Valerian....An accommodating Disposition.

Art became the shadowOf the dear star-light of thy haunting eyes!They called me vain, some mad—I heeded not,But still toiled on, hoped on, for it was surest,If not to win, to feel more worthy thee.Bulwer.

Art became the shadowOf the dear star-light of thy haunting eyes!They called me vain, some mad—I heeded not,But still toiled on, hoped on, for it was surest,If not to win, to feel more worthy thee.

Bulwer.

TheValerian was called by some of the old English writers the Setewale. It is generally found growing by ruined walls or buildings, and from the facility with which it propagates in these situations, it is made the emblem of an accommodating disposition. The root of the Valerian is considered a valuable remedy for many of those ailments which spring from luxurious living. It exerts a peculiar influence on the nervous system, revives the spirits, and strengthens the sight. The Valerian is too large and scrambling a plant to hold a place in the parterre of choice flowers.

How much more happy is that sweet estate,That neither creeps too low nor soars too high;Which yields no matter for contempt or hate,Which others not disdain, nor yet envy,Which neither does nor takes an injury,But living to itself in sweet content,Is neither abject, nor yet insolent.1629. Herbert.

1629. Herbert.

My country, sir, is not a single spotOf such a mould, or fixed to such a clime.Miller.

My country, sir, is not a single spotOf such a mould, or fixed to such a clime.

Miller.

TheMarvel is a native of Peru, and receives its name from the wonderful diversity of colours in flowers of the same root;

Changing from the splendid roseTo the pale violet’s dejected hue.Akenside.

Changing from the splendid roseTo the pale violet’s dejected hue.

Akenside.

Thisplant retains its beauty for a great length of time, being frequently covered with blossoms from the beginning of July to the end of October. It is chosen as the emblem of timidity, because the flowers are too timid to expand during the day, and open and give out their fragrance at night.

Sure, ’twas his modesty. He might have thrivenMuch better possibly, had his ambitionBeen greater much. They ofttimes take more painsWho look for pins, than those who find out stars.John Fountain.

Sure, ’twas his modesty. He might have thrivenMuch better possibly, had his ambitionBeen greater much. They ofttimes take more painsWho look for pins, than those who find out stars.

John Fountain.

I pity bashful men, who feel the painOf fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,And bear the marks upon a blushing faceOf needless shame and self-imposed disgrace.Cowper.

I pity bashful men, who feel the painOf fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,And bear the marks upon a blushing faceOf needless shame and self-imposed disgrace.

Cowper.

“Call back your odours, lonely flowers,From the night-wind call them back;And fold your leaves till the laughing hoursCome forth in the sunbeam’s track.The lark lies couched in her grassy nest,And the honey-bee is gone;And all bright things are away to rest—Why watch ye here alone?”Nay, let our shadowy beauty bloom,When the stars give quiet light;And let us offer our faint perfumeOn the silent shrine of night.Call it not wasted the scent we lendTo the breeze when no step is nigh;Oh! thus for ever the earth should sendHer grateful breath on high!And love us as emblems, night’s dewy flowers,Of hopes unto sorrows given,That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours,Looking alone to Heaven.Mrs. Hemans.

Mrs. Hemans.

That modest grace subdued my soul,That chastity of look which seems to hangA veil of purest light o’er all her beauties,And by forbidding most inflames desire.Young.

That modest grace subdued my soul,That chastity of look which seems to hangA veil of purest light o’er all her beauties,And by forbidding most inflames desire.

Young.

He saw her charming, but he saw not halfThe charms her downcast modesty concealed.Thomson.

He saw her charming, but he saw not halfThe charms her downcast modesty concealed.

Thomson.

ROSE BUD, YELLOW LILY, LILAC I confess Your majestic beauty Has awakened my first emotions of love.ROSE BUD, YELLOW LILY, LILACI confess Your majestic beautyHas awakened my first emotions of love.

