White Water-Lily....Purity.

They gather gems with sunbeams bright,From floating clouds and falling showers;They rob Aurora’s locks of light,To grace their own fair queen of flowers.Thus, thus adorned, the speaking roseBecomes atokenfit to tellOf things that words can ne’er disclose,And naught but this reveal so well.Then take my flower, and let its leavesBeside thy heart be cherished near,While that confiding heart receivesThe thought it whispers to thine ear.Token, 1830.

Token, 1830.

TheWhite Water-Lily is the Queen of the Waves, and reigns sole sovereign over the streams; and it was a species of Water-Lily which the old Egyptians and ancient Indians worshipped—the most beautiful object that was held sacred in their superstitious creed, and one which we cannot look upon even now without feeling a delight mingled with reverence. No flower looks more lovely than this “Lady of the Lake,” resting her crowned head on a green throne of velvet, and looking down into the depths of her own sky-reflecting realms, watching the dance, as her attendant water-nymphs keep time to the rocking of the ripples, and the dreamy swaying of the trailing water streams.

Miller.

Thine is a face to look upon and prayThat a pure spirit keep thee—I would meetWith one so gentle by the streams away,Living with nature; keeping thy pure feetFor the unfingered moss, and for the grassWhich leaneth where the gentle waters pass.The autumn leaves should sigh thee to thy sleep;And the capricious April, coming on,Awake thee like a flower; and stars should keepA vigil o’er thee like Endymion;And thou for very gentleness shouldst weepAs dews of the night’s quietness come down.Willis.

Willis.

Oh, come to the river’s rim, come with us there,For the White Water-Lily is wondrous fair,With her large broad leaves on the stream afloat,Each one a capacious fairy-boat.The swan among flowers! How stately rideHer snow-white leaves on the glittering tide!And the Dragon-fly gallantly stays to sipA kiss of dew from her goblet’s lip.Anon.

Anon.

The Lily on the water sleeping,Enwreathed with pearl, and bossed with gold,An emblem is, my love, of thee:But when she like a nymph is peeping,To watch her sister-buds unfold,White shouldered on the flowery lea,Gazing about in sweet amazement,Thy image, from the vine-clad casement,Seems looking out, my love, on me.Miller.

Miller.

Little streams have flowers a many,Beautiful and fair as any;Typha strong, and green bur reed,Willow herb with cotton seed,Arrow head with eye of jet,And the Water-Violet;There the flowering Rush you meet,And the plumy meadow sweet,And in places deep and stillyMarble-like, the Water-Lily.Mrs. Howitt.

Mrs. Howitt.

TheMarigold is the conventional emblem of distress of mind. It is distinguished by many singular properties. It blossoms the whole year, and on that account, the Romans termed it the flower of the calends, or of all the months. Its flowers are open only from nine in the morning till three in the afternoon. They always follow the course of the sun, by turning from east to west as he proceeds upon his daily journey. In July and August these flowers emit, during the night, small luminous sparks. Alone, the Marigold expresses grief; interwoven with other flowers, the varied events of life; the cloud and sunshine of ill and good.

And see the flaunting Marigold,Gay from its marshy bed unfoldMid minor lights its disks that shineLike suns for brightness.Anon.

And see the flaunting Marigold,Gay from its marshy bed unfoldMid minor lights its disks that shineLike suns for brightness.

Anon.

Open afresh your round of starry folds,Ye ardent Marigolds!Dry up the moisture of your golden lids.Keats.

Open afresh your round of starry folds,Ye ardent Marigolds!Dry up the moisture of your golden lids.

Keats.

When, with a serious musing, I beholdThe grateful and obsequious Marigold,How duly, every morning, she displaysHer open breast when Phœbus spreads his rays;How she observes him in his daily walkStill bending towards him her small slender stalk;How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns,Bedewed as ’twere with tears till he returns.Withers.

Withers.

I need not say how, one by one,Love’s flowers have dropped from off love’s chain,Enough to say that they are gone,And that they cannot bloom again.Miss Landon.

I need not say how, one by one,Love’s flowers have dropped from off love’s chain,Enough to say that they are gone,And that they cannot bloom again.

Miss Landon.

We sometimes see a shadow swiftly skimIn summer o’er the hills and vales of earth:So transient shades steal o’er the face of mirth,And frequent tears the brightest eyes bedim.MacKellar.

We sometimes see a shadow swiftly skimIn summer o’er the hills and vales of earth:So transient shades steal o’er the face of mirth,And frequent tears the brightest eyes bedim.

