The language of flowers The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowers
without fragrance. They give gayety to the shrubbery until a late season
of the year, throwing out a succession of flowers till the arrival of
frost.
* * * * *
Yet, press on!
For it shall make you mighty among men;
And, from the eyrie of your eagle thought,
Ye shall look down on monarchs. Oh! press on!
For the high ones and powerful shall come
To do you reverence; and the beautiful
Will know the purer language of your soul,
And read it like a talisman of love.
Press on! for it is godlike to unloose
The spirit, and forget yourself in thought.
_Willis._
* * * * *
To the expanded and aspiring soul,
To be but still the thing it long has been,
Is misery, e’en though enthroned it were
Under the cope of high imperial state.
_Joanna Baillie._
* * * * *
Ay,--father!--I have had those earthly visions
And noble aspirations in my youth,
To make my own the mind of other men,
The enlightener of nations: and to rise
I knew not whither--it might be to fall;
But fall, even as the mountain cataract,
Which having leapt from its more dazzling height,
Even in the foaming strength of its abyss,
Lies low but mighty still.--But this is past,
My thoughts mistook themselves.
_Byron._
* * * * *
I loved to hear the war-horn cry,
And panted at the drum’s deep roll;
And held my breath, when--flaming high--
I saw our starry banners fly,
As, challenging the haughty sky,
They went like battle o’er my soul;
For I was so ambitious then,
I burned to be the slave--of men.
_John Neal._
* * * * *
Know thou ambition is a restless flame,
Which ever strives to reach the high-placed stars!
_Peerbold._
* * * * *
Ambition takes a thousand shapes among
Our race of Time’s most valued toys, and yet
In court, in camp, in school, and mid the buzz
Of eager trade her spirit is the same.
_C. Watson._
LAUREL.... _Glory_.
Among the ancient Greeks and Romans, the Laurel was consecrated to every
species of glory. The beautiful shrub grows abundantly at Delphi, on the
banks of the river Peneus. There its aromatic and evergreen branches
shoot up to the height of the loftiest trees; and it is alleged that, by
means of some secret virtue, they avert lightning from the spots which
they adorn.
According to ancient fable, Daphne was the daughter of the river Peneus.
Apollo fell in love with her, but she, preferring virtue to the love of
the most eloquent of the gods, fled, in order to avoid the seducing
magic of his words. Apollo pursued, and was on the point of overtaking
her, when the nymph invoked her father, and was changed into a Laurel.
The god, finding that he clasped an insensible tree in his arms, kissed
its bright leaves. “Since thou canst not be my spouse,” said he, “thou
shalt, at least, be my tree.” Thence-forward the Laurel was sacred to
Apollo.
* * * * *
Ambition! ambition! I’ve laughed to scorn
Thy robe and thy gleaming sword;
I would follow sooner a woman’s eye,
Or the spell of a gentle word.
But come with the glory of human mind,
And the light of the scholar’s brow,
And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness,
And alone at thy altar bow.
_Willis._
* * * * *
Give me the trumpet tone of fame,
The victor’s wreath, the hero’s name;
Though bites the steel and clanks the chain,
I would a warrior’s glory gain,
A nation’s pet and idol be,
With slaves to crouch and bend the knee.
_W. H. C._
* * * * *
What is glory? What is fame?
The echo of a long-lost name;
A breath, an idle hour’s brief talk;
The shadow of an arrant naught;
A flower that blossoms for a day,
Dying next morrow;
A stream that hurries on its way,
Singing of sorrow.
_Motherwell._
* * * * *
In poet’s lore, and sentimental story,
It seems as ’twere this life’s supremest aim
For heroes to achieve what men call glory,
And die intoxicate with earth’s acclaim.
Ah me! how little care the dead for breath
Of vain applause that saved them not from death.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
To die, and leave some worthy work to earth,
Is but a fine transition. ’Tis to leave
A talisman to call the spirit back,
Reft of its ground-born tenement.
_C. Watson._
AMARANTH.... _Immortality_.
The Amaranth is unfading; and it has, therefore, been made the emblem of
immortality. In Homer’s time, it was customary to wear crowns of
Amaranth at the funerals of distinguished personages. Milton, in his
Lycidas, classes it among the flowers that “sad embroidery wear.” In the
floral games at Toulouse, the principal prize was a golden Amaranth for
the best lyric composition. The Amaranthus hypochondriacus, one of the
American species, is better known by the name of Prince’s Feather.
* * * * *
There’s a yearning that’s felt in your heart’s deepest cell,
And silently, vainly, within doth it swell;
And, scorning the hopes of the children of earth,
Seeks the bright home of its heavenly birth;
And that yearning, unquenched in the heart will lie,
Till refreshed by a draught from eternity.
