ALPINE FLOWERS.

Meek dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs!With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips,Whence are ye? Did some white-winged messengerOn mercy’s missions trust your timid germTo the cold cradle of eternal snows?Or, breathing on the callous icicles,Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye?—Tree nor shrubDare that drear atmosphere; no polar pineUprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb’d ice,And looking up with brilliant eyes to HimWho bids you bloom unblanch’d amid the wasteOf desolation. Man, who, panting, toilsO’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the vergeOf yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plungeIs to eternity, looks shuddering up,And marks ye in your placid loveliness—Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his still hands,Blesses your pencil’d beauty. 'Mid the pompOf mountain summits rushing on the sky,And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe,He bows to bind you drooping to his breast,Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing’d galeAnd freer breathes of heaven.Lydia H. Sigourney.

Meek dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs!

With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips,

Whence are ye? Did some white-winged messenger

On mercy’s missions trust your timid germ

To the cold cradle of eternal snows?

Or, breathing on the callous icicles,

Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye?

—Tree nor shrub

Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine

Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,

Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb’d ice,

And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him

Who bids you bloom unblanch’d amid the waste

Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils

O’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge

Of yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plunge

Is to eternity, looks shuddering up,

And marks ye in your placid loveliness—

Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his still hands,

Blesses your pencil’d beauty. 'Mid the pomp

Of mountain summits rushing on the sky,

And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe,

He bows to bind you drooping to his breast,

Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing’d gale

And freer breathes of heaven.

Lydia H. Sigourney.

Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows,Wild bramble of the brake!So, put thou forth thy small white rose;I love it for his sake.Though woodbines flaunt and roses glowO’er all the fragrant bowers,Thou need’st not be ashamed to showThy satin-threaded flowers;For dull the eye, the heart is dullThat can not feel how fair,Amid all beauty, beautifulThy tender blossoms are!How delicate thy gauzy frill!How rich thy branchy stem!How soft thy voice, when woods are still,And thou sing’st hymns to them!While silent showers are falling slow,And, 'mid the general hush,A sweet air lifts the little bough,Lone whispering through the bush!The primrose to the grave is gone;The hawthorn flower is dead;The violet by the moss’d gray stoneHath laid her weary head;But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,In all their beauteous power,The fresh green days of life’s fair spring,And boyhood’s blossomy hour.Scorn’d bramble of the brake! once moreThou bidd’st me be a boy,To rove with thee the woodlands o’er,In freedom and in joy.Ebenezer Elliott.

Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows,

Wild bramble of the brake!

So, put thou forth thy small white rose;

I love it for his sake.

Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow

O’er all the fragrant bowers,

Thou need’st not be ashamed to show

Thy satin-threaded flowers;

For dull the eye, the heart is dull

That can not feel how fair,

Amid all beauty, beautiful

Thy tender blossoms are!

How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem!

How soft thy voice, when woods are still,

And thou sing’st hymns to them!

While silent showers are falling slow,

And, 'mid the general hush,

A sweet air lifts the little bough,

Lone whispering through the bush!

The primrose to the grave is gone;

The hawthorn flower is dead;

The violet by the moss’d gray stone

Hath laid her weary head;

But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,

In all their beauteous power,

The fresh green days of life’s fair spring,

And boyhood’s blossomy hour.

Scorn’d bramble of the brake! once more

Thou bidd’st me be a boy,

To rove with thee the woodlands o’er,

In freedom and in joy.

Ebenezer Elliott.

The fresh savannas of the Sagamon,Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grassIs mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tuftsAre glowing in the green, like flakes of fire;The wanderers of the prairie know them well,And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup.Now, if thou art a poet, tell me notThat these bright chalices were tinted thusTo hold the dew for fairies, when they meetOn moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers,And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up,Amid this fresh and virgin solitudeThe faded fancies of an elder world;But leave these scarlet cups to spotted mothsOf June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds,To drink from, when on all these boundless lawnsThe morning sun looks hot. Or let the windO’erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pourA sudden shower upon the strawberry plant,To swell the reddening fruit that even nowBreathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope.But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well—Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers,Lingering amid the blooming waste he loves,Though all his swarthy worshipers are gone—Slender and small his rounded cheek all brownAnd ruddy with the sunshine; let him comeOn summer mornings, when the blossoms wake,And part with little hands the spiky grass;And touching with his cherry lips the edgeOf these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew.W. C. Bryant.

