VIII.The Garland.

Among the pieces in the following group will be found some old verses of Gawain Douglas, bishop of Dunkeld. This ancient Scottish poet and Church dignitary was a son of the famous Archibald, earl of Argus, surnamed Bell-the-Cat, from his share in one of the peculiar conspiracies of that strange period—a conspiracy which resulted in hanging a number of the royal favorites of James III., chiefly architects and musicians, ennobled by that prince. James was in this respect too liberal in his tastes to please the fierce old barons surrounding his throne, though doubtless his favor was often weakly lavished upon those in whose society he took pleasure. But one would hardly have expected to find the leader of such a conspiracy the father of a distinguished poet; such, however, was the fact. Bishop Gawain was a great clerk in his day. He wrote a metrical version of the Æneid in the Scottish dialect, and many lesser poetical works, admitted to possessgreat merit. Sir Walter Scott has introduced both father and son in Marmion. He makes old Bell-the-Cat appear in his true character:

“A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!Did ever knight so foul a deed!At first in heart it liked me ill,When the king praised his clerkly skill.Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine,Save Gawain, ne’er could pen a line;So swore I, and I swear it still—Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.”Canto VI.

“A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!

Did ever knight so foul a deed!

At first in heart it liked me ill,

When the king praised his clerkly skill.

Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine,

Save Gawain, ne’er could pen a line;

So swore I, and I swear it still—

Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.”

Canto VI.

And in another passage we have the poet-bishop himself:

“Amid that dim and smoky light,Checkering the silver moonshine bright—A bishop by the altar stood,A noble lord of Douglas’ blood.With mitre sheen, and rocquet white.Yet show’d his meek and thoughtful eye,But little pride of prelacy;More pleased that in a barbarous ageHe gave rude Scotland Virgil’s page,Than that beneath his rule he heldThe bishopric of fair Dunkeld.”Canto VI.

“Amid that dim and smoky light,

Checkering the silver moonshine bright—

A bishop by the altar stood,

A noble lord of Douglas’ blood.

With mitre sheen, and rocquet white.

Yet show’d his meek and thoughtful eye,

But little pride of prelacy;

More pleased that in a barbarous age

He gave rude Scotland Virgil’s page,

Than that beneath his rule he held

The bishopric of fair Dunkeld.”

Canto VI.

Bishop Gawain was compelled by the troubles in Scotland to flee from his native country, and to take refuge at the court of Henry VIII., where he lived for years an honored exile, dying in 1522, at London, of the plague. He was born in 1474. Each canto of his translation of Virgil was preceded by an original prologue; the address to Spring—whence the extract on flowers is taken—is one of the most pleasing of these, and forms his introduction to the 12th Canto of the Æneid. Far from regretting the Scotticisms of his style, the bishop only mourned that his verses were still so English in their aspect: a defect which will not be likely to strike the modern reader. But in spite of the obsolete words and rugged style, the touch of a poetical spirit, and something of the freshness of the natural blossoms still lingers about Bishop Gawain’s Spring chaplet.

FLOWERS.

Through their beauty, and variety of coloure, and exquisite forme, they do bringe to a liberal and gentle minde the remembrance of honestie, comelinesse, and all kinds of virtues; for it would be an unseemly thing (as a certain wise man saith) for him that doth look upon and handle faire and beautiful things, and who frequenteth and is conversant in faire and beautiful places, to have his minde not faire also.

John Gerarde, 1545–1607.

And blissful blossoms in the bloomed sward,Submit their heads in the young sun’s safeguard;Ivy-leaves rank o’erspread the barkmekyn wall;The bloomed hawthorn clad his pykis allForth of fresh burgeons; the wine-grapis ying,Endlong the twistis did on trestles hing.The locked buttons on the gummed trees,O’erspreadant leaves of nature’s tapestries;Soft, grassy verdure, after balmy showers,On curland stalkis smiland to their flowers,Beholdant them so maine devirs hue:Some pers, some pale, some burnet, and some blue;Some gray, some gules, some purpure, some sanguene,Blanchet, or brown, fauch-colour many one—Some heavenly-coloured in celestial gré,Some watery-hued, as the haw-waly sea;And some depeint in freckles red and white;Some bright as gold, with aureate levis lite.The daisie did unbraid her crownal small,And every flower unlapped in the dale.The flower-de-luce forth spread out his heavenly hue,Flower-damas, and columbo black and blue,Sere downis smale on dandelion sprung,The young green-bloomed strawberry leaves among;Gimp gilliflowers their own leaves unshetFresh primrose, and the purpure violet.The rose-knobbis tetand forth their heads.Gen chip and kyth their vernal lippis red,Crisp scarlet leaves sheddant baith at aines,Cast fragrant smell amid from golden grains.Heavenly lilies with lockerand toppis whiteOpened, and shew their crestis redemite,The balmy vapour from their silver croppisDistilland wholesome sugared honey-droppis,So that ilke burgeon, scion, herb, or flowerWose all embalmed of the sweet liquoreAnd bathed did in dulce humoures fleteWhereof the beeis wrought their honey sweet.Gawain Douglas,Bishop of Dunkeld.

And blissful blossoms in the bloomed sward,

Submit their heads in the young sun’s safeguard;

Ivy-leaves rank o’erspread the barkmekyn wall;

The bloomed hawthorn clad his pykis all

Forth of fresh burgeons; the wine-grapis ying,

Endlong the twistis did on trestles hing.

The locked buttons on the gummed trees,

O’erspreadant leaves of nature’s tapestries;

Soft, grassy verdure, after balmy showers,

On curland stalkis smiland to their flowers,

Beholdant them so maine devirs hue:

Some pers, some pale, some burnet, and some blue;

Some gray, some gules, some purpure, some sanguene,

Blanchet, or brown, fauch-colour many one—

Some heavenly-coloured in celestial gré,

Some watery-hued, as the haw-waly sea;

And some depeint in freckles red and white;

Some bright as gold, with aureate levis lite.

The daisie did unbraid her crownal small,

And every flower unlapped in the dale.

