The language of flowers The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowers
of his return, she died of grief, and was converted into an Almond tree.
Soon afterwards, Demophoon returned. Overwhelmed with sorrow, he offered
a sacrifice at the sea-side, to appease the manes of his bride. The
Almond tree instantly put forth its blossoms, and seemed to sympathize
with his repentance.
* * * * *
Oh! had I nursed when I was young
The lessons of my father’s tongue,
(The deep laborious thoughts he drew
From all he saw, and others knew,)
I might have been,--ah, me!
Thrice sager than I e’er shall be.
For what says Time?
Alas! he only shows the truth
Of all that I was told in youth.
_Barry Cornwall._
CROCUS. ... _Youth._
The Crocus is one of the earliest of the spring flowers, and, therefore,
a fit emblem of the spring of life. It is a small flower, of variegated
hues; the principal being purple, yellow, and white. The _Crocus
Vernus_, or Spring Crocus, is a wild flower now in various parts of
England, though not considered to be really a native of the country. We
learn from the favourite writers, Mr. and Mrs. Howitt, that they are
plentiful about Nottingham, “gleaming at a distance like a perfect flood
of lilac, and tempting very many little hearts, and many graver ones
too, to go out and gather.”
* * * * *
Oh! many a glorious flower there grows
In far and richer lands;
But high in my affection e’er
The beautiful Crocus stands.
I love their faces, when by one
And two they’re looking out;
I love them when the spreading field
Is purple all about.
I loved them in the by-gone years
Of childhood’s thoughtless laughter,
When I marvelled why the flowers came first,
And the leaves the season after.
I loved them then, I love them now--
The gentle and the bright;
I love them for the thoughts they bring
Of spring’s returning light;
When, first-born of the waking earth,
Their kindred gay appear,
And, with the Snowdrop, usher in
The hope-invested year.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
You’re glad
Because your little tiny nose,
Turns up so pert and funny;
Because I know you choose your beaux
More for their mirth than money;
Because your eyes are deep and blue,--
Your fingers long and rosy;
Because a little maid like you
Would make one’s home so cozy;
Because, I think, (I’m just so weak,)
That some of these fine morrows
You’ll listen while you hear me speak
_My_ story, and _my_ sorrows!
_Anon._
* * * * *
Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast;
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue;
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly the approach of morn.
Alas, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
No care beyond to-day.
Yet see how all around them wait,
The ministers of human fate,
And black misfortune’s baleful train,
Ah! show them where in ambush stand,
To seize their prey, the murderous band!
Ah, tell them they are men!
_Gray’s Eton College._
Life went a Maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
_Coleridge._
ICE-PLANT.... _Frigidity._
Canst thou no kindly ray impart,
Thou strangely beauteous one?
Fairer than fairest work of art,
Yet cold as sculptured stone!
Thou art in Friendship’s bright domain
A flower that yields no fruit;
And Love declares thy beauty vain;--
Of fragrance destitute!
_O. S. M. Ordway._
With pellucid studs the Ice-Flower gems
His rimy foliage, and his candied stems.
_Darwin._
As water fluid is, till it do grow
Solid and fixed by cold,
So in warm seasons love doth loosely flow;
Frost only can it hold;
Your coldness and disdain
Does the sweet course restrain.
_Cowley._
CACTUS.... _Ardent Love._
The flower of the Cactus is chosen to signify ardent love, because of
the glowing hues of the flower itself, and the heat of the climate in
which the plant grows to the greatest size. The gorgeousness of the
flower of the Cactus needs no eulogy. No fitter emblem could have been
selected to represent the passion of love in its full flame.
I think of thee, when soft and wide
The evening spreads her robes of light,
And, like a young and timid bride,
Sits blushing in the arms of night:
And when the moon’s sweet crescent springs
In light o’er heaven’s deep waveless sea,
And stars are forth like blessed things,
I think of thee--I think of thee.
_G. W. Prentice._
Thou’rt like a star; for when my way was cheerless and forlorn,
And all was blackness like the sky before a coming storm,
Thy beaming smile and words of love, thy heart of kindness free,
Illumed my path, then cheered my soul, and bade its sorrows flee.
Thou’rt like a star--when sad and lone I wander forth to view
The lamps of night, beneath their rays my spirit’s nerved anew,
And thus I love to gaze on thee, and then I think thou’st power
To mix the cup of joy for me, even in life’s darkest hour.
Thou’rt like a star--whene’er my eye is upward turned to gaze
Upon those orbs, I mark with awe their clear celestial blaze;
And then thou seem’st so pure, so high, so beautifully bright,
I almost feel as if it were an angel met my sight.