MacKellar.

Thine is a grief that wastes the heart,Like mildew on a tulip’s dyes—When hope, deferred but to depart,Loses its smiles but keeps its sighs.Miss Landon.

Thine is a grief that wastes the heart,Like mildew on a tulip’s dyes—When hope, deferred but to depart,Loses its smiles but keeps its sighs.

Miss Landon.

How uneasy is his lifeWho is troubled with a wife!Be she ne’er so fair or comely,Be she foul or be she homely,Be she blithe or melancholy,Have she wit, or have she folly,Be she prudent, be she squandering,Be she staid, or be she wandering,Yet uneasy is his lifeWho is married to a wife.Cotton.

Cotton.

TheWhite Rose became celebrated in English history as the badge of the house of York, in the War of the Roses. Among the ancients, who considered the Rose as the queen of flowers, it was the custom to crown new-married persons with a chaplet of Red and White Roses; and in the procession of the Corybantes, the goddess Cybele, the protectress of cities, was pelted with White Roses.

A single Rose is sheddingIts lovely lustre meek and pale:It looks as planted by despair—So white, so faint—the slightest galeMight whirl the leaves on high.Byron.

A single Rose is sheddingIts lovely lustre meek and pale:It looks as planted by despair—So white, so faint—the slightest galeMight whirl the leaves on high.

Byron.

Pfeffel, a German poet, has pleasingly accounted for the origin of the Yellow Rose, the emblem of envy and jealousy, in the following manner:

Once a White Rose-bud reared her head,And peevishly to Flora said,“Look at my sister’s blushing hue—Pray, mother, let me have it too.”“Nay, child,” was Flora’s mild reply,“Be thankful for such gifts as IHave deemed befitting to dispense—Thy dower the hue of innocence.”When did Persuasion’s voice impartContent and peace to female heartWhere baleful Jealousy bears sway,And scares each gentler guest away?The Rose still grumbled and complained,Her mother’s bounties still disdained.“Well, then,” said angered Flora—“take”—She breathed upon her as she spake—“Henceforth no more in simple vestOf innocence shalt thou be drest—Take that which better suits thy mind,The hue for Jealousy designed!”The Yellow Rose has from that hourBorne evidence of Envy’s power.Is whispering nothing?Is leaning cheek to cheek?—is meeting noses?Kissing with inside lip?—stopping the careerOf laughter with a sigh?—(a note infallibleOf breaking honesty:)—horsing foot to foot?—Skulking in corners?—wishing clocks more swift?—Hours, minutes?—noon, midnight? and all eyesBlind with the pin and web, but theirs,—theirs only,That would unseen be wicked?—is this nothing?Why, then the world, and all that’s in it, is nothing.Shakspeare.

Is whispering nothing?Is leaning cheek to cheek?—is meeting noses?Kissing with inside lip?—stopping the careerOf laughter with a sigh?—(a note infallibleOf breaking honesty:)—horsing foot to foot?—Skulking in corners?—wishing clocks more swift?—Hours, minutes?—noon, midnight? and all eyesBlind with the pin and web, but theirs,—theirs only,That would unseen be wicked?—is this nothing?Why, then the world, and all that’s in it, is nothing.

Shakspeare.

Thou wondrous yellow fiend!Temper an antidote with antimony,And ’tis infectious: Mix jealousy with marriage,It poisons virtue.Davenport.

Thou wondrous yellow fiend!Temper an antidote with antimony,And ’tis infectious: Mix jealousy with marriage,It poisons virtue.

Davenport.

O jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship,Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms;How does thy rancour poison all our softness,And turn our gentle natures into bitterness!Rowe.

O jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship,Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms;How does thy rancour poison all our softness,And turn our gentle natures into bitterness!

Rowe.

Ah! poor unconscious rival maid,How drearily must thou sicken and fade,’Neath jealousy’s dark Upas shade!Tupper.

Ah! poor unconscious rival maid,How drearily must thou sicken and fade,’Neath jealousy’s dark Upas shade!

Tupper.

Accordingto ancient fable, the red colour of the Rose may be traced to Venus, whose delicate foot, when she was hastening to the relief of her beloved Adonis, was pierced by a thorn that drew blood,

Which on the White Rose being shed,Made it for ever after red.Herrick.

Which on the White Rose being shed,Made it for ever after red.

Herrick.