TheStock has been made the emblem of lasting beauty; because, though it is less graceful than the rose, and less majestic than the lily, its splendour is more durable, and its fragrance of longer continuance. Few flowering plants have been so much and so rapidly improved by cultivation as the Stock. Within the last two centuries, its nature has been almost entirely changed by the florist; and it is now a shrub whose branches are covered with blossoms little inferior in dimensions to the rose. Stocks are produced of various colours, but the bright red or carmine must ever remain the favourite variety. The principal branches of this fragrant family are the Ten-week Stock, so named from flowering about ten weeks after it is sown; and the Brompton, which does not bloom till about twelve months after sowing, and was first cultivated in the neighbourhood of Brompton, England.

Without the smile from partial beauty won,Oh, what were man!—a world without a sun!Campbell.

Without the smile from partial beauty won,Oh, what were man!—a world without a sun!

Campbell.

Beauty has gone; but yet her mind is stillAs beautiful as ever; still the playOf light around her lips has every charmOf childhood in its freshness.Percival.

Beauty has gone; but yet her mind is stillAs beautiful as ever; still the playOf light around her lips has every charmOf childhood in its freshness.

Percival.

The lily may die on thy cheek,With freshness no longer adorning;The rose that envelopes its whiteness may seekTo take back her mantle of morning;Yet still will Love’s tenderness beam from thine eye,And ask for that homage no heart can deny.Dawes.

Dawes.

The glory of the human formIs but a perishing thing, and Love will droopWhen its brief grace hath faded. But the mindPerisheth not, and when the outward charmHath had its brief existence, it awakes,And is the lovelier that it slept so long.Willis.

Willis.

Beauty liesAs naturally upon his cheek as bloomUpon a peach. Like morning vapour, fliesBefore his smile my mind’s infrequent gloom.We tremble when we think that many a stormMay beat upon him in the time to come,—That his now beautiful and fragile formMay bear a burden sore and wearisome.Yet, so the stain of guiltiness and shameBe never placed upon his soul and name,—So he preserve his virtue though he die,—And to hisGod, his race, his country proveA faithful man, whom praise nor gold can buy,Nor threats of vile, designing men can move,—We ask no more.MacKellar.

MacKellar.

Thereare many varieties of the Geranium, distinguished by the shape and hue of the flowers and leaves, and the difference in their fragrance. The Scarlet Geranium is a very beautiful flower, but its scent is disagreeable. The following anecdote will give the reason of its being chosen as the emblem of stupidity. Madame de Staël was always angry when any of her acquaintance attempted to introduce a stupid person into her company. One day, one of her friends ventured to bring to her a young Swiss officer of most prepossessing exterior. The lady, pleased with his appearance, was very lively, and said a thousand flattering things to the new-comer, who seemed at first to be struck mute by surprise and admiration. When, however, he had listened to her for above an hour without opening his lips, she began to suspect the cause of his silence, and put to him such direct questions that he could not help answering. His answers were extremely silly! Madame de Staël, vexed at having thrown away her time and her wit, turned to her friend and said: “Indeed, sir, you are like my gardener, who thought to do me a pleasure by bringing me this morning a pot of Geranium: but I can tell you that I made him take back the flower, desiring him not to let me see it any more.” “And why so?” asked the young man in astonishment. “It was, since you wish to know, because the Geranium is a beautiful scarlet flower; whileyou look at it, it pleases the eye; but when you press it ever so slightly, it gives out a disagreeable smell.” So saying, Madame de Staël rose and went out of the room, leaving the young fool abashed and in confusion.

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool;And to do that well, craves a kind of wit.Shakspeare.

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool;And to do that well, craves a kind of wit.

Shakspeare.

Your blunderer is as sturdy as a rock,The creature is so sure to kick and bite,A muleteer’s the man to set him right.First appetite enlists him truth’s sworn foe,Then obstinate self-will confirms him so.Tell him he wanders; that his error leadsTo fatal ill; that though the path he treadsBe flowery, and he see no cause of fear,Death and the pains of hell attend him there.In vain the slave of arrogance and pride,He has no hearing on the prudent side.His still refuted quirks he still repeats;New raised objections with new quibbles meets;Till sinking in the quicksand he defends,He dies disputing, and the contest ends.Cowper.

