadows on my way;I am not old,—though youth has passed,On rapid wings away.For in my heart a fountain flows,And round it pleasant thoughts repose;And sympathies, and feelings high,Spring like stars on evening’s sky.
Park Benjamin.
The thrifty Thyme a home can find,Where smiles the sun, and breathes the wind.Mrs. Hale.
The thrifty Thyme a home can find,Where smiles the sun, and breathes the wind.Mrs. Hale.
The thrifty Thyme a home can find,Where smiles the sun, and breathes the wind.
Mrs. Hale.
Take the instant way;For honour travels in a strait so narrow,Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path;For emulation hath a thousand sons,That one by one pursue: if you give way,Or edge aside from the direct forthright,Like to an entered tide, they all rush by,And leave you hindmost.Shakspeare.
Take the instant way;For honour travels in a strait so narrow,Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path;For emulation hath a thousand sons,That one by one pursue: if you give way,Or edge aside from the direct forthright,Like to an entered tide, they all rush by,And leave you hindmost.Shakspeare.
Take the instant way;For honour travels in a strait so narrow,Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path;For emulation hath a thousand sons,That one by one pursue: if you give way,Or edge aside from the direct forthright,Like to an entered tide, they all rush by,And leave you hindmost.
Shakspeare.
The keen spiritSeizes the prompt occasion,—makes the thoughtStart into instant action, and at oncePlans and performs, resolves and executes.Hannah More.
The keen spiritSeizes the prompt occasion,—makes the thoughtStart into instant action, and at oncePlans and performs, resolves and executes.Hannah More.
The keen spiritSeizes the prompt occasion,—makes the thoughtStart into instant action, and at oncePlans and performs, resolves and executes.
Hannah More.
Come, I have learned, that fearful commentingIs laden servitor to dull delay;Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary.Then fiery expedition be my wing,Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king!Go, muster men: my counsel is my shield:We must be brief, when traitors brave the field.Shakspeare.
Come, I have learned, that fearful commentingIs laden servitor to dull delay;Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary.Then fiery expedition be my wing,Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king!Go, muster men: my counsel is my shield:We must be brief, when traitors brave the field.Shakspeare.
Come, I have learned, that fearful commentingIs laden servitor to dull delay;Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary.Then fiery expedition be my wing,Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king!Go, muster men: my counsel is my shield:We must be brief, when traitors brave the field.
Shakspeare.
Rouse thee! wake thy soul from sadness;Fail not in the eager strife!See around the bright earth’s gladness,—All activity and life!Peerbold.
Rouse thee! wake thy soul from sadness;Fail not in the eager strife!See around the bright earth’s gladness,—All activity and life!Peerbold.
Rouse thee! wake thy soul from sadness;Fail not in the eager strife!See around the bright earth’s gladness,—All activity and life!
Peerbold.
Wehave few flowers that contribute more to the ornamenting of large gardens than the Hollyhock, which, from its towering height and seeming love of display, is the emblem of ambition. The flowers are of all hues, from a blackish-purple to a faint white, and, though very beautiful, are without fragrance. They give gayety to the shrubbery until a late season of the year, throwing out a succession of flowers till the arrival of frost.
Yet, press on!For it shall make you mighty among men;And, from the eyrie of your eagle thought,Ye shall look down on monarchs. Oh! press on!For the high ones and powerful shall comeTo do you reverence; and the beautifulWill know the purer language of your soul,And read it like a talisman of love.Press on! for it is godlike to unlooseThe spirit, and forget yourself in thought.Willis.
Yet, press on!For it shall make you mighty among men;And, from the eyrie of your eagle thought,Ye shall look down on monarchs. Oh! press on!For the high ones and powerful shall comeTo do you reverence; and the beautifulWill know the purer language of your soul,And read it like a talisman of love.Press on! for it is godlike to unlooseThe spirit, and forget yourself in thought.Willis.
Yet, press on!For it shall make you mighty among men;And, from the eyrie of your eagle thought,Ye shall look down on monarchs. Oh! press on!For the high ones and powerful shall comeTo do you reverence; and the beautifulWill know the purer language of your soul,And read it like a talisman of love.Press on! for it is godlike to unlooseThe spirit, and forget yourself in thought.
Willis.
To the expanded and aspiring soul,To be but still the thing it long has been,Is misery, e’en though enthroned it wereUnder the cope of high imperial state.Joanna Baillie.
To the expanded and aspiring soul,To be but still the thing it long has been,Is misery, e’en though enthroned it wereUnder the cope of high imperial state.Joanna Baillie.
To the expanded and aspiring soul,To be but still the thing it long has been,Is misery, e’en though enthroned it wereUnder the cope of high imperial state.
Joanna Baillie.
Ay,—father!—I have had those earthly visionsAnd noble aspirations in my youth,To make my own the mind of other men,The enlightener of nations: and to riseI knew not whither—it might be to fall;But fall, even as the mountain cataract,Which having leapt from its more dazzling height,Even in the foaming strength of its abyss,Lies low but mighty still.—But this is past,My thoughts mistook themselves.Byron.
Ay,—father!—I have had those earthly visionsAnd noble aspirations in my youth,To make my own the mind of other men,The enlightener of nations: and to riseI knew not whither—it might be to fall;But fall, even as the mountain cataract,Which having leapt from its more dazzling height,Even in the foaming strength of its abyss,Lies low but mighty still.—But this is past,My thoughts mistook themselves.Byron.
Ay,—father!—I have had those earthly visionsAnd noble aspirations in my youth,To make my own the mind of other men,The enlightener of nations: and to riseI knew not whither—it might be to fall;But fall, even as the mountain cataract,Which having leapt from its more dazzling height,Even in the foaming strength of its abyss,Lies low but mighty still.—But this is past,My thoughts mistook themselves.
Byron.
I loved to hear the war-horn cry,And panted at the drum’s deep roll;And held my breath, when—flaming high—I saw our starry banners fly,As, challenging the haughty sky,They went like battle o’er my soul;For I was so ambitious then,I burned to be the slave—of men.John Neal.