Miller, the “basket-maker” and poet, gives the following beautiful account of the origin of the Red Rose:—

Itwas drawing toward the decline of a beautiful summer day, when the red, round sun was bending down a deep, blue, unclouded sky, to where a vast range of mountains stretched, summit upon summit, and in the far distance again rose, pile upon pile, until high over all towered the god-haunted height of cloud-capt Olympus, rising with its rounded shoulder, like another world, on the uttermost rim of the horizon. At the foot of this immense world of untrodden mountains, opened out a wide, immeasurable forest, stretching far away, league upon league, with its unexplored ocean of trees, which were bounded somewhere by another range of unknown mountains, that again overlooked a vast, silent, and unpeopled world. On the edge of this pathless desert of trees, and nearestthe foot of Olympus, sat the Queen of Beauty and of Love; with her golden tresses unbound, and her matchless countenance buried within the palms of her milk-white hands, and sobbing as if her fond, immortal heart would break. Beside her was laid the dead body of Adonis, his face half-hidden beneath the floating fall of her hair, as she bent over him and wept. Beyond them lay the stiffened bulk of the grim and grisly boar, his hideous jaws flecked with blood and foam, and his terrible tusks glittering like the heads of pointed spears, as they stood out, sharp and white, in the unclouded sunset. Not an immortal comforter was by: for the far-seeing eye of Jove was fixed listlessly upon the golden nectar-cup, as it passed from hand to hand, along the rounded circle of the gods, while they were recounting the deeds of other days, when they waged war against the Titans. Even the chariot of Venus stood unyoked at the foot of the mount; the silken traces lay loosely thrown together upon the ground, and the white doves were idly hovering round in the air; for the weeping goddess was so overwhelmed with sorrow, that she had forgotten to waft her light-winged whisper to the Mount of Olympus; nor had they received any summons from the charioteer Love, who lay sleeping upon a bed of Roses, with his bow and arrows by his side.In the glade of this vast forest of the old primeval world, whose echoes had never been startled by the blows of a descending axe, nor a branch rent from their majestic boles, saving by the dreaded bolts of the Thunderer, or some earth-shaking storm, which, in his anger, he had blown abroad, the Goddess of Beautystill continued to sit, as if unconscious of the savage solitude which surrounded her; nor did she notice the back-kneed Satyrs, that peered upon her unrobed loveliness with burning eyes, from many a shadowy recess in the thick-leaved underwood. Upon the trunks of the mighty and storm-tortured trees, the sunset here and there flashed down in rays of molten gold, making their gnarled and twisted stems look as if they had just issued red-hot from the jaws of some cavern-like furnace, whose glare the fancy might still trace in a blackened avenue of trees, up which the red ranks of the consuming lightning had ages agone marched. Every way, where the lengthened shadows of evening began to fall in deeper masses, the forest assumed a more savage look, which was heightened by the noise of some deadly-tusked boar, as he went snorting and thundering through the thicket; the growl of the tiger was also heard at intervals, as he retreated farther into the deepening darkness of the dingles, mistaking the blazing sunset for some devouring fire. But the eyes of Venus saw only the pale face of her lover,—she felt only his chilly and stiffened hand sink colder and deeper into the warm heart on which she pressed it, and over which her tears fell, slower or faster, just as the mournful gusts of her sorrow arose or subsided, and sent the blinding rain from the blue-veined lids that overhung her clouded eyes; for never had her immortal heart before been swollen by such an overflowing torrent of grief. But the warmth of her kisses, which would almost have awakened life in a statue of marble, fell upon lips now cold as a wintry grave; and her sighs, which came sweeter than the morningair when it first arises from its sleep among the Roses, stirred not one of the clotted ringlets which softened into the yielding whiteness of her heavenly bosom,—“She looked upon his lips, and they are pale;She took him by the hand, and that was cold;She whispered in his ear a heavy tale,As if they heard the woful words she told.”She would have given her immortality but to have heard those lips murmur and complain, as they had done a few hours before—to have seen those eyes again burning with disdain, as they flashed back indignantly the warm advances of her love. She pictured him as he had that very morning stood, in all the pride of youthful manliness and beauty, when he looked down, blushing and abashed, as he held his boar-spear in his hand, when she threw the studded bridle over her own rounded and naked arm, and the proud courser pricked up his ears with delight, and shook his braided mane, while his long tail streamed out like a banner, and his proud eye dilated, and his broad nostrils expanded, as he went trampling haughtily on, proud to be led by the Queen of Beauty and of Love. She pictured the Primrose bank on which he lay twined reluctantly in her arms, how he tried to conceal his face, this way, and that way, among the flowers, whenever she attempted to press his lips,—“While on each cheek appeared a pretty dimple:Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,He might be buried in a tomb so simple.”She recalled his attitude as he untwined himself from her embrace, and hurried off in pursuit of his steed, which had snapped the rein that secured it to the branch of a neighbouring oak, and started at full speed down one of the wild avenues of the forest. In fancy she again saw him, as he sat panting upon the ground, weary with the fruitless pursuit; and how, kneeling down, she then“Took him gently by the hand,A lily prisoned in a jail of snow,Or ivory in an alabaster band:So white a friend engirt so white a foe;A beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,Showed like two silver doves that sat a-billing.”And as she looked upon him, she imagined that his lips moved again, as when they said, “Give me my hand, why dost thou feel it?” she fancied she again felt his face upon her cheek—his kisses upon her lips, as when she fell down and feigned herself dead; the while he bent her fingers, and felt her pulse, and endeavoured by a hundred endearments and tender expressions, to restore her. And how, when she pretended to recover, she paid him back again with unnumbered kisses, whilst he, wearied with opposing her, no longer offered any resistance; and how, at last, he broke from her fair arms, and, darting down the “dark lawn,” left her seated alone upon the ground.As picture after picture rose before her of what had been, and every close pressure of the cold, inanimate, but still dearly-loved form, told her what the hand ofdeath had done, and that those very “hopes and fears which are akin to love” were now for ever darkened and extinguished; she burst forth into such a loud, wailing lamentation, that the sound found its way unto Olympus, and fell upon the ever-open ear of Jove, who, in a moment, dashed the golden nectar-cup upon the ground, which he was about uplifting to his lips, and sprang upon his feet. There was a sound of hurrying to and fro over the mountain-summits, which sloped down to the edge of the forest—of gods and goddesses passing through the air—of golden chariots, that went whistling along like the wind, as they cleft their rapid way—and the flapping of dark, immortal wings, between which many a beautiful divinity was seated. The golden clouds of sunset gathered red and ominously about the rounded summit of Olympus, and a blood-red light glared upon such parts of the forest as were not darkened by the deepening shadows of the approaching twilight,—for the Thunderer had stamped his immortal foot, and jarred the mighty mountain to its very base. And now, in that forest glade, which but a few moments before was so wild and desolate,—where only the forms of the grisly boar, the dead Adonis, and the weeping Goddess of Beauty broke the level lines of the angry sunset, were assembled the stern Gods, and the weeping Graces, and the fluttering Loves that ever hover around the chariot of Venus. With bleeding feet and drooping head,—wan, and cold, and speechless,—was the Goddess of Beauty lifted into her golden chariot, and, with the dead body of Adonis, wafted by her silver and silent-winged doves to Mount Olympus. And then a deep darkness settled downupon the forest. When the next morning’s sun arose and gilded those silent glades, the Roses, on which the blood of the Goddess of Beauty had fallen, and which were ever before white, were changed into a delicate crimson; and wherever a tear had fallen, there had sprung up a flower which the earth had never before borne, and that was the Lily of the Valley; and wherever a ruddy drop had fallen from the death-wound of Adonis sprang up the red flower which still beareth his name. Even the white apple-blossoms, which he clutched in his agony, ever after wore the ruddy stain which they caught from his folded fingers; and the drowsy Poppy grew up everywhere around the spot, as if to denote that the only consolation which can be found for sorrow is the long, unbroken sleep of death. Thus the Rose, which was before white, became red, and was ever after dedicated to Beauty and Love.