The flower-de-luce forth spread out his heavenly hue,

Flower-damas, and columbo black and blue,

Sere downis smale on dandelion sprung,

The young green-bloomed strawberry leaves among;

Gimp gilliflowers their own leaves unshet

Fresh primrose, and the purpure violet.

The rose-knobbis tetand forth their heads.

Gen chip and kyth their vernal lippis red,

Crisp scarlet leaves sheddant baith at aines,

Cast fragrant smell amid from golden grains.

Heavenly lilies with lockerand toppis white

Opened, and shew their crestis redemite,

The balmy vapour from their silver croppis

Distilland wholesome sugared honey-droppis,

So that ilke burgeon, scion, herb, or flower

Wose all embalmed of the sweet liquore

And bathed did in dulce humoures flete

Whereof the beeis wrought their honey sweet.

Gawain Douglas,Bishop of Dunkeld.

[Pastoral Scene]

Barmekyn, barbican;pers, light blue;burnet, brownish;gules, scarlet;fauch-colour, fawn;celestial gre, sky-blue;haw-waly, dark-waved;lite, little;flower-damas, damask rose;rose-knobbis tetand, rose-buds peeping;kyth, show;locherand, curling;redemite, crowned;croppis, heads.

Here damask roses, white and red,Out of my lap first take I,Which still shall run along the threadMy chiefest flower this make I.Among these roses in a row,Next place I pinks in plenty,These double pansies then for show,And will not this be dainty?The pretty pansy then I’ll tieLike stones some chain enchasing;And next to them, their near ally,The purple violet placing.The curious choice clove July flower,Whose kind hight the carnation,For sweetness of most sovereign power,Shall help my wreath to fashion;Whose sundry colors of one kind,First from one root derived,Them in their several suits I’ll bind:My garland so contrived.A course of cowslips then I’ll stick,And here and there (so sparely)The pleasant primrose down I’ll prick,Like pearls that will show rarely;Then with these marigolds I’ll makeMy garland somewhat swelling,These honeysuckles then I’ll take,Whose sweets shall help their smelling.The lily and the fleur-de-lis,For color much contending,For that I them do only prize,They are but poor in scenting;The daffodil most dainty is,To match with these in meetness;The columbine compared to this,All much alike for sweetness.These in their natures only areFit to emboss the border,Therefore I’ll take especial careTo place them in their order:Sweet-williams, campions, sops-in-wine,One by another neatly:Thus have I made this wreath of mine,And finished it featly.Michael Drayton, 1563–1631.

Here damask roses, white and red,Out of my lap first take I,Which still shall run along the threadMy chiefest flower this make I.

Here damask roses, white and red,

Out of my lap first take I,

Which still shall run along the thread

My chiefest flower this make I.

Among these roses in a row,Next place I pinks in plenty,These double pansies then for show,And will not this be dainty?

Among these roses in a row,

Next place I pinks in plenty,

These double pansies then for show,

And will not this be dainty?

The pretty pansy then I’ll tieLike stones some chain enchasing;And next to them, their near ally,The purple violet placing.

The pretty pansy then I’ll tie

Like stones some chain enchasing;

And next to them, their near ally,

The purple violet placing.

The curious choice clove July flower,Whose kind hight the carnation,For sweetness of most sovereign power,Shall help my wreath to fashion;

The curious choice clove July flower,

Whose kind hight the carnation,

For sweetness of most sovereign power,

Shall help my wreath to fashion;

Whose sundry colors of one kind,First from one root derived,Them in their several suits I’ll bind:My garland so contrived.

Whose sundry colors of one kind,

First from one root derived,

Them in their several suits I’ll bind:

My garland so contrived.

A course of cowslips then I’ll stick,And here and there (so sparely)The pleasant primrose down I’ll prick,Like pearls that will show rarely;

A course of cowslips then I’ll stick,

And here and there (so sparely)

The pleasant primrose down I’ll prick,

Like pearls that will show rarely;

Then with these marigolds I’ll makeMy garland somewhat swelling,These honeysuckles then I’ll take,Whose sweets shall help their smelling.

Then with these marigolds I’ll make

My garland somewhat swelling,

These honeysuckles then I’ll take,

Whose sweets shall help their smelling.

The lily and the fleur-de-lis,For color much contending,For that I them do only prize,They are but poor in scenting;

The lily and the fleur-de-lis,

For color much contending,

For that I them do only prize,

They are but poor in scenting;

The daffodil most dainty is,To match with these in meetness;The columbine compared to this,All much alike for sweetness.

The daffodil most dainty is,

To match with these in meetness;

The columbine compared to this,

All much alike for sweetness.

These in their natures only areFit to emboss the border,Therefore I’ll take especial careTo place them in their order:

These in their natures only are

Fit to emboss the border,

Therefore I’ll take especial care

To place them in their order:

Sweet-williams, campions, sops-in-wine,One by another neatly:Thus have I made this wreath of mine,And finished it featly.Michael Drayton, 1563–1631.

Sweet-williams, campions, sops-in-wine,

One by another neatly:

Thus have I made this wreath of mine,

And finished it featly.

Michael Drayton, 1563–1631.

* * * * * * * I saw,Flying between the cold moon and the earth,Cupid all arm’d; a certain aim he tookAt a fair vestal throned in the west.And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts.But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaftQuench’d in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon.And the imperial vot’ress passed on,In maiden meditation, fancy-free.Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell:It fell upon a little western flower,Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound,And maidens call it love-in-idleness.The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid,Will make a man or woman madly doteUpon the next live creature that it sees.W. Shakspeare, 1564–1616.

* * * * * * * I saw,

Flying between the cold moon and the earth,

Cupid all arm’d; a certain aim he took

At a fair vestal throned in the west.

And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,

As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts.

But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft

Quench’d in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon.

And the imperial vot’ress passed on,

In maiden meditation, fancy-free.

Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell:

It fell upon a little western flower,

Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound,

And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid,

Will make a man or woman madly dote

Upon the next live creature that it sees.

W. Shakspeare, 1564–1616.

THE GARLAND.