I loved to hear the war-horn cry,And panted at the drum’s deep roll;And held my breath, when—flaming high—I saw our starry banners fly,As, challenging the haughty sky,They went like battle o’er my soul;For I was so ambitious then,I burned to be the slave—of men.John Neal.
I loved to hear the war-horn cry,And panted at the drum’s deep roll;And held my breath, when—flaming high—I saw our starry banners fly,As, challenging the haughty sky,They went like battle o’er my soul;For I was so ambitious then,I burned to be the slave—of men.
John Neal.
Know thou ambition is a restless flame,Which ever strives to reach the high-placed stars!Peerbold.
Know thou ambition is a restless flame,Which ever strives to reach the high-placed stars!Peerbold.
Know thou ambition is a restless flame,Which ever strives to reach the high-placed stars!
Peerbold.
Ambition takes a thousand shapes amongOur race of Time’s most valued toys, and yetIn court, in camp, in school, and mid the buzzOf eager trade her spirit is the same.C. Watson.
Ambition takes a thousand shapes amongOur race of Time’s most valued toys, and yetIn court, in camp, in school, and mid the buzzOf eager trade her spirit is the same.C. Watson.
Ambition takes a thousand shapes amongOur race of Time’s most valued toys, and yetIn court, in camp, in school, and mid the buzzOf eager trade her spirit is the same.
C. Watson.
Amongthe ancient Greeks and Romans, the Laurel was consecrated to every species of glory. The beautiful shrub grows abundantly at Delphi, on the banks of the river Peneus. There its aromatic and evergreen branches shoot up to the height of the loftiest trees; and it is alleged that, by means of some secret virtue, they avert lightning from the spots which they adorn.
Accordingto ancient fable, Daphne was the daughter of the river Peneus. Apollo fell in love with her, but she, preferring virtue to the love of the most eloquent of the gods, fled, in order to avoid the seducing magic of his words. Apollo pursued, and was on the point of overtaking her, when the nymph invoked her father, and was changed into a Laurel. The god, finding that he clasped an insensible tree in his arms, kissed its bright leaves. “Since thou canst not be my spouse,” said he, “thou shalt, at least, be my tree.” Thence-forward the Laurel was sacred to Apollo.
Ambition! ambition! I’ve laughed to scornThy robe and thy gleaming sword;I would follow sooner a woman’s eye,Or the spell of a gentle word.But come with the glory of human mind,And the light of the scholar’s brow,And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness,And alone at thy altar bow.Willis.
Ambition! ambition! I’ve laughed to scornThy robe and thy gleaming sword;I would follow sooner a woman’s eye,Or the spell of a gentle word.But come with the glory of human mind,And the light of the scholar’s brow,And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness,And alone at thy altar bow.Willis.
Ambition! ambition! I’ve laughed to scornThy robe and thy gleaming sword;I would follow sooner a woman’s eye,Or the spell of a gentle word.But come with the glory of human mind,And the light of the scholar’s brow,And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness,And alone at thy altar bow.
Willis.
Give me the trumpet tone of fame,The victor’s wreath, the hero’s name;Though bites the steel and clanks the chain,I would a warrior’s glory gain,A nation’s pet and idol be,With slaves to crouch and bend the knee.W. H. C.
Give me the trumpet tone of fame,The victor’s wreath, the hero’s name;Though bites the steel and clanks the chain,I would a warrior’s glory gain,A nation’s pet and idol be,With slaves to crouch and bend the knee.W. H. C.
Give me the trumpet tone of fame,The victor’s wreath, the hero’s name;Though bites the steel and clanks the chain,I would a warrior’s glory gain,A nation’s pet and idol be,With slaves to crouch and bend the knee.
W. H. C.
What is glory? What is fame?The echo of a long-lost name;A breath, an idle hour’s brief talk;The shadow of an arrant naught;A flower that blossoms for a day,Dying next morrow;A stream that hurries on its way,Singing of sorrow.Motherwell.
What is glory? What is fame?The echo of a long-lost name;A breath, an idle hour’s brief talk;The shadow of an arrant naught;A flower that blossoms for a day,Dying next morrow;A stream that hurries on its way,Singing of sorrow.Motherwell.
What is glory? What is fame?The echo of a long-lost name;A breath, an idle hour’s brief talk;The shadow of an arrant naught;A flower that blossoms for a day,Dying next morrow;A stream that hurries on its way,Singing of sorrow.
Motherwell.
In poet’s lore, and sentimental story,It seems as ’twere this life’s supremest aimFor heroes to achieve what men call glory,And die intoxicate with earth’s acclaim.Ah me! how little care the dead for breathOf vain applause that saved them not from death.MacKellar.
In poet’s lore, and sentimental story,It seems as ’twere this life’s supremest aimFor heroes to achieve what men call glory,And die intoxicate with earth’s acclaim.Ah me! how little care the dead for breathOf vain applause that saved them not from death.MacKellar.
In poet’s lore, and sentimental story,It seems as ’twere this life’s supremest aimFor heroes to achieve what men call glory,And die intoxicate with earth’s acclaim.Ah me! how little care the dead for breathOf vain applause that saved them not from death.
MacKellar.
To die, and leave some worthy work to earth,Is but a fine transition. ’Tis to leaveA talisman to call the spirit back,Reft of its ground-born tenement.C. Watson.
To die, and leave some worthy work to earth,Is but a fine transition. ’Tis to leaveA talisman to call the spirit back,Reft of its ground-born tenement.C. Watson.
To die, and leave some worthy work to earth,Is but a fine transition. ’Tis to leaveA talisman to call the spirit back,Reft of its ground-born tenement.
C. Watson.
TheAmaranth is unfading; and it has, therefore, been made the emblem of immortality. In Homer’s time, it was customary to wear crowns of Amaranth at the funerals of distinguished personages. Milton, in his Lycidas, classes it among the flowers that “sad embroidery wear.” In the floral games at Toulouse, the principal prize was a golden Amaranth for the best lyric composition. The Amaranthus hypochondriacus, one of the American species, is better known by the name of Prince’s Feather.
