The language of flowers The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowers
Of life’s unfolding prime;
Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours;
Of souls without a crime.
Oh! blessed, blessed do ye seem,
For, even now, I turned,
With soul athirst for wood and stream,
From streets that glared and burned.
From the hot town, where mortal care
His crowded fold doth pen;
Where stagnates the polluted air
In many a sultry den.
And ye are here! and ye are here!
Drinking the dew-like wine,
Midst living gales and waters clear,
And heaven’s unstinted shine.
I care not that your little life
Will quickly have run through,
And the sward, with summer children rife,
Keep not a trace of you.
For again, again, on dewy plain,
I trust to see you rise,
When spring renews the wildwood strain,
And bluer gleam the skies.
Again, again, when many springs
Upon my grave shall shine,
Here shall you speak of vanished things,
To living hearts of mine.
_Mrs. Howitt._
* * * * *
Blest are the pure and simple hearts,
Unconsciously refined,
By the free gifts that Heaven imparts
Through nature to the mind;
Not all the pleasures wealth can buy
Equal their happy destiny.
_Mrs. Wells._
* * * * *
O Nature! a’ thy shows an’ forms
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!
Whether the simmer kindly warms,
Wi’ life an’ light.
Or winter howls, in gusty storms,
The lang, dark night!
_Burns._
* * * * *
Melancholy
Sits on me, as a cloud along the sky,
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet
Descend in rain, and end; but spreads itself
’Twixt heaven and earth, like envy between man
And man--an everlasting mist.
_Byron._
FORGET-ME-NOT.
The name of this flower expresses clearly enough the meaning which is
given to it. As a remembrancer it is universally received and eulogized.
The name is derived from a German tradition, full of melancholy romance.
It is related that a young couple, on the eve of being united, while
walking along the banks of the Danube, saw a cluster of these flowers,
floating on the stream, which was bearing it away. The affianced bride
admired the beauty of the flower, and lamented its fatal destiny. The
lover plunged into the water to secure it. No sooner had he caught it
than he found himself sinking; but, making a last effort, he threw it on
the bank at the feet of his betrothed, and, at the moment of
disappearing for ever, exclaimed, “_Vergiss mein nicht!_” Since that
event, this flower has been made emblematical of the sentiment,
Forget-me-not. Its corollas are of a soft cerulean-blue colour, and it
presents an interesting appearance as it grows along the banks of the
rivers. The Forget-me-not is found in great perfection on the banks of a
small stream near Luxembourg, in France. The stream is called the
Fairies’ Bath, and its banks are the favourite resort of festive
parties.
* * * * *
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,
Hope’s gentle gem--the fair Forget-me-not.
_Coleridge._
* * * * *
Not on the mountain’s shelving side,
Nor in the cultivated ground,
Nor in the garden’s painted pride,
The flower I seek is found.
Where Time on sorrow’s page of gloom
Has fixed its envious lot,
Or swept the record from the tomb,
It says Forget me not.
And this is still the loveliest flower,
The fairest of the fair,
Of all that deck my lady’s bower,
Or bind her floating hair.
_Göthe._
* * * * *
Together they sate by a river’s side,
A knight and a lady gay,
And they watched the deep and eddying tide
Round a flowery islet stray.
And, “Oh! for that flower of brilliant hue,”
Said then the lady fair,
“To grace my neck with the blossoms blue
And braid my nut-brown hair!”
The knight has plunged in the whirling wave
All for his lady’s smile:
And he swims the stream with courage brave,
And he gains yon flowery isle.
And his fingers have cropped the blossoms blue,
And the prize they backward bear;
To deck his love with the brilliant hue
And braid her nut-brown hair.
But the way is long, and the current strong,
And alas for that gallant knight!
For the waves prevail, and his stout arms fail,
Though cheered by his lady’s sight.
Then the blossoms blue to the bank he threw,
Ere he sank in the eddying tide;
And “Lady, I’m gone, thine own knight true,
Forget me not,” he cried.
This farewell pledge the lady caught;
And hence, as legends say,
The flower is a sign to awaken thought
In friends who are far away.
For the lady fair of her knight so true,
Still remembered the hapless lot:
And she cherished the flower of brilliant hue,
And she braided her hair with the blossoms blue
And then called it “Forget-me-not!”
_Mant._
* * * * *
To flourish in my favourite bower,
To blossom round my cot,
I cultivate the little flower
They call Forget-me-not.
This pretty little floweret’s dye
Of soft cerulean blue,
Appears as if from Ellen’s eye
It had received its hue.
Though oceans now betwixt us roar,
Though distant be our lot,
Ellen! though we should meet no more,
Sweet maid, Forget me not!
_Anon._
* * * * *
Forget thee, love?--no, not while heaven
Spans its starred vault across the sky;
Oh, may I never be forgiven,
If e’er I cause that heart a sigh!
Sooner shall the Forget-me-not
Shun the fringed brook by which it grows,
And pine for some sequestered spot,
Where not a silver ripple flows.
