The language of flowers The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowers
imprudent and coquettish female, who, though shivering with cold, wears
her spring attire in the depth of winter. The stalk of this shrub is
covered with a dry bark, which gives it the appearance of dead wood.
Nature, to hide this deformity, has encircled each of its sprays with a
wreath of red flowers, terminating in a tuft of leaves. These flowers
give out a peculiar and offensive smell.
You oftentimes can mark upon the street
The gilded toy whom fashion idolizes;
Heartless and fickle, swelled with self-conceit,
Avoiding alway what good sense advises.
Who flutters like the butterfly while burns his sun,
Nor afterwards is missed when life is done.
_W. H. C._
* * * * *
Clouds turn with every wind about;
They keep us in suspense and doubt;
Yet oft perverse, like woman-kind,
Are seen to scud against the wind.
Is not this lady just the same?
For who can tell what is her aim?
_Swift._
* * * * *
Thou delightest the cold world’s gaze,
When crowned with the flower and the gem,
But thy lover’s smile should be dearer praise
Than the incense thou prizest from them.
And gay is the playful tone,
As to the flattering voice thou respondest;
But what is the praise of the cold and unknown
To the tender blame of the fondest?
_John Everett._
* * * * *
Know, Celia, (since thou art so proud,)
’Twas I that gave thee thy renown:
Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd
Of common beauties, lived unknown,
Had not my verse exhaled thy name,
And with it impt the wings of Fame.
That killing power is none of thine,
I gave it to thy voice and eyes:
Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;
Thou art my star, shin’st in my skies!
Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere
Lightning on him that fixed thee there.
_Thomas Carew._
SNOWDROP. ... _Hope._
The Snowdrop is looked upon as the herald of the approach of
flower-wreathed Spring. The north winds howl; the naked branches of the
trees are white with frost; the earth is carpeted with the virgin snow;
the feathered musicians are silent; and stern Winter’s icy hand chills
the rivulet till it ceases to murmur. At this season, a tender flower
springs up amid the snow, expands its blossoms, and leads thought to the
verdant hours to come. This beautiful sign of awakening Nature may aptly
be considered as the emblem of Hope.
* * * * *
The Snowdrop, winter’s timid child,
Awakes to life bedewed with tears,
And flings around its fragrance mild;
And, where no rival flowerets bloom,
Amidst the bare and chilling gloom
A beauteous gem appears.
All weak and wan, with head inclined,
Its parent breast the drifted snow,
It trembles, while the ruthless wind
Bends its slim form; the tempest lowers,
Its emerald eye drops crystal showers
On its cold bed below.
Where’er I find thee, gentle flower,
Thou still art sweet and dear to me;
For I have known the cheerless hour,
Have seen the sunbeams cold and pale,
Have felt the chilling wintry gale,
And wept and shrunk, like thee!
_Mary Robinson._
* * * * *
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own;
Responds, as if with unseen wings
An angel touched its quivering strings,
And whispers in its song,
“Where hast thou stayed so long?”
_Longfellow._
* * * * *
The star of Hope will beam in Sorrow’s night,
And smile the phantoms of Despair to flight.
_Anon._
* * * * *
“Why do you call the Snowdrop pale,
Our first of flowerets bright?
For the Christmas Rose came long before,
So did the Aconite.”
I know the yellow Aconite;
I know the Christmas Rose:
But neither one nor other e’er
Within my garden grows.
They seem to me presumptuous things,
That rudely hurry on,
And struggle for the precedence
A fairer flower hath won.
When I was but a wee, wee thing,
A young Snowdrop I nursed,
And I loved it when they told me how
It always blossomed first.
I marked its tiny, trembling stem,
And dainty little bell,
And, oh! so tenderly enjoyed
Its faint, delicious smell.
It was not only fair and sweet,
’Twas the first flower that came;
So said they then, and there is none
I could love now the same.
The Aconite may deck with gold
Its merry little face--
The Christmas Rose at Christmas bloom,
But none can fill _her_ place.
Within my garden’s small domain
The Snowdrop still shall find
Herself the earliest flower. She leads,
The others come behind.
And, lo! above the heaving mould
The clustering bells hang here;
Like foam upon the storm-black wave,
Or pearls in Ethiop’s ear.
And I know where they’re crowding thick,
With none their wealth to note;--
All o’er that woody isle, that lies
Girt by the ancient moat.
There, under tall, dark crested firs,
The Snowdrops spring each year;
And shed about that gloomy place
A lightness pale and clear.
A grand old Manor House once stood
On that dim moated isle;
But long years since have floated by,
And its story died the while.