In the glade of this vast forest of the old primeval world, whose echoes had never been startled by the blows of a descending axe, nor a branch rent from their majestic boles, saving by the dreaded bolts of the Thunderer, or some earth-shaking storm, which, in his anger, he had blown abroad, the Goddess of Beautystill continued to sit, as if unconscious of the savage solitude which surrounded her; nor did she notice the back-kneed Satyrs, that peered upon her unrobed loveliness with burning eyes, from many a shadowy recess in the thick-leaved underwood. Upon the trunks of the mighty and storm-tortured trees, the sunset here and there flashed down in rays of molten gold, making their gnarled and twisted stems look as if they had just issued red-hot from the jaws of some cavern-like furnace, whose glare the fancy might still trace in a blackened avenue of trees, up which the red ranks of the consuming lightning had ages agone marched. Every way, where the lengthened shadows of evening began to fall in deeper masses, the forest assumed a more savage look, which was heightened by the noise of some deadly-tusked boar, as he went snorting and thundering through the thicket; the growl of the tiger was also heard at intervals, as he retreated farther into the deepening darkness of the dingles, mistaking the blazing sunset for some devouring fire. But the eyes of Venus saw only the pale face of her lover,—she felt only his chilly and stiffened hand sink colder and deeper into the warm heart on which she pressed it, and over which her tears fell, slower or faster, just as the mournful gusts of her sorrow arose or subsided, and sent the blinding rain from the blue-veined lids that overhung her clouded eyes; for never had her immortal heart before been swollen by such an overflowing torrent of grief. But the warmth of her kisses, which would almost have awakened life in a statue of marble, fell upon lips now cold as a wintry grave; and her sighs, which came sweeter than the morningair when it first arises from its sleep among the Roses, stirred not one of the clotted ringlets which softened into the yielding whiteness of her heavenly bosom,—