Cowper.

A set o’ dull conceited hashes,Confuse their brains in college classes!They gang in stirks, and come out asses,Plain truth to speak;An’ syne they think to climb ParnassusBy dint o’ Greek.Gie me a spark o’ Nature’s fire,That’s a’ the learning I desire;Then tho’ I drudge thro’ dub an’ mireAt pleugh or cart,My muse, tho’ hamely in attire,May touch the heart.Burns.

Burns.

The man who looks around him as he walksSees objects often wonderful and new;And he who thinks while his companion talksIn time may grow the wiser of the two.An open eye—a quick, attentive earWill lead the mind into the ways of knowledge;For all the world’s a universal college,And every one may be a learner here.Experience is the teacher: dear, indeed,Her charges are to thoughtless folks and fools;But those who follow carefully her rulesThe various tongues of nature learn to read.Who seldom ploughs his mind shall reap but little;Weeds quickly overspread the fallow soil;The toiler may be wearied by his toil,But it shall yield sufficiency of victual,Enough for his own use, and much to spare.To him who hath, abundance shall be given;From him who squanders wastefully his share,All that he has shall righteously be riven:The world shall make a proverb of his name,And he shall fill a sepulchre of shame.MacKellar.

MacKellar.

TheOak Geranium does not present so beautiful an appearance as the scarlet variety; but the pale blue colour of the flower, and the length of time which it continues in bloom, endear it to us as the emblem of true friendship.

What though on Love’s altar the flame that is glowingIs brighter?—yet Friendship’s is steadier far!One wavers and turns with each breeze that is blowing,And is but a meteor,—the other’s a star!In youth Love’s lightBurns warm and bright,But dies ere the winter of age be past,—While Friendship’s flameBurns ever the same,And glows but the brighter, the nearer its last!Anon.

Anon.

Thanks to my stars, I have not ranged aboutThe wilds of life, ere I could find a friend:Nature first pointed out my brother to me,And early taught me, by her sacred force,To love thy person, ere I knew thy merit,Till what was instinct grew up into friendship.Ours has severest virtue for its basis,And such a friendship ends not but with life.Addison.

Addison.

O! Friendship! in thy constant ray,My heart is cheered and cannot sink,Though gloom and storm around me playAnd I am pressed to death’s cold brink!Peerbold.

O! Friendship! in thy constant ray,My heart is cheered and cannot sink,Though gloom and storm around me playAnd I am pressed to death’s cold brink!

Peerbold.

The friendWho smiles when smoothing down the lonely couch,And does kind deeds, which any one can doWho has a feeling spirit,—such a friendHeals with a searching balsam.Percival.

The friendWho smiles when smoothing down the lonely couch,And does kind deeds, which any one can doWho has a feeling spirit,—such a friendHeals with a searching balsam.

Percival.

Delightful is an evening’s cheerful chatWith pleasant friends, especially to oneWho has been long away. The minutes runWith speed that all the talkers marvel at.So much to talk about—so much to tell—So many sleeping memories to awaken—The various fates that absent friends befell—Whom time has spared, and whom the grave has taken;The tear to shed for those who’ve passed away—The sigh to breathe for those who’ve gone astray—Our times of darkness, and our days of light—Our purposes and plans for coming years—Our heavenly hopes, our earthly human fears—And lo! ’tis time to say, “Good-night, dear friends, good-night!”MacKellar.

MacKellar.