There’s a yearning that’s felt in your heart’s deepest cell,And silently, vainly, within doth it swell;And, scorning the hopes of the children of earth,Seeks the bright home of its heavenly birth;And that yearning, unquenched in the heart will lie,Till refreshed by a draught from eternity.Miss Larcom.
There’s a yearning that’s felt in your heart’s deepest cell,And silently, vainly, within doth it swell;And, scorning the hopes of the children of earth,Seeks the bright home of its heavenly birth;And that yearning, unquenched in the heart will lie,Till refreshed by a draught from eternity.Miss Larcom.
There’s a yearning that’s felt in your heart’s deepest cell,And silently, vainly, within doth it swell;And, scorning the hopes of the children of earth,Seeks the bright home of its heavenly birth;And that yearning, unquenched in the heart will lie,Till refreshed by a draught from eternity.
Miss Larcom.
Oh, listen man!A voice within us speaks that startling word,“Man, thou shalt never die!” Celestial voicesHymn it unto our souls: according harps,By angel fingers touched, when the mild starsOf morning sang together, sound forth stillThe song of our great immortality.Dana.
Oh, listen man!A voice within us speaks that startling word,“Man, thou shalt never die!” Celestial voicesHymn it unto our souls: according harps,By angel fingers touched, when the mild starsOf morning sang together, sound forth stillThe song of our great immortality.Dana.
Oh, listen man!A voice within us speaks that startling word,“Man, thou shalt never die!” Celestial voicesHymn it unto our souls: according harps,By angel fingers touched, when the mild starsOf morning sang together, sound forth stillThe song of our great immortality.
Dana.
Immortal Amaranth! a flower which onceIn paradise, fast by the tree of lifeBegan to bloom; but soon, for man’s offence,To heaven removed, where first it grew, there growsAnd flowers aloft, shading the tree of life.Milton.
Immortal Amaranth! a flower which onceIn paradise, fast by the tree of lifeBegan to bloom; but soon, for man’s offence,To heaven removed, where first it grew, there growsAnd flowers aloft, shading the tree of life.Milton.
Immortal Amaranth! a flower which onceIn paradise, fast by the tree of lifeBegan to bloom; but soon, for man’s offence,To heaven removed, where first it grew, there growsAnd flowers aloft, shading the tree of life.
Milton.
There are distinctions that will live in heaven,When time is a forgotten circumstance!The elevated brow of kings will loseThe impress of regalia, and the slaveWill wear his immortality as freeBeside the crystal waters; but the depthOf glory in the attributes of GodWill measure the capacities of mind;And, as the angels differ, will the kenOf gifted spirits glorify Him more.Willis.
There are distinctions that will live in heaven,When time is a forgotten circumstance!The elevated brow of kings will loseThe impress of regalia, and the slaveWill wear his immortality as freeBeside the crystal waters; but the depthOf glory in the attributes of GodWill measure the capacities of mind;And, as the angels differ, will the kenOf gifted spirits glorify Him more.Willis.
There are distinctions that will live in heaven,When time is a forgotten circumstance!The elevated brow of kings will loseThe impress of regalia, and the slaveWill wear his immortality as freeBeside the crystal waters; but the depthOf glory in the attributes of GodWill measure the capacities of mind;And, as the angels differ, will the kenOf gifted spirits glorify Him more.
Willis.
Were death annihilation—were this lifeA lamp extinguished, ne’er to be relit,—Then words of deep despondency were fit;Then man perchance might lift his arm in strifeAgainst hisLord. Were blessedness of mindDependent on the vastness of the heapOf gold and gems the schemers ’mong mankindCould gather—then ’twere virtuous to weep.But ’tis not so. Infinity of timeIs yet to be. Beyond our vision lieEternal realms, ineffably sublimeAnd beautiful.MacKellar.
Were death annihilation—were this lifeA lamp extinguished, ne’er to be relit,—Then words of deep despondency were fit;Then man perchance might lift his arm in strifeAgainst hisLord. Were blessedness of mindDependent on the vastness of the heapOf gold and gems the schemers ’mong mankindCould gather—then ’twere virtuous to weep.But ’tis not so. Infinity of timeIs yet to be. Beyond our vision lieEternal realms, ineffably sublimeAnd beautiful.MacKellar.
Were death annihilation—were this lifeA lamp extinguished, ne’er to be relit,—Then words of deep despondency were fit;Then man perchance might lift his arm in strifeAgainst hisLord. Were blessedness of mindDependent on the vastness of the heapOf gold and gems the schemers ’mong mankindCould gather—then ’twere virtuous to weep.But ’tis not so. Infinity of timeIs yet to be. Beyond our vision lieEternal realms, ineffably sublimeAnd beautiful.
MacKellar.
Aneminent French author conceived the plan of writing a general history of nature, after the model of the ancients. A Strawberry plant, which, perchance, grew under his window, deterred him from this bold design. He examined the Strawberry, and, in so doing, discovered so many wonders, that he felt convinced the study of a single plant was sufficient to occupy a whole lifetime. He therefore gave up the pompous title which he had meditated for his work, and contented himself with calling it “Studies of Nature.” The flowers of the Strawberry form pretty bouquets; but, as the delicious fruit is preferred to the flower, they are seldom plucked for that purpose. Among the glaciers of the Alps, the plants and flowers of the Strawberry are found in all seasons of the year. The plant seems to possess all the merits of plants, in their greatest perfection. The berries are the favourite accompaniment of the lordly feast and the most exquisite luxury of the rural repast. They vie in freshness and perfume with the buds of the sweetest flowers; delighting the eye, the taste, and smell, at the same time.
Let other bards of angels sing,Bright suns without a spot;But thou art no such perfect thing:Rejoice that thou art not!Wordsworth.
Let other bards of angels sing,Bright suns without a spot;But thou art no such perfect thing:Rejoice that thou art not!Wordsworth.
Let other bards of angels sing,Bright suns without a spot;But thou art no such perfect thing:Rejoice that thou art not!
Wordsworth.