“She looked upon his lips, and they are pale;She took him by the hand, and that was cold;She whispered in his ear a heavy tale,As if they heard the woful words she told.”

She would have given her immortality but to have heard those lips murmur and complain, as they had done a few hours before—to have seen those eyes again burning with disdain, as they flashed back indignantly the warm advances of her love. She pictured him as he had that very morning stood, in all the pride of youthful manliness and beauty, when he looked down, blushing and abashed, as he held his boar-spear in his hand, when she threw the studded bridle over her own rounded and naked arm, and the proud courser pricked up his ears with delight, and shook his braided mane, while his long tail streamed out like a banner, and his proud eye dilated, and his broad nostrils expanded, as he went trampling haughtily on, proud to be led by the Queen of Beauty and of Love. She pictured the Primrose bank on which he lay twined reluctantly in her arms, how he tried to conceal his face, this way, and that way, among the flowers, whenever she attempted to press his lips,—

“While on each cheek appeared a pretty dimple:Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,He might be buried in a tomb so simple.”

She recalled his attitude as he untwined himself from her embrace, and hurried off in pursuit of his steed, which had snapped the rein that secured it to the branch of a neighbouring oak, and started at full speed down one of the wild avenues of the forest. In fancy she again saw him, as he sat panting upon the ground, weary with the fruitless pursuit; and how, kneeling down, she then

“Took him gently by the hand,A lily prisoned in a jail of snow,Or ivory in an alabaster band:So white a friend engirt so white a foe;A beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,Showed like two silver doves that sat a-billing.”

And as she looked upon him, she imagined that his lips moved again, as when they said, “Give me my hand, why dost thou feel it?” she fancied she again felt his face upon her cheek—his kisses upon her lips, as when she fell down and feigned herself dead; the while he bent her fingers, and felt her pulse, and endeavoured by a hundred endearments and tender expressions, to restore her. And how, when she pretended to recover, she paid him back again with unnumbered kisses, whilst he, wearied with opposing her, no longer offered any resistance; and how, at last, he broke from her fair arms, and, darting down the “dark lawn,” left her seated alone upon the ground.

As picture after picture rose before her of what had been, and every close pressure of the cold, inanimate, but still dearly-loved form, told her what the hand ofdeath had done, and that those very “hopes and fears which are akin to love” were now for ever darkened and extinguished; she burst forth into such a loud, wailing lamentation, that the sound found its way unto Olympus, and fell upon the ever-open ear of Jove, who, in a moment, dashed the golden nectar-cup upon the ground, which he was about uplifting to his lips, and sprang upon his feet. There was a sound of hurrying to and fro over the mountain-summits, which sloped down to the edge of the forest—of gods and goddesses passing through the air—of golden chariots, that went whistling along like the wind, as they cleft their rapid way—and the flapping of dark, immortal wings, between which many a beautiful divinity was seated. The golden clouds of sunset gathered red and ominously about the rounded summit of Olympus, and a blood-red light glared upon such parts of the forest as were not darkened by the deepening shadows of the approaching twilight,—for the Thunderer had stamped his immortal foot, and jarred the mighty mountain to its very base. And now, in that forest glade, which but a few moments before was so wild and desolate,—where only the forms of the grisly boar, the dead Adonis, and the weeping Goddess of Beauty broke the level lines of the angry sunset, were assembled the stern Gods, and the weeping Graces, and the fluttering Loves that ever hover around the chariot of Venus. With bleeding feet and drooping head,—wan, and cold, and speechless,—was the Goddess of Beauty lifted into her golden chariot, and, with the dead body of Adonis, wafted by her silver and silent-winged doves to Mount Olympus. And then a deep darkness settled downupon the forest. When the next morning’s sun arose and gilded those silent glades, the Roses, on which the blood of the Goddess of Beauty had fallen, and which were ever before white, were changed into a delicate crimson; and wherever a tear had fallen, there had sprung up a flower which the earth had never before borne, and that was the Lily of the Valley; and wherever a ruddy drop had fallen from the death-wound of Adonis sprang up the red flower which still beareth his name. Even the white apple-blossoms, which he clutched in his agony, ever after wore the ruddy stain which they caught from his folded fingers; and the drowsy Poppy grew up everywhere around the spot, as if to denote that the only consolation which can be found for sorrow is the long, unbroken sleep of death. Thus the Rose, which was before white, became red, and was ever after dedicated to Beauty and Love.