The pride of every grove I chose,The violet sweet, the lily fair,The dappled pink and blushing rose,To deck my charming Chloe’s hair.At morn the nymph vouchsafed to placeUpon her brow the various wreath;The flowers less blooming than her face,The scent less fragrant than her breath.The flowers she wore along the day;And every nymph and shepherd said,That in her hair they look’d more gayThan glowing in their native bed.Undress’d at evening, when she foundTheir odors lost, their colors past,She changed her look, and on the groundHer garland and her eye she cast.That eye dropp’d sense distinct and clear,As any Muse’s tongue could speak,When from its lid a pearly tearRan trickling down her beauteous cheek.Dissembling what I knew too well,“My love, my life,” said I, “explainThis change of humor; pr’ythee tell:That falling tear—what does it mean?”She sigh’d; she smiled: and to the flowersPointing, the lovely moralist said—“See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,See yonder, what a change is made!”Ah me! the blooming pride of May,And that of beauty, are but one:At morn both flourish bright and gay;Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,The amorous youth around her bow’d:At night her fatal knell was rung;I saw and kiss’d her in her shroud.Such as she is, who died to-day,Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;Go, Damon, bid the Muse displayThe justice of thy Chloe’s sorrow.Matthew Prior, 1664–1721.

The pride of every grove I chose,The violet sweet, the lily fair,The dappled pink and blushing rose,To deck my charming Chloe’s hair.

The pride of every grove I chose,

The violet sweet, the lily fair,

The dappled pink and blushing rose,

To deck my charming Chloe’s hair.

At morn the nymph vouchsafed to placeUpon her brow the various wreath;The flowers less blooming than her face,The scent less fragrant than her breath.

At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place

Upon her brow the various wreath;

The flowers less blooming than her face,

The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flowers she wore along the day;And every nymph and shepherd said,That in her hair they look’d more gayThan glowing in their native bed.

The flowers she wore along the day;

And every nymph and shepherd said,

That in her hair they look’d more gay

Than glowing in their native bed.

Undress’d at evening, when she foundTheir odors lost, their colors past,She changed her look, and on the groundHer garland and her eye she cast.

Undress’d at evening, when she found

Their odors lost, their colors past,

She changed her look, and on the ground

Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropp’d sense distinct and clear,As any Muse’s tongue could speak,When from its lid a pearly tearRan trickling down her beauteous cheek.

That eye dropp’d sense distinct and clear,

As any Muse’s tongue could speak,

When from its lid a pearly tear

Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well,“My love, my life,” said I, “explainThis change of humor; pr’ythee tell:That falling tear—what does it mean?”

Dissembling what I knew too well,

“My love, my life,” said I, “explain

This change of humor; pr’ythee tell:

That falling tear—what does it mean?”

She sigh’d; she smiled: and to the flowersPointing, the lovely moralist said—“See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,See yonder, what a change is made!”

She sigh’d; she smiled: and to the flowers

Pointing, the lovely moralist said—

“See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,

See yonder, what a change is made!”

Ah me! the blooming pride of May,And that of beauty, are but one:At morn both flourish bright and gay;Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.

Ah me! the blooming pride of May,

And that of beauty, are but one:

At morn both flourish bright and gay;

Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.

At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,The amorous youth around her bow’d:At night her fatal knell was rung;I saw and kiss’d her in her shroud.

At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,

The amorous youth around her bow’d:

At night her fatal knell was rung;

I saw and kiss’d her in her shroud.

Such as she is, who died to-day,Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;Go, Damon, bid the Muse displayThe justice of thy Chloe’s sorrow.Matthew Prior, 1664–1721.

Such as she is, who died to-day,

Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;

Go, Damon, bid the Muse display

The justice of thy Chloe’s sorrow.

Matthew Prior, 1664–1721.

FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tearsSpeak grief in you,Who were but bornJust as the modest mornTeem’d her refreshing dew!Alas! ye have not known that showerThat mars a flower;Nor felt the unkindBreath of a blasting wind;Nor are ye worn with years;Or warp’d as we,Who think it strange to seeSuch pretty flowers, like to orphans young,Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.Speak, whimpering younglings, and make knownThe reason whyYe droop and weep;Is it for want of sleep,Or childish lullaby?Or that ye have not seen as yetThe violet?Or brought a kissFrom that sweetheart to this?No, no; this sorrow shown,By your tears shed,Would have this lecture read:That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.Robert Herrick, 1591.

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears

Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn

Teem’d her refreshing dew!

Alas! ye have not known that shower

That mars a flower;

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;

Nor are ye worn with years;

Or warp’d as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,

Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make knownThe reason whyYe droop and weep;Is it for want of sleep,Or childish lullaby?Or that ye have not seen as yetThe violet?Or brought a kissFrom that sweetheart to this?No, no; this sorrow shown,By your tears shed,Would have this lecture read:That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.Robert Herrick, 1591.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known

The reason why

Ye droop and weep;

Is it for want of sleep,

Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet

The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweetheart to this?

No, no; this sorrow shown,

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read:

That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,

Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

Robert Herrick, 1591.

TO THE NARCISSUS.

Arise, and speak thy sorrows, Echo, rise;Here, by this fountain, where thy love did pine,Whose memory lives fresh to vulgar fame,Shrined in this yellow flower, that bears his name.

Arise, and speak thy sorrows, Echo, rise;

Here, by this fountain, where thy love did pine,

Whose memory lives fresh to vulgar fame,

Shrined in this yellow flower, that bears his name.

His name revives, and lifts me up from earth;See, see the mourning fount, whose springs weep yetTh’ untimely fate of that too beauteous boy,That trophy of self-love, and spoil of nature,Who (now transform’d into this drooping flower)Hangs the repentant head back from the stream;As if it wish’d—would I had never look’dIn such a flattering mirror! O, Narcissus!Thou that wast once (and yet art) my Narcissus,Had Echo but been private with thy thoughts,She would have dropped away herself in tearsTill she had all turn’d waste, that in her(As in a true glass) thou might’st have gazed,And seen thy beauties by more kind reflection.But self-love never yet could look on truthBut with blear’d beams; slick flattery and sheAre twin-born sisters, and do mix their eyes,As if you sever one, the other dies.Why did the gods give thee a heavenly form,And earthly thoughts to make thee proud of it?Why do I ask? ’Tis now the known diseaseThat beauty hath, to bear too deep a senseOf her own self-conceived excellence.O hadst thou known the worth of Heaven’s rich gift,Thou wouldst have turn’d it to a truer use,And not (with starved and covetous ignorance)Pined in continual eyeing that bright gem,The glance whereof to others had been moreThan to thy famish’d mind the wide world’s store.Ben Jonson, 1574–1637.