The fresh savannas of the Sagamon,

Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass

Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts

Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire;

The wanderers of the prairie know them well,

And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup.

Now, if thou art a poet, tell me notThat these bright chalices were tinted thusTo hold the dew for fairies, when they meetOn moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers,And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up,Amid this fresh and virgin solitudeThe faded fancies of an elder world;But leave these scarlet cups to spotted mothsOf June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds,To drink from, when on all these boundless lawnsThe morning sun looks hot. Or let the windO’erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pourA sudden shower upon the strawberry plant,To swell the reddening fruit that even nowBreathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope.But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well—Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers,Lingering amid the blooming waste he loves,Though all his swarthy worshipers are gone—Slender and small his rounded cheek all brownAnd ruddy with the sunshine; let him comeOn summer mornings, when the blossoms wake,And part with little hands the spiky grass;And touching with his cherry lips the edgeOf these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew.W. C. Bryant.

Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not

That these bright chalices were tinted thus

To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet

On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers,

And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up,

Amid this fresh and virgin solitude

The faded fancies of an elder world;

But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths

Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds,

To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns

The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind

O’erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour

A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant,

To swell the reddening fruit that even now

Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope.

But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well—

Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers,

Lingering amid the blooming waste he loves,

Though all his swarthy worshipers are gone—

Slender and small his rounded cheek all brown

And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come

On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake,

And part with little hands the spiky grass;

And touching with his cherry lips the edge

Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew.

W. C. Bryant.

The royal rose—the tulip’s glow—The jasmine’s gold are fair to see;But while the graceful grasses grow,Oh, gather them for me!The pansy’s gold and purple wing,The snowdrop’s smile may light the lea;But while the fragrant grasses spring,My wreath of them shall be!Frances S. Osgood.

The royal rose—the tulip’s glow—The jasmine’s gold are fair to see;But while the graceful grasses grow,Oh, gather them for me!

The royal rose—the tulip’s glow—

The jasmine’s gold are fair to see;

But while the graceful grasses grow,

Oh, gather them for me!

The pansy’s gold and purple wing,The snowdrop’s smile may light the lea;But while the fragrant grasses spring,My wreath of them shall be!Frances S. Osgood.

The pansy’s gold and purple wing,

The snowdrop’s smile may light the lea;

But while the fragrant grasses spring,

My wreath of them shall be!

Frances S. Osgood.

When a daffodil I seeHanging down his head toward me,Guess I may what I may be:First, I shall decline my head;Secondly, I shall be dead;Lastly, safely buried.Robert Herrick, 1591.

When a daffodil I see

Hanging down his head toward me,

Guess I may what I may be:

First, I shall decline my head;

Secondly, I shall be dead;

Lastly, safely buried.

Robert Herrick, 1591.

Is all grass? Make you no distinction? No; all is grass; or if you will have some other name, be it so. Once, this is true, that all flesh is grass; and if that glory which shines so much in your eyes must have a difference, then this is all that it can have—it is but the flower of that same grass; somewhat above the common grass in gayness, a littlecomelier and better appareled than it, but partakes of its frail and fading nature. It hath no privilege nor immunity that way; yea, of the two is less durable, and usually shorter lived; at the last it decays with it. “The grass withereth; and the flower thereof fadeth away.”

Archbishop Leighton, 1613–1684.

I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o’er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host of golden daffodils,Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glanceTossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not but be gay,In such a jocund company;I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:For oft, when on my couch I lie,In vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eye,Which is the bliss of solitude,And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.W. Wordsworth.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils,

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glanceTossing their heads in sprightly dance.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not but be gay,In such a jocund company;I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:

The waves beside them danced, but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company;

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie,In vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eye,Which is the bliss of solitude,And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.W. Wordsworth.

For oft, when on my couch I lie,

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye,

Which is the bliss of solitude,

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

W. Wordsworth.

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