Itsbeautiful tint is traced to another source by a modern poet:

As erst in Eden’s blissful bowers,Young Eve surveyed her countless flowers,An opening Rose of purest whiteShe marked with eye that beamed delight,Its leaves she kissed, and straight it drewFrom beauty’s lip the vermeil hue.Carey.

Carey.

The poets have not exaggerated the beauty of the red-hued Rose. She would be crowned Queen of theFlowers by the most unpoetical. The emblem of all ages, the interpreter of all our feelings, the Rose mingles with our festivities, our joys, and our griefs. Its fragrance is as delightful as its hues; and no truer emblem of love and beauty could have been chosen.

I have cherishedA love for one whose beauty would have charmedIn Athens. And I know what ’tis to loveA spiritual beauty, and behind the foilOf an unblemished loveliness, still findCharms of a higher order, and a powerDeeper and more resistless. Had I foundSuch thoughts and feelings, such a clear deep streamOf mind in one whom vulgar men had thrownAs a dull pebble from them, I had lovedNot with a love less fond, nor with a flameOf less devotion.Percival.

Percival.

There’s no miniatureIn her face, but is a copious theme,Which would, discoursed at large of, make a volume.What clear arched brows! what sparkling eyes! the liliesContending with the roses in her cheeks,Who shall most set them off. What ruby lips!—Or unto what can I compare her neck,But to a rock of crystal? Every limbProportioned to love’s wish, and in their neatnessAdd lustre to the richness of her habit,Not borrowed from it.Massinger.

Massinger.

ThePeony is chosen as the emblem of Anger from its red and fiery hues. It is a large double flower, and presents a superb appearance; but is almost destitute of scent.

I am burned up with inflaming wrath;A rage, whose heat hath this condition,That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,The blood, and dearest valued blood, of France.Shakspeare.

I am burned up with inflaming wrath;A rage, whose heat hath this condition,That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,The blood, and dearest valued blood, of France.

Shakspeare.

The wildest ills that darken lifeAre rapture to the bosom’s strife;The tempest, in its blackest form,Is beauty to the bosom’s storm;The ocean, lashed to fury loud,Its high wave mingling with the cloud,Is peaceful, sweet serenity,To anger’s dark and stormy sea.J. W. Eastburne.

J. W. Eastburne.

Oh, that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth!Then with a passion would I shake the world.Shakspeare.

Oh, that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth!Then with a passion would I shake the world.

Shakspeare.

Nettlesmay be considered the appropriate emblem of cruelty. How often, while in search of flowers, have we felt the sting of these unrelenting plants! We call that punishment cruel which visits us without our doing an injury which deserves it; and, as we never wished to be in the vicinity of the Nettles, nor, therefore, to injure them, our boyish fancy looked upon them as cruel.

Spare not the babe,Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy;Think it a bastard, whom the oracleHath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut,And mince it sans remorse.Shakspeare.

Spare not the babe,Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy;Think it a bastard, whom the oracleHath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut,And mince it sans remorse.

Shakspeare.

Do not insult calamity;It is a barbarous grossness to lay onThe weight of scorn, where heavy miseryToo much already weighs men’s fortunes down.Daniel.

Do not insult calamity;It is a barbarous grossness to lay onThe weight of scorn, where heavy miseryToo much already weighs men’s fortunes down.

Daniel.

Oh, he’s accurst from all that’s good,Who never knew Love’s healing power;Such sinner on his sins must brood,And wait alone his hour.If stranger to earth’s beauty—human love,There is no rest below, nor hope above.Dana.

Dana.