His name revives, and lifts me up from earth;

See, see the mourning fount, whose springs weep yet

Th’ untimely fate of that too beauteous boy,

That trophy of self-love, and spoil of nature,

Who (now transform’d into this drooping flower)

Hangs the repentant head back from the stream;

As if it wish’d—would I had never look’d

In such a flattering mirror! O, Narcissus!

Thou that wast once (and yet art) my Narcissus,

Had Echo but been private with thy thoughts,

She would have dropped away herself in tears

Till she had all turn’d waste, that in her

(As in a true glass) thou might’st have gazed,

And seen thy beauties by more kind reflection.

But self-love never yet could look on truth

But with blear’d beams; slick flattery and she

Are twin-born sisters, and do mix their eyes,

As if you sever one, the other dies.

Why did the gods give thee a heavenly form,

And earthly thoughts to make thee proud of it?

Why do I ask? ’Tis now the known disease

That beauty hath, to bear too deep a sense

Of her own self-conceived excellence.

O hadst thou known the worth of Heaven’s rich gift,

Thou wouldst have turn’d it to a truer use,

And not (with starved and covetous ignorance)

Pined in continual eyeing that bright gem,

The glance whereof to others had been more

Than to thy famish’d mind the wide world’s store.

Ben Jonson, 1574–1637.

THE ROSE.

Go, lovely rose!Tell her that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.Tell her that’s young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That hadst thou sprungIn deserts where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired;Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.Then die, that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee;How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair.Yet, though thou fade,From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;And teach the maidThat goodness Time’s rude hand defies;That virtue lives when beauty dies.Edmund Waller, 1605–1687.

Go, lovely rose!Tell her that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Go, lovely rose!

Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that’s young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That hadst thou sprungIn deserts where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.

Tell her that’s young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired;Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee;How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair.

Then die, that she

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

Yet, though thou fade,From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;And teach the maidThat goodness Time’s rude hand defies;That virtue lives when beauty dies.Edmund Waller, 1605–1687.

Yet, though thou fade,

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;

And teach the maid

That goodness Time’s rude hand defies;

That virtue lives when beauty dies.

Edmund Waller, 1605–1687.

O my fountain, so fresh and cool,O my rose, so rosy red!Why art thou blown out so early?None have I to pluck thee for!If I plucked thee for my mother—Ah, poor girl, I have no mother.If I plucked thee for my sister—Gone is my sister with her husband.If I plucked thee for my brother—To the war my brother’s gone.If I plucked thee for my lover—Gone 's my lover far away!Far away, o’er three green mountains,Far away, o’er three cool fountains!Translated byTalvi.

O my fountain, so fresh and cool,

O my rose, so rosy red!

Why art thou blown out so early?

None have I to pluck thee for!

If I plucked thee for my mother—

Ah, poor girl, I have no mother.

If I plucked thee for my sister—

Gone is my sister with her husband.

If I plucked thee for my brother—

To the war my brother’s gone.

If I plucked thee for my lover—

Gone 's my lover far away!

Far away, o’er three green mountains,

Far away, o’er three cool fountains!

Translated byTalvi.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,Why do ye fall so fast?Your date is not so pastBut you may stay yet here awhile,To blush and gently smile,And go at last.What were ye born to be,An hour or half’s delight,And so to bid good-night?’Twas pity nature brought ye forth,Merely to show your worth,And lose you quite.But you are lovely leaves, where weMay read how soon things haveTheir end, though ne’er so brave;And after they have shown their pride,Like you awhile they glide,Into the grave.Robert Herrick, 1591.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,Why do ye fall so fast?Your date is not so pastBut you may stay yet here awhile,To blush and gently smile,And go at last.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past

But you may stay yet here awhile,

To blush and gently smile,

And go at last.

What were ye born to be,An hour or half’s delight,And so to bid good-night?’Twas pity nature brought ye forth,Merely to show your worth,And lose you quite.

What were ye born to be,

An hour or half’s delight,

And so to bid good-night?

’Twas pity nature brought ye forth,

Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where weMay read how soon things haveTheir end, though ne’er so brave;And after they have shown their pride,Like you awhile they glide,Into the grave.Robert Herrick, 1591.

But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne’er so brave;

And after they have shown their pride,

Like you awhile they glide,

Into the grave.

Robert Herrick, 1591.

FROM “JOURNAL OF A NATURALIST.”

The amusements and fancies of children, when connected with flowers, are always pleasing, being generally the conceptions of innocent minds unbiased by artifice or pretense; and their love of them seems to spring from a genuine feeling and admiration—a kind of sympathy with objects as fair as their own untainted minds; and I think it is early flowers which constitute their first natural playthings; though summer presents a greater number and variety, they are not so fondly selected. We have our daisies strung and wreathed about our dress; our coronals of orchises and primroses, our cowslip balls, etc.; and oneapplication of flowers at this season I have noticed, which, though perhaps it is local, yet it has a remarkably pretty effect, forming, for the time, one of the gayest little shrubs that can be seen. A small branch or long spray of the whitethorn, with all its spines uninjured, is selected; and on these, its alternate thorns, a white and blue violet, plucked from their stalks, are stuck upright in succession, until the thorns are covered, and when placed in a flower-pot of moss, it has perfectly the appearance of a beautiful vernal flowering dwarf shrub, and as long as it remains fresh is an object of surprise and delight.