She’s noble—noble, one to keepEmbalmed for dreams of fevered sleep.An eye for nature—taste refined,Perception swift—and balanced mind,—And, more than all, a gift of thoughtTo such a spirit fineness wrought,That on my ear her language fellAs if each word dissolved a spell.Willis.
She’s noble—noble, one to keepEmbalmed for dreams of fevered sleep.An eye for nature—taste refined,Perception swift—and balanced mind,—And, more than all, a gift of thoughtTo such a spirit fineness wrought,That on my ear her language fellAs if each word dissolved a spell.Willis.
She’s noble—noble, one to keepEmbalmed for dreams of fevered sleep.An eye for nature—taste refined,Perception swift—and balanced mind,—And, more than all, a gift of thoughtTo such a spirit fineness wrought,That on my ear her language fellAs if each word dissolved a spell.
Willis.
Oh! do not die, for we shall hateAll women so when you are gone,That thee I shall not celebrate,When I remember thou wast one.But yet thou canst not die, I know;To leave this world behind is death;But when thou from this world wilt go,The whole world vapours in thy breath.Donne.
Oh! do not die, for we shall hateAll women so when you are gone,That thee I shall not celebrate,When I remember thou wast one.But yet thou canst not die, I know;To leave this world behind is death;But when thou from this world wilt go,The whole world vapours in thy breath.Donne.
Oh! do not die, for we shall hateAll women so when you are gone,That thee I shall not celebrate,When I remember thou wast one.But yet thou canst not die, I know;To leave this world behind is death;But when thou from this world wilt go,The whole world vapours in thy breath.
Donne.
Were I to give my frolic fancy play,I’d sing of her as some angelic sprite,Who, wandering from her native home of light,Fatigued, had fallen asleep upon the way;—I’d fear to wake her, lest she’d plume her wingsAnd soar away from me and all sublunar things.MacKellar.
Were I to give my frolic fancy play,I’d sing of her as some angelic sprite,Who, wandering from her native home of light,Fatigued, had fallen asleep upon the way;—I’d fear to wake her, lest she’d plume her wingsAnd soar away from me and all sublunar things.MacKellar.
Were I to give my frolic fancy play,I’d sing of her as some angelic sprite,Who, wandering from her native home of light,Fatigued, had fallen asleep upon the way;—I’d fear to wake her, lest she’d plume her wingsAnd soar away from me and all sublunar things.
MacKellar.
TheSunflower has been thus named from the resemblance which its broad golden disk and rays bear to the sun. The first Spaniards who arrived in Peru were amazed at the profuse display of gold among the people, but they were still more astonished when, in May, they beheld whole fields covered with these flowers, which they concluded, at first sight, must be of the same precious metal. From this circumstance, and the observation that gold, however abundant, cannot render a person truly rich, the Sunflower has been made the emblem of false wealth. Many of the English poets have adopted the notion that this flower ever turns its face to the sun. Thomson, Moore, Darwin, and Barton make a very fine use of the idea. But it is not a fact. Those flowers which face the east at the opening of day, never turn to the west at the close of it.
Searcher of gold, whose days and nightsAll waste away in anxious care,Estranged from all of life’s delights,Unlearned in all that is most fair—Who sailest not with easy glide,But delvest in the depths of tide,And strugglest in the foam;O! come and view this land of graves,Death’s northern sea of frozen waves,And mark thee out thy home.J. O. Rockwell.
Searcher of gold, whose days and nightsAll waste away in anxious care,Estranged from all of life’s delights,Unlearned in all that is most fair—Who sailest not with easy glide,But delvest in the depths of tide,And strugglest in the foam;O! come and view this land of graves,Death’s northern sea of frozen waves,And mark thee out thy home.J. O. Rockwell.
Searcher of gold, whose days and nightsAll waste away in anxious care,Estranged from all of life’s delights,Unlearned in all that is most fair—Who sailest not with easy glide,But delvest in the depths of tide,And strugglest in the foam;O! come and view this land of graves,Death’s northern sea of frozen waves,And mark thee out thy home.
J. O. Rockwell.
Think’st thou the man whose mansions holdThe worldling’s pride, the miser’s gold,Obtains a richer prizeThan he who in his cot, at rest,Finds heavenly peace a willing guest,And bears the earnest in his breastOf treasure in the skies?Mrs. Sigourney.
Think’st thou the man whose mansions holdThe worldling’s pride, the miser’s gold,Obtains a richer prizeThan he who in his cot, at rest,Finds heavenly peace a willing guest,And bears the earnest in his breastOf treasure in the skies?Mrs. Sigourney.
Think’st thou the man whose mansions holdThe worldling’s pride, the miser’s gold,Obtains a richer prizeThan he who in his cot, at rest,Finds heavenly peace a willing guest,And bears the earnest in his breastOf treasure in the skies?
Mrs. Sigourney.
Is all that heart requires, accomplished whenA heap of wealth is gathered at our door?How thirsts the yearning soul for something more,Some good that lies beyond its keenest ken!MacKellar.
Is all that heart requires, accomplished whenA heap of wealth is gathered at our door?How thirsts the yearning soul for something more,Some good that lies beyond its keenest ken!MacKellar.
Is all that heart requires, accomplished whenA heap of wealth is gathered at our door?How thirsts the yearning soul for something more,Some good that lies beyond its keenest ken!
MacKellar.
Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine?Can we dig peace, or wisdom, from the mine?Wisdom to gold prefer: for ’tis much lessTo make our fortune, than our happiness.Young.
Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine?Can we dig peace, or wisdom, from the mine?Wisdom to gold prefer: for ’tis much lessTo make our fortune, than our happiness.Young.
Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine?Can we dig peace, or wisdom, from the mine?Wisdom to gold prefer: for ’tis much lessTo make our fortune, than our happiness.
Young.
It’s no in titles nor in rank;It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank,To purchase peace and rest;It’s no in making muckle mair:It’s no in books: it’s no in lear,To make us truly blest:If happiness hae not her seatAnd centre in the breast,We may be wise, or rich, or great,But never can be blest.Burns.