Thesuperb Tuberose is a native of the East Indies and South America, and was introduced into Europe in 1632. It has since spread all over the world. The flower is of a white colour, sometimes tinged with a blush of pink. Its perfume is delicious and powerful; but if you would enjoy it without danger, keep at some distance from the plant. If you come with the object of your affection to inhale its perfume by moonlight, when the nightingale is pouring forth its ravishing melody, these odours will add an inexpressible charm to your enjoyment; but, if, regardless of the precepts of moderation, you approach too near, this divine flower will then be but an enchantress who will pour a dangerous poison into your bosom. Thus the love which comes from above purifies and exalts; but that which springs from earth debases and proves the bane of imprudent youth.

Yes, Love is but a dangerous guestFor hearts as young as thine,Where youth’s unshadowed joys should rest,Life’s spring-time fancies shine.Then, sweetest, leave the wildering dream,Till Time has nerved thy heartTo brook the fitful cloud and gleam,Which must in love have part.Mrs. Osgood.

Mrs. Osgood.

The Tuberose, with her silvery light,That in the gardens of MalayIs called the mistress of the night,So like a bride, scented and bright,She comes out when the sun’s away.Moore.

The Tuberose, with her silvery light,That in the gardens of MalayIs called the mistress of the night,So like a bride, scented and bright,She comes out when the sun’s away.

Moore.

If all the world and love were young,And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,These pleasures might my passions move,To live with thee and be thy love.So fading flowers in every field,To winter floods their treasures yield;A honeyed tongue, a heart of gall,Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.Sir Walter Raleigh.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

Instability and change are writtenOn us and all our works. The loveliest things,When full of promise, oftentimes are smitten;And sweetest roses foster hidden stings.The world, if loved too well, doth ever pall,And the poor fool who set his heart thereonIs doomed to see his hope in ruins fall,Its frail foundation undermined and gone.MacKellar.

MacKellar.

TheDahlia is a native of South America, but is now extensively cultivated in Europe and North America. The shrub grows to a considerable height, and the flowers are large and beautiful. The most common colours are crimson and purple. No more appropriate emblem of elegance and dignity of carriage could have been selected. These qualities strike us at the first view of the Dahlia.

I loved thee for thy high-born grace,Thy deep and lustrous eye—For the sweet meaning of thy brow,And for thy bearing high.I loved thee for thy stainless truth,Thy thirst for higher things,For all that to our common lotA better temper brings.And are they not all thine—still thine?Is not thy heart as true?Holds not thy step its noble grace?Thy cheek its dainty hue?And have I not an ear to hear?And a cloudless eye to see—And a thirst for beautiful human thought,That first was stirred by thee?Willis.

Willis.

Why, a stranger—when he sees her,In the street even smileth stilly,Just as you would at a lily.Miss Barrett.

Why, a stranger—when he sees her,In the street even smileth stilly,Just as you would at a lily.

Miss Barrett.

Her grace of motion and of look, the smoothAnd swimming majesty of step and tread,The symmetry of form and feature, setThe soul afloat, even like delicious airsOf flute and harp.Milman.

Her grace of motion and of look, the smoothAnd swimming majesty of step and tread,The symmetry of form and feature, setThe soul afloat, even like delicious airsOf flute and harp.

Milman.

Her glossy hair was clustered o’er a browBright with intelligence, and fair and smooth;Her eyebrow’s shape was like the aërial bow,Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow,As if her veins ran lightning.Byron.

Byron.

Do but look on her eyes! they do lightAll that love’s world compriseth;Do but look on her hair! it is brightAs love’s star, when it riseth!Do but mark,—her forehead’s smootherThan words that soothe her!And from her arched brows such a graceSheds itself through the face,As alone there triumphs to the life,All the gain, all the good, of the element’s strife.Jonson.

Jonson.

TheCamellia Japonica is a native of China and Japan. It is a large, evergreen tree. The flowers are large, of the form of a rose of variegated hues—the red prevailing—and without fragrance. It is made the emblem of modest worth, because, as Roscoe observes, “it boasts no fragrance, and conceals no thorn.”

Let other bards of angels sing,Bright suns without a spot;But thou art no such perfect thing,Rejoice that thou art not.True beauty dwells in deep retreats,Whose veil is unremoved;Till heart with heart in concord beats,And the lover is beloved.Wordsworth.