J. L. Knapp.

When Love was a child, and went idling roundAmong flowers the whole summer’s day,One morn in the valley a bower he found,So sweet, it allured him to stay.O’erhead from the trees hung a garland fair,A fountain ran darkly beneath;’Twas Pleasure that hung the bright flowers up there,Love knew it and jump’d at the wreath.But Love did not know—and at his weak years,What urchin was likely to know?—That sorrow had made of her own salt tears,That fountain which murmur’d below.He caught at the wreath, but with too much haste,As boys when impatient will do;It fell in those waters of briny taste,And the flowers were all wet through.Yet this is the wreath he wears night and day;And though it all sunny appearsWith Pleasure’s own luster, each leaf, they say,Still tastes of the fountain of tears.Thomas Moore.

When Love was a child, and went idling roundAmong flowers the whole summer’s day,One morn in the valley a bower he found,So sweet, it allured him to stay.

When Love was a child, and went idling round

Among flowers the whole summer’s day,

One morn in the valley a bower he found,

So sweet, it allured him to stay.

O’erhead from the trees hung a garland fair,A fountain ran darkly beneath;’Twas Pleasure that hung the bright flowers up there,Love knew it and jump’d at the wreath.

O’erhead from the trees hung a garland fair,

A fountain ran darkly beneath;

’Twas Pleasure that hung the bright flowers up there,

Love knew it and jump’d at the wreath.

But Love did not know—and at his weak years,What urchin was likely to know?—That sorrow had made of her own salt tears,That fountain which murmur’d below.

But Love did not know—and at his weak years,

What urchin was likely to know?—

That sorrow had made of her own salt tears,

That fountain which murmur’d below.

He caught at the wreath, but with too much haste,As boys when impatient will do;It fell in those waters of briny taste,And the flowers were all wet through.

He caught at the wreath, but with too much haste,

As boys when impatient will do;

It fell in those waters of briny taste,

And the flowers were all wet through.

Yet this is the wreath he wears night and day;And though it all sunny appearsWith Pleasure’s own luster, each leaf, they say,Still tastes of the fountain of tears.Thomas Moore.

Yet this is the wreath he wears night and day;

And though it all sunny appears

With Pleasure’s own luster, each leaf, they say,

Still tastes of the fountain of tears.

Thomas Moore.

Fair daffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon;As yet, the early-rising sunHas not attain’d its noon.Stay, stay,Until the hastening dayHas runBut to the even song;And having pray’d together, weWill go with you along.We have short time to stay as you,We have as short a spring;As quick a growth to meet decay,As you or any thing.We die,As your hours do, and dryAway,Like to the summer’s rain,Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,Ne’er to be found again.Robert Herrick, 1591.

Fair daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;

As yet, the early-rising sun

Has not attain’d its noon.

Stay, stay,

Until the hastening day

Has run

But to the even song;

And having pray’d together, we

Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you,We have as short a spring;As quick a growth to meet decay,As you or any thing.We die,As your hours do, and dryAway,Like to the summer’s rain,Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,Ne’er to be found again.Robert Herrick, 1591.

We have short time to stay as you,

We have as short a spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay,

As you or any thing.

We die,

As your hours do, and dry

Away,

Like to the summer’s rain,

Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,

Ne’er to be found again.

Robert Herrick, 1591.

The stream with languid murmur creepsIn Lumin’s flow’ry vale:Beneath the dew the lily weeps,Slow waving to the gale.“Cease, restless gale!” it seems to say,“Nor wake me with thy sighing;The honors of my vernal dayOn rapid wings are flying.“To-morrow shall the traveler comeWho late beheld me blooming;His searching eye shall vainly roamThe dreary vale of Lumin.”Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

The stream with languid murmur creepsIn Lumin’s flow’ry vale:Beneath the dew the lily weeps,Slow waving to the gale.

The stream with languid murmur creeps

In Lumin’s flow’ry vale:

Beneath the dew the lily weeps,

Slow waving to the gale.

“Cease, restless gale!” it seems to say,“Nor wake me with thy sighing;The honors of my vernal dayOn rapid wings are flying.

“Cease, restless gale!” it seems to say,

“Nor wake me with thy sighing;

The honors of my vernal day

On rapid wings are flying.

“To-morrow shall the traveler comeWho late beheld me blooming;His searching eye shall vainly roamThe dreary vale of Lumin.”Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

“To-morrow shall the traveler come

Who late beheld me blooming;

His searching eye shall vainly roam

The dreary vale of Lumin.”

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

I stood tiptoe upon a little hill;The air was cooling, and so very still,That the sweet buds which with a modest prideFell droopingly in slanting curve aside,Their scanty-leaved and finely tapering stemsHad not yet lost their starry diadems,Caught from the early sobbings of the morn.The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn.And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they sleptOn the blue fields of heaven, and then there creptA little noiseless noise among the leaves,Born of the very sigh that silence heaves;For not the faintest motion could be seenOf all the shades that slanted o’er the green.There was wide wandering for the greediest eye,To peer about upon variety;Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim,And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;To picture out the quaint and curious bendingOf a fresh woodland alley never-ending:Or by the bowery clefts and leafy shelves,Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.I gazed awhile, and felt as light and freeAs though the fanning wings of MercuryHad play’d upon my heels: I was light-hearted,And many pleasures to my vision started;So I straightway began to pluck a posyOf luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy.A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them;Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them;And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep themMoist, cool, and green; and shade the violets,That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.A filbert-edge with wild-brier overtwined,And clumps of woodbine taking the soft windUpon their summer thrones; there too should beThe frequent checker of a youngling tree,That with a score of bright-green brethren shootsFrom the quaint mossiness of aged roots:Round which is heard a spring head of clear waters.Prattling so wildly of its lovely daughters,The spreading blue-bells: it may haply mournThat such fair clusters should be rudely tornFrom their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlesslyBy infant hands left on the path to die.Open afresh your round of starry folds,Ye ardent marigolds!Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,For great Apollo bidsThat in these days your praises should be sungOn many harps, which he has lately strung;And when again your dewiness he kisses,Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:So haply when I rove in some far vale,His mighty voice may come upon the gale.Here are sweet-peas, on tiptoe for a flight,With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,And taper fingers catching at all things,To bind them all about with tiny rings.What next? a turf of evening primroses,O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes;O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,But that ’tis ever startled by the leapOf buds into ripe flowers.John Keats.