It’s no in titles nor in rank;It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank,To purchase peace and rest;It’s no in making muckle mair:It’s no in books: it’s no in lear,To make us truly blest:If happiness hae not her seatAnd centre in the breast,We may be wise, or rich, or great,But never can be blest.Burns.
It’s no in titles nor in rank;It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank,To purchase peace and rest;It’s no in making muckle mair:It’s no in books: it’s no in lear,To make us truly blest:If happiness hae not her seatAnd centre in the breast,We may be wise, or rich, or great,But never can be blest.
Burns.
TheHeliotrope is a native of Peru. It is often confounded with the Sunflower, though it is of a different genus. The blossoms of the Heliotrope form clusters of very small, delicate, fragrant flowers, generally of a faint purple colour or white, sometimes red, or bluish-white. It is a general favourite of the fair sex, and is considered as the emblem of devoted affection, on account of its face being ever turned to the sun, which it seems to worship. The Heliotrope was introduced into Europe in 1740, by the celebrated Jussieu.
As laurel leaves, that cease not to be green,From parching sonne, nor yet from winter’s threat,—As hardened oak, that fears no sworde so keen,—As flint for tool, in twaine that will not fret,—As fast as rock, or pillar surely set,—So fast am I to you, and aye have been,Assuredly whom I cannot forget;For joy, for paine, for torment, nor for tene;For loss, for gaine, for frowning, nor for threat;For ever one, yea, both in calm and blast,Your faithful love, and will be to the last!Old Poet. 1555.
As laurel leaves, that cease not to be green,From parching sonne, nor yet from winter’s threat,—As hardened oak, that fears no sworde so keen,—As flint for tool, in twaine that will not fret,—As fast as rock, or pillar surely set,—So fast am I to you, and aye have been,Assuredly whom I cannot forget;For joy, for paine, for torment, nor for tene;For loss, for gaine, for frowning, nor for threat;For ever one, yea, both in calm and blast,Your faithful love, and will be to the last!Old Poet. 1555.
As laurel leaves, that cease not to be green,From parching sonne, nor yet from winter’s threat,—As hardened oak, that fears no sworde so keen,—As flint for tool, in twaine that will not fret,—As fast as rock, or pillar surely set,—So fast am I to you, and aye have been,Assuredly whom I cannot forget;For joy, for paine, for torment, nor for tene;For loss, for gaine, for frowning, nor for threat;For ever one, yea, both in calm and blast,Your faithful love, and will be to the last!
Old Poet. 1555.
Yet do not think I doubt thee;I know thy truth remains;I would not live without thee,For all the world contains.Thou art the star that guides meAlong life’s troubled sea;—Whatever fate betides me,This heart still turns to thee.G. P. Morris.
Yet do not think I doubt thee;I know thy truth remains;I would not live without thee,For all the world contains.Thou art the star that guides meAlong life’s troubled sea;—Whatever fate betides me,This heart still turns to thee.G. P. Morris.
Yet do not think I doubt thee;I know thy truth remains;I would not live without thee,For all the world contains.Thou art the star that guides meAlong life’s troubled sea;—Whatever fate betides me,This heart still turns to thee.
G. P. Morris.
He on his sideLeaning half-raised, with looks of cordial loveHung over her enamoured, and beheldBeauty, which, whether waking or asleep,Shot forth peculiar graces.Milton.
He on his sideLeaning half-raised, with looks of cordial loveHung over her enamoured, and beheldBeauty, which, whether waking or asleep,Shot forth peculiar graces.Milton.
He on his sideLeaning half-raised, with looks of cordial loveHung over her enamoured, and beheldBeauty, which, whether waking or asleep,Shot forth peculiar graces.
Milton.
Like Ixion,I look on Juno, feel my heart turn to cindersWith an invisible fire; and yet, should sheDeign to appear clothed in a various cloud,The majesty of the substance is so sacredI durst not clasp the shadow. I behold herWith adoration, feast my eye, while allMy other senses starve; and, oft frequentingThe place which she makes happy with her presence,I never yet had power, with tongue or pen,To move her to compassion, or make knownWhat ’tis I languish for; yet I must gaze still,Though it increase my flame.Massinger.
Like Ixion,I look on Juno, feel my heart turn to cindersWith an invisible fire; and yet, should sheDeign to appear clothed in a various cloud,The majesty of the substance is so sacredI durst not clasp the shadow. I behold herWith adoration, feast my eye, while allMy other senses starve; and, oft frequentingThe place which she makes happy with her presence,I never yet had power, with tongue or pen,To move her to compassion, or make knownWhat ’tis I languish for; yet I must gaze still,Though it increase my flame.Massinger.
Like Ixion,I look on Juno, feel my heart turn to cindersWith an invisible fire; and yet, should sheDeign to appear clothed in a various cloud,The majesty of the substance is so sacredI durst not clasp the shadow. I behold herWith adoration, feast my eye, while allMy other senses starve; and, oft frequentingThe place which she makes happy with her presence,I never yet had power, with tongue or pen,To move her to compassion, or make knownWhat ’tis I languish for; yet I must gaze still,Though it increase my flame.
Massinger.
TheMignonette was introduced into Europe from Egypt, in 1750. It flowers from the beginning of spring until the end of autumn. Linnæus, who gave it the name ofReseda odorata, compares its perfume with that of ambrosia.
No gorgeous flowers the meek Reseda grace,Yet sip, with eager trunk, yon busy raceHer simple cup, nor heed the dazzling gemThat beams in Fritillaria’s diadem.Evans.
No gorgeous flowers the meek Reseda grace,Yet sip, with eager trunk, yon busy raceHer simple cup, nor heed the dazzling gemThat beams in Fritillaria’s diadem.Evans.
No gorgeous flowers the meek Reseda grace,Yet sip, with eager trunk, yon busy raceHer simple cup, nor heed the dazzling gemThat beams in Fritillaria’s diadem.
Evans.
I see her now within my view,—A spirit, yet a woman too!—Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin liberty;A countenance in which do meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature’s daily food.Wordsworth.
I see her now within my view,—A spirit, yet a woman too!—Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin liberty;A countenance in which do meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature’s daily food.Wordsworth.