Bring Lilies for a maiden’s grave,Roses to deck the bride,Tulips for all who love through lifeIn brave attire to ride:Bring each for each, in bower and hall,But cull the Columbine for all.“The Columbine? full many a flowerHath hues more clear and bright,Although she doth in purple go,In crimson, pink, and white.Why, when so many fairer shine,Why choose the homely Columbine?”Examine well each floweret’s form,—Read ye not something moreThan curl of petal—depth of tint?Saw ye ne’er aught beforeThat claims a fancied semblance there.Amid those modelled leaves so fair?Know ye the cap which Folly wearsIn ancient masques and plays?Does not the Columbine recallThat toy of olden days?And is not folly reigning nowO’er many a wisdom-written brow?’Tis Folly’s flower, that homely one;That universal guestMakes every garden but a typeOf every human breast;For though ye tend both mind and bower,There’s still a nook for Folly’s flower.Then gather roses for the bride,Twine them in her bright hair,But, ere the wreath be done—oh! letThe Columbine be there.For rest ye sure that follies dwellIn many a heart that loveth well.Gather ye laurels for the browOf every prince of song!For all, to whom philosophyAnd wisdom do belong.But ne’er forget to intertwineA flower or two of Columbine.Forget it not;—for even they,The oracles of earth,Mid all their wealth of golden thoughts,Their wisdom and their worth,Sometimes play pranks beneath the sky,Would scarce become e’en such as I!Weave ye an armful of that plant,Choosing the darkest flowers,With that red, blood-dipped wreath ye bringThe devastating powersOf warrior, conqueror, or chief;Oh! twine that full of Folly’s leaf!And do ye ask me why this flowerIs fit for every brow?Tell me but one where Folly ne’erHath dwelt, nor dwelleth now,And I will then the laurel twine,Unmingled with the Columbine.Louisa A. Twamley.

Bring Lilies for a maiden’s grave,Roses to deck the bride,Tulips for all who love through lifeIn brave attire to ride:Bring each for each, in bower and hall,But cull the Columbine for all.

“The Columbine? full many a flowerHath hues more clear and bright,Although she doth in purple go,In crimson, pink, and white.Why, when so many fairer shine,Why choose the homely Columbine?”

Examine well each floweret’s form,—Read ye not something moreThan curl of petal—depth of tint?Saw ye ne’er aught beforeThat claims a fancied semblance there.Amid those modelled leaves so fair?

Know ye the cap which Folly wearsIn ancient masques and plays?Does not the Columbine recallThat toy of olden days?And is not folly reigning nowO’er many a wisdom-written brow?

’Tis Folly’s flower, that homely one;That universal guestMakes every garden but a typeOf every human breast;For though ye tend both mind and bower,There’s still a nook for Folly’s flower.

Then gather roses for the bride,Twine them in her bright hair,But, ere the wreath be done—oh! letThe Columbine be there.For rest ye sure that follies dwellIn many a heart that loveth well.

Gather ye laurels for the browOf every prince of song!For all, to whom philosophyAnd wisdom do belong.But ne’er forget to intertwineA flower or two of Columbine.

Forget it not;—for even they,The oracles of earth,Mid all their wealth of golden thoughts,Their wisdom and their worth,Sometimes play pranks beneath the sky,Would scarce become e’en such as I!

Weave ye an armful of that plant,Choosing the darkest flowers,With that red, blood-dipped wreath ye bringThe devastating powersOf warrior, conqueror, or chief;Oh! twine that full of Folly’s leaf!

And do ye ask me why this flowerIs fit for every brow?Tell me but one where Folly ne’erHath dwelt, nor dwelleth now,And I will then the laurel twine,Unmingled with the Columbine.

Louisa A. Twamley.

Inthe Passion Flower, we find a representation of the crown of thorns, the scourge, the cross, the sponge, the nails, and the five wounds of Christ. Hence its name and signification.

One more plant——Which, consecrate to Salem’s peaceful King,Though fair as any gracing beauty’s bower,Is linked to sorrow like a holy thing,And takes its name from suffering’s fiercest hour.Be this my noblest theme—Imperial Passion Flower!Whatever impulse first conferred that name,Or Fancy’s dream, or Superstition’s art,I freely own its spirit-touching claim,With thoughts and feelings it may well impart.Barton.

Barton.

Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of death,To break the shock blind nature cannot shun,And lands thought smoothly on the further shore.Young.

Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of death,To break the shock blind nature cannot shun,And lands thought smoothly on the further shore.

Young.

True faith nor biddeth nor abideth form.The bended knee, the eye uplift is allWhich man need render; all which God can bear.What to the faith are forms? A passing speck,A crow upon the sky.Bailey.