I stood tiptoe upon a little hill;

The air was cooling, and so very still,

That the sweet buds which with a modest pride

Fell droopingly in slanting curve aside,

Their scanty-leaved and finely tapering stems

Had not yet lost their starry diadems,

Caught from the early sobbings of the morn.

The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn.

And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept

On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept

A little noiseless noise among the leaves,

Born of the very sigh that silence heaves;

For not the faintest motion could be seen

Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green.

There was wide wandering for the greediest eye,

To peer about upon variety;

Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim,

And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;

To picture out the quaint and curious bending

Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending:

Or by the bowery clefts and leafy shelves,

Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.

I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free

As though the fanning wings of Mercury

Had play’d upon my heels: I was light-hearted,

And many pleasures to my vision started;

So I straightway began to pluck a posy

Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy.

A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them;

Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them;

And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,

And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them

Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets,

That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

A filbert-edge with wild-brier overtwined,

And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind

Upon their summer thrones; there too should be

The frequent checker of a youngling tree,

That with a score of bright-green brethren shoots

From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:

Round which is heard a spring head of clear waters.

Prattling so wildly of its lovely daughters,

The spreading blue-bells: it may haply mourn

That such fair clusters should be rudely torn

From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly

By infant hands left on the path to die.

Open afresh your round of starry folds,

Ye ardent marigolds!

Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,

For great Apollo bids

That in these days your praises should be sung

On many harps, which he has lately strung;

And when again your dewiness he kisses,

Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:

So haply when I rove in some far vale,

His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

Here are sweet-peas, on tiptoe for a flight,

With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,

And taper fingers catching at all things,

To bind them all about with tiny rings.

What next? a turf of evening primroses,

O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes;

O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,

But that ’tis ever startled by the leap

Of buds into ripe flowers.

John Keats.

Our sweet autumnal western-scented windRobs of its odor none so sweet a flower,In all the blooming waste it left behind,As that sweet-brier yields it; and the showerWets not a rose that buds in beauty’s bowerOne half so lovely; yet it grows alongThe poor girl’s pathway; by the poor man’s door.Such are the simple folks it dwells among;And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.I love it, for it takes its untouch’d standNot in the vase that sculptors decorate;Its sweetness all is of my native land;And e’en its fragrant leaf has not its mateAmong the perfumes which the rich and greatBring from the odors of the spicy East.You love your flowers and plants, and will you hateThe little four-leaved rose that I love best,That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest?J. G. C. Brainard.

Our sweet autumnal western-scented wind

Robs of its odor none so sweet a flower,

In all the blooming waste it left behind,

As that sweet-brier yields it; and the shower

Wets not a rose that buds in beauty’s bower

One half so lovely; yet it grows along

The poor girl’s pathway; by the poor man’s door.

Such are the simple folks it dwells among;

And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.

I love it, for it takes its untouch’d standNot in the vase that sculptors decorate;Its sweetness all is of my native land;And e’en its fragrant leaf has not its mateAmong the perfumes which the rich and greatBring from the odors of the spicy East.You love your flowers and plants, and will you hateThe little four-leaved rose that I love best,That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest?J. G. C. Brainard.

I love it, for it takes its untouch’d stand

Not in the vase that sculptors decorate;

Its sweetness all is of my native land;

And e’en its fragrant leaf has not its mate

Among the perfumes which the rich and great

Bring from the odors of the spicy East.

You love your flowers and plants, and will you hate

The little four-leaved rose that I love best,

That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest?

J. G. C. Brainard.

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE.

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,Hid in this silent, dull retreat,Untouch’d thy honeyed blossoms blow,Unseen thy little branches greet:No roving foot shall crush thee here,No busy hand provoke a tear.By Nature’s self in white array’d,She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,And planted here the guardian shade,And sent soft waters murmuring by;Thus quietly thy summer goes,Thy days declining to repose.Smit with those charms that must decay,I grieve to see your future doom;They died—nor were those flowers more gayThe flowers that did in Eden bloom;Unpitying frosts and Autumn’s powerShall leave no vestige of this flower.From morning suns and evening dewsAt first thy little being came:If nothing once, you nothing lose,Or when you die you are the same;The space between is but an hour—The frail duration of a flower.Philip Freneau, 1752–1832.

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,

Hid in this silent, dull retreat,

Untouch’d thy honeyed blossoms blow,

Unseen thy little branches greet:

No roving foot shall crush thee here,

No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature’s self in white array’d,She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,And planted here the guardian shade,And sent soft waters murmuring by;Thus quietly thy summer goes,Thy days declining to repose.

By Nature’s self in white array’d,

She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,

And planted here the guardian shade,

And sent soft waters murmuring by;

Thus quietly thy summer goes,

Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms that must decay,I grieve to see your future doom;They died—nor were those flowers more gayThe flowers that did in Eden bloom;Unpitying frosts and Autumn’s powerShall leave no vestige of this flower.

Smit with those charms that must decay,

I grieve to see your future doom;

They died—nor were those flowers more gay

The flowers that did in Eden bloom;

Unpitying frosts and Autumn’s power

Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dewsAt first thy little being came:If nothing once, you nothing lose,Or when you die you are the same;The space between is but an hour—The frail duration of a flower.Philip Freneau, 1752–1832.

From morning suns and evening dews

At first thy little being came:

If nothing once, you nothing lose,

Or when you die you are the same;

The space between is but an hour—

The frail duration of a flower.

Philip Freneau, 1752–1832.

I dreamed that, as I wander’d by the way,Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring,And gentle odors led my steps astray,Mix’d with a sound of waters murmuringAlong a shelving bank of turf, which layUnder a copse, and hardly dared to flingIts green arms round the bosom of the stream,But kiss’d it and then fled, as thou mightest in a dream.There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,Daisies, those pearl’d Arcturi of the earth,The constellated flower that never sets;Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birthThe sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wetsIts mother’s face with heaven-collected tears,When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,Green cowbind and the moonlight-color’d May,And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wineWas the bright dew yet drain’d not by the day;And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray,And flowers azure, black, and streak’d with gold;Fairer than any waken’d eyes behold.And nearer to the river’s trembling edgeThere grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white,And starry river buds among the sedge,And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,Which lit the oak that overhung the hedgeWith moonlight beams of their own watery light;And bulrushes and reeds of such deep greenAs soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.Methought that of these visionary flowersI made a nosegay, bound in such a wayThat the same hues which in their natural bowersWere mingled or opposed, the like arrayKept these imprison’d children of the hoursWithin my hand—and then, elate and gay,I hasten’d to the spot whence I had come,That I might there present it!—oh, to whom?P. B. Shelley.