I see her now within my view,—A spirit, yet a woman too!—Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin liberty;A countenance in which do meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature’s daily food.
Wordsworth.
Time has small powerO’er features the mind moulds. Roses whereThey once have bloomed a fragrance leave behind;And harmony will linger on the wind;And suns continue to light up the air,
Time has small powerO’er features the mind moulds. Roses whereThey once have bloomed a fragrance leave behind;And harmony will linger on the wind;And suns continue to light up the air,
Time has small powerO’er features the mind moulds. Roses whereThey once have bloomed a fragrance leave behind;And harmony will linger on the wind;And suns continue to light up the air,
MIGNIONETTE, PINK, PINK BUD. Your qualities surpassing your charms, have drawn from me a confession of pure love.MIGNIONETTE, PINK, PINK BUD.Your qualities surpassing your charms,have drawn from me a confession of pure love.
When set; and music from the broken shrine Breathes,it is said, around whose altar-stone His flower the votary has ceased totwine:—Types of the beauty that, when youth is gone, Breathes from thesoul whose brightness mocks decline.George Hill.
When set; and music from the broken shrine Breathes,it is said, around whose altar-stone His flower the votary has ceased totwine:—Types of the beauty that, when youth is gone, Breathes from thesoul whose brightness mocks decline.George Hill.
When set; and music from the broken shrine Breathes,it is said, around whose altar-stone His flower the votary has ceased totwine:—Types of the beauty that, when youth is gone, Breathes from thesoul whose brightness mocks decline.
George Hill.
Rudely thou wrongest my deare heart’s desire,In finding fault with her too portly pride;The thing which I do most in her admire,Is of the world unworthy most envied.For in those lofty looks is close impliedScorn of base things,—disdain of foul dishonour,Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wideThat loosely they ne dare to look upon her!Spenser.
Rudely thou wrongest my deare heart’s desire,In finding fault with her too portly pride;The thing which I do most in her admire,Is of the world unworthy most envied.For in those lofty looks is close impliedScorn of base things,—disdain of foul dishonour,Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wideThat loosely they ne dare to look upon her!Spenser.
Rudely thou wrongest my deare heart’s desire,In finding fault with her too portly pride;The thing which I do most in her admire,Is of the world unworthy most envied.For in those lofty looks is close impliedScorn of base things,—disdain of foul dishonour,Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wideThat loosely they ne dare to look upon her!
Spenser.
TheJasmine is a happy emblem of an amiable disposition. In all situations, it suffers the gardener to train its slender branches into any form he chooses: most commonly forming a living tapestry for arbours and garden walls, and everywhere throwing out a profusion of delicate and charming flowers, which perfume the air. The poets have showered their praise upon this plant, and all unite in considering it the emblem of the winsome quality of amiability. After paying a glowing tribute to the beauty and sweetness of the Violet, Thomas Miller, the “basket-maker” poet, thus speaks of the Jasmine:—
Steppingfurther into summer, comes the star-white Jasmine,—that sweet perfumer of the night, which only throws out its full fragrance when its sister stars are keeping watch in the sky; as if, when the song of the nightingale no longer cheered the darkness, it sent forth its silent aroma upon the listening air. Many a happy home does it garland, and peeps in at many a forbidden lattice, where Love and Beauty repose. Little did the proud courtiers and stately dames of Queen Elizabeth’s day dream that this sweet-scented creeper (a sprig of which seemed to make the haughty haughtier still) would one day become so common as to cluster around and embower thousands of humble English cottages,—a degradation which, could they but have witnessed, would almost have made every plait of their starched ruffs bristle up, like “quills upon the fretful porcupine.” Beautiful are its long, drooping, dark-green shoots, trailing around the trellis-work of a door-way, like a green curtain embroidered with silver flowers; while here and there the queenly Moss-Rose, creeping in and out like the threads of a fanciful tapestry, its crimson face amid the embowered green,—a beautiful lady peeping through a leaf-clad casement.
A lover on the Indian Sea,Sighing for her left far behind,Inhaled the scented Jasmine tree,As it perfumed the evening wind:Shoreward he steered at dawn of day,And saw the coast all round embowered,And brought a starry sprig away,For her by whose green cot it flowered.And oft when from that scorching shore,In after years those odours came,He pictured his green cottage door,The shady porch, and window-frame,Far, far away, across the foam:The very Jasmine-flower that creptRound the thatched roof about his home,Where she he loved then safely slept.Miller.
A lover on the Indian Sea,Sighing for her left far behind,Inhaled the scented Jasmine tree,As it perfumed the evening wind:Shoreward he steered at dawn of day,And saw the coast all round embowered,And brought a starry sprig away,For her by whose green cot it flowered.And oft when from that scorching shore,In after years those odours came,He pictured his green cottage door,The shady porch, and window-frame,Far, far away, across the foam:The very Jasmine-flower that creptRound the thatched roof about his home,Where she he loved then safely slept.Miller.
A lover on the Indian Sea,Sighing for her left far behind,Inhaled the scented Jasmine tree,As it perfumed the evening wind:Shoreward he steered at dawn of day,And saw the coast all round embowered,And brought a starry sprig away,For her by whose green cot it flowered.
And oft when from that scorching shore,In after years those odours came,He pictured his green cottage door,The shady porch, and window-frame,Far, far away, across the foam:The very Jasmine-flower that creptRound the thatched roof about his home,Where she he loved then safely slept.
Miller.
Thiselegant, climbing shrub at once delights the eye and gratifies the smell, by the exquisite fragrance of its blossoms; while it confers on those humble dwellings in the rural districts of England and America, a character of cheerfulness unknown in other countries. It begins to flower in May, and puts forth its blossoms until the end of summer. It is chosen as the emblem of affection, from its clinging to trees and lattices with all the ardour and constancy of a weak, confiding woman, clinging to one of the stronger, sterner sex, in prosperity and in adversity.
Copious of flowers, the woodbine pale and wan,But well compensating her sickly looksWith never-cloying odours, early and late.Cowper.