Wordsworth.

Oh, that estates, degrees, and offices,Were not derived corruptly! and that dear honourWere purchased by the merit of the wearer!How many then should cover, that stand bare?How many be commanded, that command?How much low peasantry would then be gleanedFrom the true seed of honour? and how much honourPicked from the chaff and ruin of the times,To be new varnished?Shakspeare.

Shakspeare.

There’s a proud modesty in merit!Averse from asking, and resolved to payTen times the gift it asks.Dryden.

There’s a proud modesty in merit!Averse from asking, and resolved to payTen times the gift it asks.

Dryden.

Oh, your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it,To lock it in the wards of covert bosom;When it deserves with characters of brassA forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time,And razure of oblivion.Shakspeare.

Shakspeare.

Thine is a mind of maiden artlessness!Unstained, undarkened, by the dross of earth;A soul, that through thine eyes, bright beams expressThy nature, e’en as noble as thy birth;Whose every glance reflects the gem enshrined,Worthy a form so fair; the diamond of the mind.Anon.

Anon.

His resting-place is noted by a stoneOf whitest marble: truthful words are thoseInscribed thereon. The scene of his reposeBefits his life: ’twas beautiful and calm.In meekness and in love he went his way,Uprightly walking—filling up the dayWith useful deeds. He often poured the balmOf healing into wounded breasts; nor soughtThe praise of men in doing good.MacKellar.

MacKellar.

Theflowers of the Thorn-Apple droop while the sun shines beneath their dull-looking foliage, but on the approach of night, they revive, display their charms, and unfold their prodigious bells, which nature has coloured with purple, lined with ivory; and to which she has given an odour that attracts and intoxicates, but is so dangerous as to stupify those who inhale it even in the open air. It is a dangerous plant to be allowed to grow where children go, as the beauty of its flowers and fruit is liable to tempt them to their destruction; since it possesses so poisonous a quality as to produce paralysis, and even madness, in those who have eaten it. Its leaves have been recommended for coughs and asthma. The charms of the Thorn-Apple flower are beautiful, but deadly; like those of the corrupt and treacherous, to be found in every society.

But pleasures are like poppies spread,You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;Or like the snow-falls in the river,A moment white—then melts for ever;Or like the borealis race,That flit ere you can point their place;Or like the rainbow’s lovely formEnvanishing amid the storm.Burns.

Burns.

O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?Shakspeare.

O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?

Shakspeare.

Get thee glass eyes;And like a scurvy politician, seemTo see the things thou dost not.Shakspeare.

Get thee glass eyes;And like a scurvy politician, seemTo see the things thou dost not.

Shakspeare.

Women of kind have conditions three:The first is,—they be full of deceit,To spinne also is their property,And women have a wonderful conceit,For they can weep oft, and all is a sleight,And ever when they list, a tear is in the eye,Beware, therefore,—the blind eateth many a fly.Chaucer.

Chaucer.

Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shapes,And with a virtuous visor hide deep vice!Shakspeare.

Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shapes,And with a virtuous visor hide deep vice!

Shakspeare.

Smooth runs the water, where the brook is deep;And in his simple show he harbours treason.The fox barks not, when he would steal the lamb.No, no, my sovereign; Gloster is a manUnsounded yet, and full of deep deceit.Shakspeare.

Shakspeare.

TheLady’s Slipper is well known in Europe and America. The plant is small, but produces a considerable number of flowers, of variegated hues. This flower is made the emblem of capricious beauty, because she seems,

——With her changeful hues,As she were doubtful which array to choose.

I saw thee in the gay saloonOf Fashion’s glittering mart,Where Mammon buys what Love deplores,Where Nature yields to Art;And thou wert so unlike the herdMy kindling heart despised,I could not choose but yield that heart,Though Love were sacrificed.The smile which hung upon thy lips,In transport with their tone,The music of thy thoughts, which breathedA magic theirs alone!The looks which spake a soul so pure,So innocent and gay,Have passed, like other golden hopesOf happiness, away.Dawes.

