The language of flowers The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowers
The eve before he fell:--
No marvel that sad lady loved
The silent spot so well!
And there they oft together came,
The lady and the boy,
For he to her was all on earth,
Her one sole living joy.
And long years after, when she slept
Her warrior’s tomb beside,
When the boy had grown an aged man,
With grandsons by his side:--
That ancient wood he reverenced;
And peasants, when they spoke
Of the old tree within the glade,
Called it--the Lady’s Oak.
I know the spot--though strangely time
Hath altered all around,
Where once the forest’s stillness lay,
Now whirling wheels resound.
A large and busy peopled town
E’en on that spot we see,
Where dappled deer and timid birds
Dwelt fearlessly and free.
But I remember when a child,
One old and mouldering shell
Of a most ancient, huge Oak tree
Stood near the public well.
I’ve sat within it many a time,
In childish sport and play,
And much I mourned to see at last
The trunk quite cleared away.
Soon they built there a fine new street,
And noisy coaches sweep
With roar and riot,--even where
That lady came to weep!
Each passing year we note a change
In ancient things and new;
And if we see so much in one,
What may not hundreds do?
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
There’s no power
In ancestry, to make the foolish wise,
The ignorant learned, the cowardly and base
Deserving our respect as brave and good.
All men feel this: nor dares the despot say
His fiat can endow with truth the soul,
Or, like a pension, on the heart bestow
The virtues current in the realms above.
Hence man’s best riches must be gained--not given;
His noblest name deserved, and not derived.
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
Some men are born to endure the toil and strife
And heavy burdens of the earth. They are
The pillars in the temple of this life,
Its strength and ornament; or, hidden far
Beneath, they form its firm foundation-stone.
In nobleness they stand distinct and lone,
Yet other men upon them lean, and fain
(Such selfishness in human bosoms swells)
Would lay on them the weight of their own pain.
Where greatness is, a patient spirit dwells;
They least repine who bear and suffer most:
In still and stern endurance they sustain
The ills whereof all weaker minds complain;
And in their blessed lot they stand, without a sigh or boast.
_MacKellar._
YEW.... _Sorrow_.
The Yew is among all nations an emblem of sorrow. Its bare trunk, and
dark foliage, with which its fruit, looking like drops of blood, stands
in harsh contrast, excite in us a sort of aversion. Persons who sleep
under a Yew tree are liable to be seized with dizziness, heaviness, and
violent headache. Its juice is poisonous, and the tree exhausts the soil
which supports it, and destroys all other plants which spring up beneath
it. The Yew was planted in old English burying-grounds, and its wood was
commonly employed for making bows and arrows before the introduction of
fire-arms. The Greeks, impressed with the melancholy aspect of this
tree, invented the fable of the unhappy Smilax; who, seeing that her
love was rejected by young Crocus, was transformed into a Yew.
* * * * *
Who that hath ever been,
Could bear to be no more?
Yet who would tread again the scene
He trod through life before?
_Montgomery._
* * * * *
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;
Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prest
With more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown,
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
And sorrowing friends stood round the bed
Whereon a form was lying:
’Twas Ellen;--there the suffering saint,
Without a murmur or complaint,
In peace and hope was dying.
A silence deep as death was there
When her true soul departed;
And grace and mercy crowned her end
Who lived the broken-hearted.
_MacKellar._
* * * * *
When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping
O’er the chords of the youthful heart,
And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping,
Sees the visions of fancy depart;
When the bloom of young feeling is dying,
And the heart throbs with passion’s fierce strife
When our sad days are wasted in sighing,
Who then can find sweetness in life?
_Mrs. Embury._
* * * * *
He is dead. Those words toll on the ear,
The knell of hopes, and fears, and fleshy aims.
The spirit light has cast a farewell beam--
Has shaken off its way-worn gear, and winged
To heaven. Sorrow will demand her tears,
For he was lovely, and leaves a hollow
In our near-drawn sphere which none may upclose.
But thoughts of heaven, through tears, will light us,
Making that refresh which seemed to blast!
_C. Watson._
DEAD LEAVES.... _Death_.