Copious of flowers, the woodbine pale and wan,But well compensating her sickly looksWith never-cloying odours, early and late.Cowper.
Copious of flowers, the woodbine pale and wan,But well compensating her sickly looksWith never-cloying odours, early and late.
Cowper.
Sister, sister, what dost thou twine?I am weaving a wreath of the wild Woodbine;I have streaked it without like the sunset hue,And silvered it white with the morning dew:And there is not a perfume which on the breeze blowsFrom the lips of the Pink or the mouth of the Rose,That’s sweeter than mine—that’s sweeter than mine:I have mingled them all in my wild Woodbine.Miller.
Sister, sister, what dost thou twine?I am weaving a wreath of the wild Woodbine;I have streaked it without like the sunset hue,And silvered it white with the morning dew:And there is not a perfume which on the breeze blowsFrom the lips of the Pink or the mouth of the Rose,That’s sweeter than mine—that’s sweeter than mine:I have mingled them all in my wild Woodbine.Miller.
Sister, sister, what dost thou twine?I am weaving a wreath of the wild Woodbine;I have streaked it without like the sunset hue,And silvered it white with the morning dew:And there is not a perfume which on the breeze blowsFrom the lips of the Pink or the mouth of the Rose,That’s sweeter than mine—that’s sweeter than mine:I have mingled them all in my wild Woodbine.
Miller.
A Honeysuckle, on the sunny side,Hung round the lattices its fragrant trumpets.Miss Landon.
A Honeysuckle, on the sunny side,Hung round the lattices its fragrant trumpets.Miss Landon.
A Honeysuckle, on the sunny side,Hung round the lattices its fragrant trumpets.
Miss Landon.
Ah! could you look into my heart,And watch your image there!You would own the sunny lovelinessAffection makes it wear.Mrs. Osgood.
Ah! could you look into my heart,And watch your image there!You would own the sunny lovelinessAffection makes it wear.Mrs. Osgood.
Ah! could you look into my heart,And watch your image there!You would own the sunny lovelinessAffection makes it wear.
Mrs. Osgood.
The pensive soul with ardent thirsting turnsTo heaven and earth to seek its fill of love.MacKellar.
The pensive soul with ardent thirsting turnsTo heaven and earth to seek its fill of love.MacKellar.
The pensive soul with ardent thirsting turnsTo heaven and earth to seek its fill of love.
MacKellar.
Oh! there is one affection which no stainOf earth can ever darken;—when two find,The softer and the manlier, that a chainOf kindred taste has fastened mind to mind.’Tis an attraction from all sense refined;The good can only know it; ’tis not blind,As love is unto baseness; its desireIs but with hands entwined to lift our being higher.Percival.
Oh! there is one affection which no stainOf earth can ever darken;—when two find,The softer and the manlier, that a chainOf kindred taste has fastened mind to mind.’Tis an attraction from all sense refined;The good can only know it; ’tis not blind,As love is unto baseness; its desireIs but with hands entwined to lift our being higher.Percival.
Oh! there is one affection which no stainOf earth can ever darken;—when two find,The softer and the manlier, that a chainOf kindred taste has fastened mind to mind.’Tis an attraction from all sense refined;The good can only know it; ’tis not blind,As love is unto baseness; its desireIs but with hands entwined to lift our being higher.
Percival.
Thesolitary Cowslip was known to the old English poets as the “sweet nun of the fields,” and has been immortalized in “Shakspeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.” In America, the Cowslip may be found from Maine to Missouri. Its hues are not gaudy, but winning; and the whole appearance of the flower, as it blooms in some solitary vale, or on some gentle slope, expresses the idea of pensive beauty.
The rose its blushes need not lend,Nor yet the lily with them blend,To captivate my eyes:Give me a cheek the heart obeys,And, sweetly mutable, displaysIts feelings as they rise;Features, where pensive, more than gay,Save when a rising smile doth play,The sober thoughts you see;Eyes that all soft and tender seem,And kind affections round them beam,But most of all on me.Frisbie.
The rose its blushes need not lend,Nor yet the lily with them blend,To captivate my eyes:Give me a cheek the heart obeys,And, sweetly mutable, displaysIts feelings as they rise;Features, where pensive, more than gay,Save when a rising smile doth play,The sober thoughts you see;Eyes that all soft and tender seem,And kind affections round them beam,But most of all on me.Frisbie.
The rose its blushes need not lend,Nor yet the lily with them blend,To captivate my eyes:Give me a cheek the heart obeys,And, sweetly mutable, displaysIts feelings as they rise;Features, where pensive, more than gay,Save when a rising smile doth play,The sober thoughts you see;Eyes that all soft and tender seem,And kind affections round them beam,But most of all on me.
Frisbie.
There is a mood,(I sing not to the vacant and the young,)There is a kindly mood of melancholyThat wings the soul, and points her to the skies.Dyer.
There is a mood,(I sing not to the vacant and the young,)There is a kindly mood of melancholyThat wings the soul, and points her to the skies.Dyer.
There is a mood,(I sing not to the vacant and the young,)There is a kindly mood of melancholyThat wings the soul, and points her to the skies.
Dyer.
Oh! fragrant dwellers of the lea,When first the wildwood ringsWith each sound of vernal minstrelsy,When fresh the green grass springs!What can the blessed spring restoreMore gladdening than your charms?Bringing the memory once moreOf lovely fields and farms!Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers;Of life’s unfolding prime;Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours;Of souls without a crime.Oh! blessed, blessed do ye seem,For, even now, I turned,With soul athirst for wood and stream,From streets that glared and burned.From the hot town, where mortal careHis crowded fold doth pen;Where stagnates the polluted airIn many a sultry den.And ye are here! and ye are here!Drinking the dew-like wine,Midst living gales and waters clear,And heaven’s unstinted shine.I care not that your little lifeWill quickly have run through,And the sward, with summer children rife,Keep not a trace of you.For again, again, on dewy plain,I trust to see you rise,When spring renews the wildwood strain,And bluer gleam the skies.Again, again, when many springsUpon my grave shall shine,Here shall you speak of vanished things,To living hearts of mine.Mrs. Howitt.