Dawes.

Her eyesAre blue and beautiful, and flash out gleamsOf diamond light, like that which brightly beamsOn stilly summer nights from starlit skies.Her cheeks are tinted with the blushing dyesWhich Heaven—so wisely bountiful—bestowsIn virgin freshness on the modest rose.MacKellar.

MacKellar.

Most fair is e’er most fickle. A fair girlIs like a thousand beauteous things of earth,But most like them in love of change.Peerbold.

Most fair is e’er most fickle. A fair girlIs like a thousand beauteous things of earth,But most like them in love of change.

Peerbold.

We gaze and turn away, and know not where,Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heartReels with its fulness.Byron.

We gaze and turn away, and know not where,Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heartReels with its fulness.

Byron.

Beauty givesThe features perfectness, and to the formIts delicate proportions: she may stainThe eye with a celestial blue—the cheekWith carmine of the sunset; she may breatheGrace into every motion, like the playOf the least visible tissue of a cloud:She may give all that is within her ownBright cestus—and one glance of intellect,Like stronger magic, will outshine it all.Willis.

Willis.

Thename and signification of the Althea is derived from the Grecian fable of Althea and her son, who lost his life in consequence of his love for the beautiful Atalanta. His consuming away as the fatal brand was burning, suggested the emblem of consumed by love. The Althea is a shrub from five to seven feet in height, and is a native of the East Indies. The flowers are about the size of the common rose, and either of a white or pink hue.

There is an all-consuming passion here;But ’tis a vestal flame, which worships thee!Anon.

There is an all-consuming passion here;But ’tis a vestal flame, which worships thee!

Anon.

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.

Massinger.

With thee conversing, I forget all time;All seasons and their change, all please alike.Milton.

With thee conversing, I forget all time;All seasons and their change, all please alike.

Milton.

Love is a region full of fires,And burning with extreme desires;An object seeks, of which possest,The wheels are still, the motions rest,The flames in ashes lie opprest;The meteor, striving high to rise,The fuel spent, falls down and dies.Beaumont.

Beaumont.

What scenes appear where’er I turn my view!The dear ideas, where’er I fly, pursue,Rise in the grave, before the altar rise,Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,Thy image steals between my God and me;Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear,With every bead I drop too soft a tear.When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,And swelling organs lift the rising soul,One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:In seas of flame my plunging soul is drowned,While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.Pope.

Pope.

Larkspur, Lark’s-claw, Lark-heels, and Lark’s-toe have been given in allusion to the long spur-like nectary, which has been whimsically supposed to represent these things, and many more. The Latin name,Delphinium, is from the Greek, Dolphin, because the nectary was thought like that fish. The French call itDauphinelle,pied d’alouette,l’épéron de chevalier, (knight’s spur;) and the Italian,speronella, (little spur,)sperone di cavaliere, (knight’s spur,) andfior regio, (king-flower.) These names give quite a chivalric importance to the gentle flower, and furnish abundant subject for thought and fancy. Our own rural names give us a picture of the sky-lark; that “musical cherub,” soaring far and high into the blue summer heaven, above the lonely mountain-top, or over the busy town, and we can recall the delight of listening to his sweet melody.

Louisa A. Twamley.

For never yet was bosom foundSo dull of sense to music’s sound,As not to linger on the way,And list to his ascending lay,And upward gaze with straining sight,And see him melting into light;Till the eye fail its part to bearIn concert with the hearing ear;And naught remain but what may seemImagination’s fairy dream,Or the sweet strain, if such there were,Of Prospero’s spirit in the air.Oh, for that strength of voice and wingTo sing and soar, to soar and sing;With all his joyousness of heartFrom earth’s encumbrances apart;And with heaven’s denizens on highTo revel mid the calm clear sky!Mant.

Mant.

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