I dreamed that, as I wander’d by the way,

Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring,

And gentle odors led my steps astray,

Mix’d with a sound of waters murmuring

Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling

Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,

But kiss’d it and then fled, as thou mightest in a dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,Daisies, those pearl’d Arcturi of the earth,The constellated flower that never sets;Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birthThe sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wetsIts mother’s face with heaven-collected tears,When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,

Daisies, those pearl’d Arcturi of the earth,

The constellated flower that never sets;

Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth

The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets

Its mother’s face with heaven-collected tears,

When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,Green cowbind and the moonlight-color’d May,And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wineWas the bright dew yet drain’d not by the day;And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray,And flowers azure, black, and streak’d with gold;Fairer than any waken’d eyes behold.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,

Green cowbind and the moonlight-color’d May,

And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine

Was the bright dew yet drain’d not by the day;

And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray,

And flowers azure, black, and streak’d with gold;

Fairer than any waken’d eyes behold.

And nearer to the river’s trembling edgeThere grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white,And starry river buds among the sedge,And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,Which lit the oak that overhung the hedgeWith moonlight beams of their own watery light;And bulrushes and reeds of such deep greenAs soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

And nearer to the river’s trembling edge

There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white,

And starry river buds among the sedge,

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,

Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge

With moonlight beams of their own watery light;

And bulrushes and reeds of such deep green

As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowersI made a nosegay, bound in such a wayThat the same hues which in their natural bowersWere mingled or opposed, the like arrayKept these imprison’d children of the hoursWithin my hand—and then, elate and gay,I hasten’d to the spot whence I had come,That I might there present it!—oh, to whom?P. B. Shelley.

Methought that of these visionary flowers

I made a nosegay, bound in such a way

That the same hues which in their natural bowers

Were mingled or opposed, the like array

Kept these imprison’d children of the hours

Within my hand—and then, elate and gay,

I hasten’d to the spot whence I had come,

That I might there present it!—oh, to whom?

P. B. Shelley.

“I must tell you a feat of my dog Beau. Walking by the river side, I observed some water-lilies floating at a little distance from the bank. They are a large white flower, with an orange-colored eye, very beautiful. I had a desire to gather one, and, having your long cane in my hand, by the help of it endeavored to bring one of them within my reach. But the attempt proved vain, and I walked forward. Beau had all the while observed me very attentively. Returning soon after toward the same place, I observed him plunge into the river, while I wasabout forty yards distant from him; and, when I had nearly reached the spot, he swam to land, with a lily in his mouth, which he came and laid at my feet.”

W. Cowperto Lady Hesketh, June 27th, 1788.

We are the sweet flowers,Born of sunny showers,(Think, whene’er you see us, what our beauty saith;)Utterance, mute and bright,Of some unknown delight,We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath:All who see us love us—We befit all places:Unto sorrow we give smiles—and unto graces, racesMark our ways, how noiselessAll, and sweetly voiceless,Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage clear;Not a whisper tellsWhere our small seed dwells,Nor is known the moment green, when our tips appear.We thread the earth in silence,In silence build our bowers—And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers.The dear lumpish baby,Humming with the May-bee,Hails us with his bright star, stumbling through the grass;The honey-dropping moon,On a night in June,Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass.Age, the wither’d clinger,On us mutely gazes,And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood’s daisies.See (and scorn all dullerTaste) how heav’n loves color;How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green;What sweet thoughts she thinksOf violets and pinks,And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen:See her whitest liliesChill the silver showers,And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman of her flowers.Uselessness divinest,Of a use the finest,Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use;Travelers, weary eyed,Bless us, far and wide;Unto sick and prison’d thoughts we give sudden truce:Not a poor town windowLoves its sickliest planting,But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian vaunting.Sagest yet the uses,Mix’d with our sweet juices,Whether man or May-fly, profit of the balm,As fair fingers heal’dKnights from the olden fieldWe hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm.Ev’n the terror, poison,Hath its plea for blooming;Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.And oh! our sweet soul-taker,That thief, the honey maker,What a house hath he, by the thymy glen!In his talking roomsHow the feasting fumes,Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men!The butterflies come apingThose fine thieves of ours,And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers.See those tops, how beauteous!What fair service duteousRound some idol waits, as on their lord the NineElfin court ’twould seem;And taught, perchance, that dreamWhich the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights divine.To expound such wonderHuman speech avails not;Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not.Think of all these treasures,Matchless works and pleasures,Every one a marvel, more than thought can say;Then think in what bright showersWe thicken fields and bowers,And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May:Think of the mossy forestsBy the bee-birds haunted,And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as enchanted.Trees themselves are ours;Fruits are born of flowers;Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the spring;The lusty bee knows wellThe news, and comes pell-mell,And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome antheming.Beneath the very burdenOf planet-pressing ocean,We wash our smiling cheeks in peace—a thought for meek devotion.Tears of Phœbus—missingsOf Cytherea’s kissings,Have in us been found, and wise men find them still;Drooping grace unfurlsStill Hyacinthus’ curls,And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill:Thy red lip, Adonis,Still is wet with morning;And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy brier adorning.O! true things are fables,Fit for sagest tables,And the flowers are true things—yet no fables they;Fables were not moreBright, nor loved of yore—Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old pathway:Grossest hand can test us;Fools may prize us never:Yet we rise, and rise, and rise—marvels sweet for ever.Who shall say, that flowersDress not heaven’s own bowers?Who its love, without us, can fancy—or sweet floor?Who shall even dareTo say, we sprang not there—And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heaven the more?O! pray believe that angelsFrom those blue dominions,Brought us in their white laps down, ’twixt their golden pinions.Leigh Hunt.