A more appropriate emblem of death than the remains of the forest’s
refreshing verdure could not be selected. Withered by the chill breath
of ruthless Winter, the leaves strew the earth; and, in time, mingle
with the dust, like ourselves. The eye cannot help watching how the
winds pursue, scatter, whirl, and drive these remnants of departed life.
* * * * *
No longer mourn for me when I am dead.
Then you shall hear the surly, sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking of me then should work you wo!
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Now shall my verse, which thou in life didst grace,
Not leave thee in the grave, that ugly place,
That few regard, or have respect unto:
Where all attendance and observance ends;
Where all the sunshine of our favour sets;
Where what was ill no countenance defends,
And what was good the unthankful world forgets.
_Daniel._
* * * * *
Hence, profane grim man! nor dare
To approach so neere my faire.
Marble vaults, and gloomy caves,
Church-yards, charnell-houses, graves,
Where the living loath to be,
Heaven hath designed to thee.
But if needs ’mongst us thou’lt rage,
Let thy fury feed on age.
_Habington._
* * * * *
So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand
I’ the instant we withdraw the moving hand,
But some short time retains a faint, weak course,
By virtue of the first impulsive force;
And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile
Thy crown of bays, oh let it crack awhile,
And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes
Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes.
_Carew._
* * * * *
Ah! thou hast left to live; and in the time
When scarce thou blossom’dst in thy pleasant prime:
So falls by northern blast a virgin rose,
At half that doth her bashful bosom close;
So a sweet flower languishing decays,
That late did blush when kissed by Phœbus’ rays;
So Phœbus mounting the meridian’s height,
Choked by pale Phœbe faints unto our sight;
Astonished Nature sullen stands to see
The life of all this all so changed to be;
In gloomy gowns the stars this loss deplore,
The sea with murmuring mountains beats the shore.
_Drummond._
* * * * *
Death is the crown of life:
Were death denied, poor men would live in vain;
Were death denied, to live would not be life:
Were death denied, even fools would wish to die.
_Young._
* * * * *
Death is the sea, and we like rivers flow
To lose our selves in the insatiate maine,
Whence rivers may, she ne’er returne againe.
Nor grieve this christall streame so soone did fall
Into the ocean; since shee perfumed all
The banks she past, so that each neighbour field
Did sweete flowers cherish by her watring, yeeld,
Which now adorne her herse.
_Habington._
* * * * *
We bore him to the grave while yet ’twas morn,
The winter sunlight shining on his coffin:
The weight of grief was heavy to be borne,
And the salt tears rose in our eyelids often.
We slowly walked in mutely sad procession;
The pitying people freely made us way;
And the blest child, yet guiltless of transgression,
We softly placed between the walls of clay.
We sang a hymn--we bowed our heads to pray;
And GOD, who had our bitter grief appointed,
Sent also strengthening grace by lips anointed.
We looked again on George as low he lay
Deep in the earth; and when we homeward went,
We felt his home was better ’yond the firmament.
_MacKellar._
MISTLETOE.... _I climb to greatness_.
The Mistletoe is a creeping plant which grows on the tops of the tallest
trees. The proud oak is its slave, and nourishes it with his own
substance. The Druids paid a kind of adoration to it, as the emblem of a
weakness that was superior to strength: they regarded the tyrant of the
oak as equally formidable to men and gods.
* * * * *
’Tis a common proof,
That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder,
Whereto the climber upwards turns his face:
But when he once attains the upmost round,
He then unto the ladder turns his back,
Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees
By which he did ascend.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head,
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.
_Byron._
* * * * *
Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
On the summit see,
The seals of office glitter in his eyes;
He climbs,--he pants,--he grasps them. At his heels,
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,
And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.
_Cowper._
* * * * *
If any man must fall for me to rise,
Then seek I not to rise. Another’s pain
I choose not for my good. A golden chain--
A robe of honour is too poor a prize
To tempt my hasty hand to do a wrong
Unto a fellow man. This life hath wo
Sufficient, wrought by man’s satanic foe;
And who that hath a heart would dare prolong