By the blue heaven that bends above me,
Dearly and fondly do I love thee!
They fabled not in days of old
That Love neglected soon will perish,--
Throughout all time the truth doth hold
That what we love we ever cherish,
For when the Sun neglects the Flower,
And the sweet pearly dews forsake it,
It hangs its head, and from that hour,
Prays only unto Death to take it.
So may I droop, by all above me,
If once this heart doth cease to love thee!
The turtle-dove that’s lost its mate,
Hides in some gloomy greenwood shade,
And there alone mourns o’er its fate,
With plumes for ever disarrayed:
Alone! alone! it there sits cooing:--
Deem’st thou, my love, what it doth seek?
’Tis Death the mournful bird is wooing,
In murmurs through its plaintive beak.
So will I mourn, by all above me,
If in this world I cease to love thee!
_Miller._
ROSEMARY.... _Remembrance_.
The Rosemary is so often mentioned by our early writers, both in prose,
poetry, and our oldest dramas, that a long article, possessing great
interest to such as love old-fashioned things, might be written upon it.
The Rosemary was used both at their feasts and their funerals,--the
christening-cup was stirred with it, and it was worn at their marriage
ceremonies. Shakspeare has chosen it for the emblem of Remembrance, and
who would attempt to change the meaning of a flower which his genius has
hallowed, or disturb a leaf over which he has breathed his holy
“superstition?”--in memory of him we use the latter word in all
reverence. A few years ago it was customary, in many parts of England,
to plant slips of Rosemary over the dead; nor has the practice yet
fallen altogether into disuse--rural cemeteries will revive these
ancient customs. Shakspeare chose the Rosemary as the emblem of
affectionate remembrance, for its flowering in winter,--a very poetic
and touching allusion. The sweet maniac, Ophelia, says,
There’s Rosemary, “That for remembrance,
I pray you love, remember.”
I loved thee, and must love thee still,
In memory of the past
Amid whate’er of earthly ill
My future lot is cast!
E’er in my boyhood’s sunny prime,
When brightly from the urn of Time
Life’s golden moments fell,
Thou wert a peri to my eyes,
Sent from Love’s own sweet paradise,
In my young heart to dwell.
_New York Mirror._
* * * * *
Remember me, I pray; but not
In Flora’s gay and blooming hour,
When every brake hath found its note,
And sunshine smiles in every flower;
But when the falling leaf is sere,
And withers sadly from the tree,
And o’er the ruins of the year
Cold autumn weeps,--remember me.
_Edward Everett._
* * * * *
The north wind howls; but, sheltered safe, and warm,
Howl as it may, we feel secure from danger:
The fire burns blue, “betokening a storm”--
A brand falls down, “precursor of a stranger.”
My thoughtful mind runs o’er the track of years,
When, tongs in hand, at our old hearth I sat,
And poked the embers, till my mother’s fears
Broke in upon the usual social chat,
“You’ll fire the chimney, son!” The sparks would fly,
Like little lumps of lightning up the flue,
And snap and crackle as they soared on high,
As if they felt some pleasure in it too!
That fire is out--that hearth is cold--and they
Who felt its pleasant warmth have mostly passed away.
_MacKellar._
ANEMONE.... _Forsaken_.
Anemone was a nymph, beloved by Zephyr. Flora, jealous of her, banished
her from her court and transformed her into a flower, that blows before
the return of spring. Zephyr has abandoned this unhappy beauty to the
rude caresses of Boreas, who, unable to gain her love, harshly shakes
her, half opens her blossoms, and causes her immediately to fade. An
Anemone, with these words, _Brevis est usus_--“Her reign is short”--is
touchingly expressive of the transitory nature of beauty.
In spring the green woods of merry England are covered with the flowers
of the Anemone. Turn the eye whichever way you will, there it greets you
like “a pleasant thought;” it forms a bed of flowers around the foot of
the mighty oak, and below the tangling brambles, which you may peep
between, but cannot pass,--there, also, are its pearly blossoms bending.
The Greeks named it the flower of the Wind, and so plentiful is it in
our country that we might fancy the breeze had blown it everywhere. The
gaudy Anemone of the garden, the emblem of forsaken love, is known to
all; but our favourites are the uncultivated offspring of the windy
woods, which come long before the broad green leaves hang overhead to
shelter them.
* * * * *
All flowers will droop in absence of the sun
That waked their sweets.
_Dryden._
* * * * *
Farewell! I’ve loved thee much!--I feel
That my idolatry was deep;
I know my heart can never heal,
Till in the grave my passions sleep.
Yet I upbraid thee not, my love;
’Twas all I had to offer thee,
Love in its own simplicity.
How could I deem thou wouldst approve?
How hope to draw an angel from above?
_Willis._
ACACIA.... _Friendship_.
The Acacia is a native of North America, from Canada to the Carolinas,
and was consecrated by the Indians to the goddess of chaste love. Their