Yet roses, cultured ones, run wild,
And fruits, grown rough and sour,
That linger still around, tell tales
Of garden and of bower.
And so the Snowdrops may have dwelt
In borders neat and trim,
And gentle beings tended them,
Though now all’s drear and dim.
The brave and beautiful have died,
Not e’en a name is known:--
Time hath laid low the stately house,--
Ye cannot find a stone.
But still there runneth brightly there
The little sedgy stream
Into the moat, that lieth still
And shadowy as a dream.
And still there groweth plenteously
The fragile Snowdrop’s bell:--
Oh, human pride! that thou wouldst list
The tale these small things tell!
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
As Hope, with bowed head, silent stood,
And on her golden anchor leant,
Watching below the angry flood,
While Winter, mid the dreariment
Half-buried in the drifted snow,
Lay sleeping on the frozen ground,
Not heeding how the wind did blow,
Bitter and bleak on all around:
She gazed on Spring, who at her feet
Was looking on the snow and sleet.
Spring sighed, and through the driving gale
Her warm breath caught the falling snow,
And from the flakes a flower as pale
Did into spotless whiteness blow.
Hope, smiling, saw the blossom fall,
And watched its root strike in the earth:
“I will that flower the Snowdrop call,”
Said Hope, “in memory of its birth:
And through all ages it shall be
In reverence held, for love of me.”
“And ever from my hidden bowers,”
Said Spring, “it first of all shall go,
And be the herald of the flowers,
To warn away the sheeted snow.
Its mission done, then by thy side
All summer long it shall remain.
While other flowers I scatter wide,
O’er every hill, and wood, and plain,
This shall return, and ever be
A sweet companion, Hope, for thee.”
Hope stooped and kissed her sister Spring,
And said, “For hours, when thou art gone,
I’m left alone without a thing
That I can fix my heart upon:
’Twill cheer me many a lonely hour,
And in the future I shall see
Those who would sink raised by that flower;
They’ll look on it, then think of thee:
And many a sadful heart shall sing,
The Snowdrop bringeth Hope and Spring.”
_Miller._
PRIMROSE. ... _Early Grief._
The Primrose is one of the earliest flowers of spring. It was anciently
called Paralisos, the name of a beautiful youth, who died of grief for
the loss of his betrothed Melicerta, and was metamorphosed by his
parents into this flower, which has since been a favourite of the poets.
* * * * *
With fairest flowers,
Whilst summer last, and I live here, Fidele,
I’ll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack
The flower that’s like thy face, pale Primrose.
_Cymbeline._
* * * * *
The Primrose pale is Nature’s meek and modest child.
_Balfour._
* * * * *
Nay, weep not while thy sun shines bright,
And cloudless is thy day,
While past and present joys unite
To cheer thee on thy way;
While fond companions round thee move,
To youth and nature true,
And friends whose looks of anxious love
Thy every step pursue.
_Common-Place Book of Poetry._
* * * * *
The Primrose, tenant of the glade,
Emblem of virtue in the shade.
_John Mayne._
* * * * *
Ask me why I send you here
This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you
This Primrose all bepearled with dew:
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are washed with tears.
Ask me why this flower doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending, yet it doth not break:
I must tell you these discover
What doubts and fears are in a lover.
_Thomas Carew._
* * * * *
By the soft green light in the woody glade,
On the banks of moss where thy childhood played,
By the household tree through which thine eye
First looked in love to the summer sky;
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
Of the Primrose-tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious--oh, guard it well!
Yes! when thy heart in its pride would stray
From the first pure loves of its youth away;
When the sullying breath of the world would come
O’er the flowers it brought from its native home;
Think thou again of the woody glade,
Of the sound by the rustling ivy made;
Think of the tree at thy father’s door,
And the kindly spell shall have power once more.
_Mrs. Hemans._
ALMOND BLOSSOM. ... _Indiscretion._
The Almond tree is the first of the trees to put forth its blossoms,
when spring breathes the breath of life through nature. It has been made
the emblem of indiscretion, from flowering so early that frosts too
often give a death-chill to the precocious germs of its fruit. In
ancient times, the abundance of blossoms upon the Almond tree was
considered to promise a fruitful season. The following is the fabulous
account of the origin of this tree:--Demophoon, son of Theseus and
Phædra, in returning from the siege of Troy, was thrown by a storm on
the shores of Thrace, where then reigned the beautiful Phyllis. The
young queen graciously received the prince, fell in love with him, and
became his wife. When recalled to Athens by his father’s death,
Demophoon promised to return in a month, and fixed the day. The loving
Phyllis counted the hours of his absence, and, at last, the appointed
day arrived. Nine times she repaired to the shore; but, losing all hope