_Miss Larcom._
* * * * *
Oh, listen man!
A voice within us speaks that startling word,
“Man, thou shalt never die!” Celestial voices
Hymn it unto our souls: according harps,
By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great immortality.
_Dana._
* * * * *
Immortal Amaranth! a flower which once
In paradise, fast by the tree of life
Began to bloom; but soon, for man’s offence,
To heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows
And flowers aloft, shading the tree of life.
_Milton._
* * * * *
There are distinctions that will live in heaven,
When time is a forgotten circumstance!
The elevated brow of kings will lose
The impress of regalia, and the slave
Will wear his immortality as free
Beside the crystal waters; but the depth
Of glory in the attributes of God
Will measure the capacities of mind;
And, as the angels differ, will the ken
Of gifted spirits glorify Him more.
_Willis._
* * * * *
Were death annihilation--were this life
A lamp extinguished, ne’er to be relit,--
Then words of deep despondency were fit;
Then man perchance might lift his arm in strife
Against his LORD. Were blessedness of mind
Dependent on the vastness of the heap
Of gold and gems the schemers ’mong mankind
Could gather--then ’twere virtuous to weep.
But ’tis not so. Infinity of time
Is yet to be. Beyond our vision lie
Eternal realms, ineffably sublime
And beautiful.
_MacKellar._
STRAWBERRY.... _Perfection_.
An eminent French author conceived the plan of writing a general history
of nature, after the model of the ancients. A Strawberry plant, which,
perchance, grew under his window, deterred him from this bold design. He
examined the Strawberry, and, in so doing, discovered so many wonders,
that he felt convinced the study of a single plant was sufficient to
occupy a whole lifetime. He therefore gave up the pompous title which he
had meditated for his work, and contented himself with calling it
“Studies of Nature.” The flowers of the Strawberry form pretty bouquets;
but, as the delicious fruit is preferred to the flower, they are seldom
plucked for that purpose. Among the glaciers of the Alps, the plants and
flowers of the Strawberry are found in all seasons of the year. The
plant seems to possess all the merits of plants, in their greatest
perfection. The berries are the favourite accompaniment of the lordly
feast and the most exquisite luxury of the rural repast. They vie in
freshness and perfume with the buds of the sweetest flowers; delighting
the eye, the taste, and smell, at the same time.
* * * * *
Let other bards of angels sing,
Bright suns without a spot;
But thou art no such perfect thing:
Rejoice that thou art not!
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
She’s noble--noble, one to keep
Embalmed for dreams of fevered sleep.
An eye for nature--taste refined,
Perception swift--and balanced mind,--
And, more than all, a gift of thought
To such a spirit fineness wrought,
That on my ear her language fell
As if each word dissolved a spell.
_Willis._
* * * * *
Oh! do not die, for we shall hate
All women so when you are gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,
When I remember thou wast one.
But yet thou canst not die, I know;
To leave this world behind is death;
But when thou from this world wilt go,
The whole world vapours in thy breath.
_Donne._
* * * * *
Were I to give my frolic fancy play,
I’d sing of her as some angelic sprite,
Who, wandering from her native home of light,
Fatigued, had fallen asleep upon the way;--
I’d fear to wake her, lest she’d plume her wings
And soar away from me and all sublunar things.
_MacKellar._
SUNFLOWER.... _False Riches_.
The Sunflower has been thus named from the resemblance which its broad
golden disk and rays bear to the sun. The first Spaniards who arrived in
Peru were amazed at the profuse display of gold among the people, but
they were still more astonished when, in May, they beheld whole fields
covered with these flowers, which they concluded, at first sight, must
be of the same precious metal. From this circumstance, and the
observation that gold, however abundant, cannot render a person truly
rich, the Sunflower has been made the emblem of false wealth. Many of
the English poets have adopted the notion that this flower ever turns
its face to the sun. Thomson, Moore, Darwin, and Barton make a very fine
use of the idea. But it is not a fact. Those flowers which face the east
at the opening of day, never turn to the west at the close of it.
* * * * *
Searcher of gold, whose days and nights
All waste away in anxious care,
Estranged from all of life’s delights,
Unlearned in all that is most fair--
Who sailest not with easy glide,
But delvest in the depths of tide,
And strugglest in the foam;
O! come and view this land of graves,
Death’s northern sea of frozen waves,
And mark thee out thy home.
_J. O. Rockwell._
* * * * *
Think’st thou the man whose mansions hold
The worldling’s pride, the miser’s gold,
Obtains a richer prize
Than he who in his cot, at rest,
Finds heavenly peace a willing guest,
And bears the earnest in his breast
Of treasure in the skies?
_Mrs. Sigourney._
* * * * *
Is all that heart requires, accomplished when