We are the sweet flowers,

Born of sunny showers,

(Think, whene’er you see us, what our beauty saith;)

Utterance, mute and bright,

Of some unknown delight,

We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath:

All who see us love us—

We befit all places:

Unto sorrow we give smiles—and unto graces, races

Mark our ways, how noiselessAll, and sweetly voiceless,Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage clear;Not a whisper tellsWhere our small seed dwells,Nor is known the moment green, when our tips appear.We thread the earth in silence,In silence build our bowers—And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers.

Mark our ways, how noiseless

All, and sweetly voiceless,

Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage clear;

Not a whisper tells

Where our small seed dwells,

Nor is known the moment green, when our tips appear.

We thread the earth in silence,

In silence build our bowers—

And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers.

The dear lumpish baby,Humming with the May-bee,Hails us with his bright star, stumbling through the grass;The honey-dropping moon,On a night in June,Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass.Age, the wither’d clinger,On us mutely gazes,And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood’s daisies.

The dear lumpish baby,

Humming with the May-bee,

Hails us with his bright star, stumbling through the grass;

The honey-dropping moon,

On a night in June,

Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass.

Age, the wither’d clinger,

On us mutely gazes,

And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood’s daisies.

See (and scorn all dullerTaste) how heav’n loves color;How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green;What sweet thoughts she thinksOf violets and pinks,And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen:See her whitest liliesChill the silver showers,And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman of her flowers.

See (and scorn all duller

Taste) how heav’n loves color;

How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green;

What sweet thoughts she thinks

Of violets and pinks,

And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen:

See her whitest lilies

Chill the silver showers,

And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman of her flowers.

Uselessness divinest,Of a use the finest,Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use;Travelers, weary eyed,Bless us, far and wide;Unto sick and prison’d thoughts we give sudden truce:Not a poor town windowLoves its sickliest planting,But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian vaunting.

Uselessness divinest,

Of a use the finest,

Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use;

Travelers, weary eyed,

Bless us, far and wide;

Unto sick and prison’d thoughts we give sudden truce:

Not a poor town window

Loves its sickliest planting,

But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian vaunting.

Sagest yet the uses,Mix’d with our sweet juices,Whether man or May-fly, profit of the balm,As fair fingers heal’dKnights from the olden fieldWe hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm.Ev’n the terror, poison,Hath its plea for blooming;Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.

Sagest yet the uses,

Mix’d with our sweet juices,

Whether man or May-fly, profit of the balm,

As fair fingers heal’d

Knights from the olden field

We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm.

Ev’n the terror, poison,

Hath its plea for blooming;

Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.

And oh! our sweet soul-taker,That thief, the honey maker,What a house hath he, by the thymy glen!In his talking roomsHow the feasting fumes,Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men!The butterflies come apingThose fine thieves of ours,And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers.

And oh! our sweet soul-taker,

That thief, the honey maker,

What a house hath he, by the thymy glen!

In his talking rooms

How the feasting fumes,

Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men!

The butterflies come aping

Those fine thieves of ours,

And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers.

See those tops, how beauteous!What fair service duteousRound some idol waits, as on their lord the NineElfin court ’twould seem;And taught, perchance, that dreamWhich the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights divine.To expound such wonderHuman speech avails not;Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not.

See those tops, how beauteous!

What fair service duteous

Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine

Elfin court ’twould seem;

And taught, perchance, that dream

Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights divine.

To expound such wonder

Human speech avails not;

Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not.

Think of all these treasures,Matchless works and pleasures,Every one a marvel, more than thought can say;Then think in what bright showersWe thicken fields and bowers,And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May:Think of the mossy forestsBy the bee-birds haunted,And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as enchanted.

Think of all these treasures,

Matchless works and pleasures,

Every one a marvel, more than thought can say;

Then think in what bright showers

We thicken fields and bowers,

And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May:

Think of the mossy forests

By the bee-birds haunted,

And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as enchanted.

Trees themselves are ours;Fruits are born of flowers;Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the spring;The lusty bee knows wellThe news, and comes pell-mell,And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome antheming.Beneath the very burdenOf planet-pressing ocean,We wash our smiling cheeks in peace—a thought for meek devotion.

Trees themselves are ours;

Fruits are born of flowers;

Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the spring;

The lusty bee knows well

The news, and comes pell-mell,

And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome antheming.

Beneath the very burden

Of planet-pressing ocean,

We wash our smiling cheeks in peace—a thought for meek devotion.

Tears of Phœbus—missingsOf Cytherea’s kissings,Have in us been found, and wise men find them still;Drooping grace unfurlsStill Hyacinthus’ curls,And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill:Thy red lip, Adonis,Still is wet with morning;And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy brier adorning.

Tears of Phœbus—missings

Of Cytherea’s kissings,

Have in us been found, and wise men find them still;

Drooping grace unfurls

Still Hyacinthus’ curls,

And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill:

Thy red lip, Adonis,

Still is wet with morning;

And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy brier adorning.

O! true things are fables,Fit for sagest tables,And the flowers are true things—yet no fables they;Fables were not moreBright, nor loved of yore—Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old pathway:Grossest hand can test us;Fools may prize us never:Yet we rise, and rise, and rise—marvels sweet for ever.

O! true things are fables,

Fit for sagest tables,

And the flowers are true things—yet no fables they;

Fables were not more

Bright, nor loved of yore—

Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old pathway:

Grossest hand can test us;

Fools may prize us never:

Yet we rise, and rise, and rise—marvels sweet for ever.

Who shall say, that flowersDress not heaven’s own bowers?Who its love, without us, can fancy—or sweet floor?Who shall even dareTo say, we sprang not there—And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heaven the more?O! pray believe that angelsFrom those blue dominions,Brought us in their white laps down, ’twixt their golden pinions.Leigh Hunt.

Who shall say, that flowers

Dress not heaven’s own bowers?

Who its love, without us, can fancy—or sweet floor?

Who shall even dare

To say, we sprang not there—

And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heaven the more?

O! pray believe that angels

From those blue dominions,

Brought us in their white laps down, ’twixt their golden pinions.

Leigh Hunt.

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