Oh! fragrant dwellers of the lea,When first the wildwood ringsWith each sound of vernal minstrelsy,When fresh the green grass springs!What can the blessed spring restoreMore gladdening than your charms?Bringing the memory once moreOf lovely fields and farms!Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers;Of life’s unfolding prime;Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours;Of souls without a crime.Oh! blessed, blessed do ye seem,For, even now, I turned,With soul athirst for wood and stream,From streets that glared and burned.From the hot town, where mortal careHis crowded fold doth pen;Where stagnates the polluted airIn many a sultry den.And ye are here! and ye are here!Drinking the dew-like wine,Midst living gales and waters clear,And heaven’s unstinted shine.I care not that your little lifeWill quickly have run through,And the sward, with summer children rife,Keep not a trace of you.For again, again, on dewy plain,I trust to see you rise,When spring renews the wildwood strain,And bluer gleam the skies.Again, again, when many springsUpon my grave shall shine,Here shall you speak of vanished things,To living hearts of mine.Mrs. Howitt.
Oh! fragrant dwellers of the lea,When first the wildwood ringsWith each sound of vernal minstrelsy,When fresh the green grass springs!What can the blessed spring restoreMore gladdening than your charms?Bringing the memory once moreOf lovely fields and farms!Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers;Of life’s unfolding prime;Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours;Of souls without a crime.Oh! blessed, blessed do ye seem,For, even now, I turned,With soul athirst for wood and stream,From streets that glared and burned.From the hot town, where mortal careHis crowded fold doth pen;Where stagnates the polluted airIn many a sultry den.And ye are here! and ye are here!Drinking the dew-like wine,Midst living gales and waters clear,And heaven’s unstinted shine.I care not that your little lifeWill quickly have run through,And the sward, with summer children rife,Keep not a trace of you.For again, again, on dewy plain,I trust to see you rise,When spring renews the wildwood strain,And bluer gleam the skies.Again, again, when many springsUpon my grave shall shine,Here shall you speak of vanished things,To living hearts of mine.
Mrs. Howitt.
Blest are the pure and simple hearts,Unconsciously refined,By the free gifts that Heaven impartsThrough nature to the mind;Not all the pleasures wealth can buyEqual their happy destiny.Mrs. Wells.
Blest are the pure and simple hearts,Unconsciously refined,By the free gifts that Heaven impartsThrough nature to the mind;Not all the pleasures wealth can buyEqual their happy destiny.Mrs. Wells.
Blest are the pure and simple hearts,Unconsciously refined,By the free gifts that Heaven impartsThrough nature to the mind;Not all the pleasures wealth can buyEqual their happy destiny.
Mrs. Wells.
O Nature! a’ thy shows an’ formsTo feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!Whether the simmer kindly warms,Wi’ life an’ light.Or winter howls, in gusty storms,The lang, dark night!Burns.
O Nature! a’ thy shows an’ formsTo feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!Whether the simmer kindly warms,Wi’ life an’ light.Or winter howls, in gusty storms,The lang, dark night!Burns.
O Nature! a’ thy shows an’ formsTo feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!Whether the simmer kindly warms,Wi’ life an’ light.Or winter howls, in gusty storms,The lang, dark night!
Burns.
MelancholySits on me, as a cloud along the sky,Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yetDescend in rain, and end; but spreads itself’Twixt heaven and earth, like envy between manAnd man—an everlasting mist.Byron.
MelancholySits on me, as a cloud along the sky,Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yetDescend in rain, and end; but spreads itself’Twixt heaven and earth, like envy between manAnd man—an everlasting mist.Byron.
MelancholySits on me, as a cloud along the sky,Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yetDescend in rain, and end; but spreads itself’Twixt heaven and earth, like envy between manAnd man—an everlasting mist.
Byron.
Thename of this flower expresses clearly enough the meaning which is given to it. As a remembrancer it is universally received and eulogized. The name is derived from a German tradition, full of melancholy romance. It is related that a young couple, on the eve of being united, while walking along the banks of the Danube, saw a cluster of these flowers, floating on the stream, which was bearing it away. The affianced bride admired the beauty of the flower, and lamented its fatal destiny. The lover plunged into the water to secure it. No sooner had he caught it than he found himself sinking; but, making a last effort, he threw it on the bank at the feet of his betrothed, and, at the moment of disappearing for ever, exclaimed, “Vergiss mein nicht!” Since that event, this flower has been made emblematical of the sentiment, Forget-me-not. Its corollas are of a soft cerulean-blue colour, and it presents an interesting appearance as it grows along the banks of the rivers. The Forget-me-not is found in great perfection on the banks of a small stream near Luxembourg, in France. The stream is called the Fairies’ Bath, and its banks are the favourite resort of festive parties.
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,Hope’s gentle gem—the fair Forget-me-not.Coleridge.
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,Hope’s gentle gem—the fair Forget-me-not.Coleridge.
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,Hope’s gentle gem—the fair Forget-me-not.
Coleridge.
Not on the mountain’s shelving side,Nor in the cultivated ground,Nor in the garden’s painted pride,The flower I seek is found.Where Time on sorrow’s page of gloomHas fixed its envious lot,Or swept the record from the tomb,It says Forget me not.And this is still the loveliest flower,The fairest of the fair,Of all that deck my lady’s bower,Or bind her floating hair.Göthe.
Not on the mountain’s shelving side,Nor in the cultivated ground,Nor in the garden’s painted pride,The flower I seek is found.Where Time on sorrow’s page of gloomHas fixed its envious lot,Or swept the record from the tomb,It says Forget me not.And this is still the loveliest flower,The fairest of the fair,Of all that deck my lady’s bower,Or bind her floating hair.Göthe.
Not on the mountain’s shelving side,Nor in the cultivated ground,Nor in the garden’s painted pride,The flower I seek is found.Where Time on sorrow’s page of gloomHas fixed its envious lot,Or swept the record from the tomb,It says Forget me not.And this is still the loveliest flower,The fairest of the fair,Of all that deck my lady’s bower,Or bind her floating hair.
Göthe.