True faith nor biddeth nor abideth form.The bended knee, the eye uplift is allWhich man need render; all which God can bear.What to the faith are forms? A passing speck,A crow upon the sky.

Bailey.

Faith is the subtle chainThat binds us to the Infinite: the voiceOf a deep life within, that will remainUntil we crowd it thence.Mrs. E. Oakes Smith.

Faith is the subtle chainThat binds us to the Infinite: the voiceOf a deep life within, that will remainUntil we crowd it thence.

Mrs. E. Oakes Smith.

Naught shall prevail against us, or disturbOur cheerful faith, that all which we beholdIs full of blessings.Wordsworth.

Naught shall prevail against us, or disturbOur cheerful faith, that all which we beholdIs full of blessings.

Wordsworth.

Ah, no! my dying lips shall close,Unaltered love, as faith professing;Nor (praising Him who life bestows)Forget who makes that life a blessing.My last address to Heaven is due;—My last but one I give to you.Lovibond.

Lovibond.

Theprimitive Pink is simple red or white, and scented; but cultivation has varied the colour from the darkest purple to the purest white. Under all its diversities, however, it retains its delicious, spicy fragrance, and hence has been made the emblem of woman’s love, which no circumstance can change. Florists designate two principal divisions of these flowers, Pinks and Carnation. The former are marked by a spot resembling an eye, and by a more humble growth. The flower of the Carnation is much larger than that of the Pink, and of a deeper hue. The Carnation was called by some of the old English writers the clove-gilly flower, from its perfume resembling that of cloves.

She never told her love,But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud,Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought;And with a green and yellow melancholy,She sat (like Patience on a monument)Smiling at grief.Shakspeare.

Shakspeare.

It is a fearful thing,To love as I love thee; to feel the world—The bright, the beautiful, joy giving world—A blank without thee. Never more to meCan hope, joy, fear, wear different seeming. NowI have no hope that does not dream for thee;I have no joy that is not shared by thee;I have no fear that does not dread for thee.L. E. L.

L. E. L.

Alas! the love of woman! it is knownTo be a lovely and a fearful thing;For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,And, if ’tis lost, life has no more to bringTo them but mockeries of the past alone.Byron.

Alas! the love of woman! it is knownTo be a lovely and a fearful thing;For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,And, if ’tis lost, life has no more to bringTo them but mockeries of the past alone.

Byron.

Thissingular plant is so named from its motions imitating the sensibility of animal life. It contracts itself in the evening and expands with the morning light, and shrinks from external violence, folding up its leaves at the mere approach of one’s hand. The Violet is the emblem of that retiring modesty which proceeds from reflection, but the Sensitive Plant is a perfect image of innocence and virgin modesty, the result of instinct.

So dear to heaven is saintly chastity,That when a soul is found sincerely so,A thousand liveried angels lackey her,Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt.Milton.

So dear to heaven is saintly chastity,That when a soul is found sincerely so,A thousand liveried angels lackey her,Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt.

Milton.

Oh! she is colder than the mountain’s snow.To such a subtile purity she’s wrought,She’s prayed and fasted to a walking thought:She’s an enchanted feast, most fair to sight,And starves the appetite she does invite;Flies from the touch of sense, and if you dareTo name but love she vanishes to air.Crown.

Crown.

In thy fair brow there’s such a legend writOf chastity, as blinds the adulterous eye:Not the mountain ice,Congealed to crystals, is so frosty chasteAs thy victorious soul, which conquers man,And man’s proud tyrant-passion.Dryden.

Dryden.

Like the Mimosa shrinking fromThe blight of some familiar finger—Like flowers which but in secret bloom,Where aye the sheltered shadows linger,And which beneath the hot noon-rayWould fold their leaves and fade away—The flowers of Love in secret cherished,In loneliness and silence nourished,Shrink backward from the searching eye,Until the stem whereon they flourished,Their shrine, the human heart, has perished,Although themselves may never die.J. G. Whittier.

J. G. Whittier.

Amongthe ancient Greeks, Thyme denoted the graceful elegance of the Attic style; because it covered Mount Hymettus, and gave an aromatic flavour to the honey made there. Those writers who had mastered the Attic style were said “to smell of Thyme.” Flies of all shapes, beetles of all hues, bright butterflies, and vigilant bees for ever surround the flower tufts of Thyme, and they thus seem to teem with life. Activity is a warlike virtue, and is ever associated with true courage. On this notion, the ladies of the days of chivalry embroidered on the scarfs which they presented to their knights the figure of a bee hovering about a sprig of Thyme.

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