_American Ladies’ Magazine._
* * * * *
Could genius sink in dull decay,
And wisdom cease to lend her ray;
Should all that I have worshipped change,
Even this could not my heart estrange;
Thou still wouldst be the first, the first
That taught the love sad tears have nursed.
_Mrs. Embury._
* * * * *
The sick soul
That burns with love’s delusions, ever dreams,
Dreading its losses. It for ever makes
A gloomy shadow gather in the skies,
And clouds the day; and looking far beyond
The glory in its gaze, it sadly sees
Countless privations, and far-coming storms,
Shrinking from what it conjures.
_Simms’s Poems._
* * * * *
The rolling wheel, that runneth often round,
The hardest steel in tract of time doth tear;
And drizzling drops, that often do redound,
Firmest flint doth in continuance wear:
Yet cannot I, with many a dropping tear,
And long entreaty, soften her hard heart,
That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to hear,
Or look with pity on my painful smart:
But when I plead, she bids me play my part;
And when I weep, she says tears are but water;
And when I sigh, she says I know the art;
And when I wail, she turns herself to laughter;
So do I weep and wail, and plead in vain,
While she as steel and flint doth still remain.
_Spenser._
ALOE.... _Grief_.
The Aloe is attached to the soil by very feeble roots; it delights to
grow in the wilderness, and its taste is extremely bitter. Thus grief
separates us from earthly things, and fills the heart with bitterness.
These magnificent and monstrous plants are found in barbarous Africa:
they grow upon rocks, in dry sand under a burning atmosphere. Some have
leaves six feet long, and armed with long spires. From the centre of
these leaves shoots up a slender stem covered with flowers.
Sister Sorrow! sit beside me,
Or, if I must wander, guide me:
Let me take thy hand in mine,
Cold alike are mine and thine.
Think not, Sorrow, that I hate thee,--
Think not I am frightened at thee,--
Thou art come for some good end;
I will treat thee as a friend.
_R. M. Milnes._
* * * * *
And this is all I have left now,
Silence and solitude and tears;
The memory of a broken vow,
My blighted hopes, my wasted years!
_Anon._
* * * * *
It may be that I shall forget my grief;
It may be time has good in store for me;
It may be that my heart will find relief
From sources now unknown. Futurity
May bear within its folds some hidden spring
From which will issue blessed streams; and yet
Whate’er of joy the coming year may bring,
The past--the past--I never can forget.
_Mrs. Hale._
* * * * *
Of comfort no man speak:
Let’s talk of graves, of worms, of epitaphs:
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let’s choose executors, and talk of wills;
And yet not so--for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies in the ground?
_Shakspeare._
WORMWOOD. ... _Absence._
Wormwood is the bitterest of plants; and absence, according to La
Fontaine, is the worst of evils. Those in whose anxious breasts the
“flame divine” is burning, will agree with the French author in his
assertion. To be absent from one we love is to carry a vacant chamber in
the heart, which naught else can fill.
When thou shalt yield to memory’s power,
And let her fondly lead thee o’er
The scenes that thou hast past before,
To absent friends and days gone by,--
Then should these meet thy pensive eye,
A true memento may they be
Of one whose bosom owes to thee
So many hours enjoyed in gladness,
That else perhaps had passed in sadness,
And many a golden dream of joy,
Untarnished and without alloy.
Oh, still my fervent prayer will be,
“Heaven’s choicest blessings rest on thee.”
_Miss Gould._
* * * * *
How can the glintin sun shine bright?
How can the wimplin burnie glide?
Or flowers adorn the ingle side?
Or birdies deign
The woods, and streams, and vales to chide?
Eliza’s gane!
_J. W. H._
* * * * *
If she be gone, the world, in my esteem,
Is all bare walls; nothing remains in it
But dust and feathers.
_John Crown._
* * * * *
Thus absence dies, and dying proves
No absence can subsist with loves
That do partake of fair perfection;
Since, in the darkest night, they may,
By love’s quick motion, find a way
To see each other in reflection.
_Suckling._
VIOLET.... _Modest Worth_.
The Violet has always been a favourite theme of admiration among
visitors of Parnassus. Its quiet beauty and love of retired spots have
ever made it the emblem of true worth that shrinks from parade. It is
one of the first children of spring, and awakens pleasing emotions in
the breast of the lover of the beautiful, as he strolls through the
meadows in the season of joy. Ion, the Greek name of this flower, is
traced by some etymologists to Ia, the daughter of Midas, who was
betrothed to Atys, and changed by Diana into a Violet, to hide her from
Apollo.
* * * * *
A woman’s love, deep in the heart,
Is like the Violet flower,
That lifts its modest head apart
In some sequestered bower.
_Anon._