The language of flowers The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowers
Thou greet’st the traveller in the lane;
If welcomed once thou count’st it gain,
Thou art not daunted;
Nor car’st if thou be set at naught:
And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
I cannot gaze on aught that wears
The beauty of the skies,
Or aught that in life’s valley bears
The hues of paradise;
I cannot look upon a star,
Or cloud that seems a seraph’s car,
Or any form of purity--
Unmingled with a dream of thee.
_P. Benjamin._
* * * * *
The Daisy scattered on each meade and downe,
A golden tuft within a silver crown;
Faire fell that dainty flower! and may there be
No shepherd graced that doth not honour thee.
_Browne._
* * * * *
There is a flower, a little flower
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
_Montgomery._
* * * * *
Heaven may awhile correct the virtuous,
Yet it will wipe their eyes again, and make
Their faces whiter with their tears. Innocence
Concealed is the stolen pleasure of the gods,
Which never ends in shame, as that of men
Doth oftentimes do; but like the sun breaks forth,
When it hath gratified another world;
And to our unexpecting eyes appears
More glorious through its late obscurity.
_John Fountain._
PERIWINKLE.... _Tender Recollections_.
In France, the Periwinkle has been adopted as the emblem of the
pleasures of memory and sincere friendship, probably in allusion to
Rousseau’s recollection of his friend, Madame de Warens, occasioned,
after a lapse of thirty years, by the sight of this flower, which they
together had admired. This plant is deeply rooted in the soil which it
adorns. It throws out its shoots on all sides to clasp the earth, and
covers it with flowers, which reflect the hue of heaven. Thus our first
affections, warm, pure, and artless, seem to be of heavenly origin.
* * * * *
Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
To pain,--it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemn;
They may torture, but shall not subdue me,--
’Tis of thee that I think, not of them.
_Byron._
* * * * *
’Tis sweet, and yet ’tis sad, that gentle power,
Which throws in winter’s lap the spring-tide flower:
I love to dream of days my childhood knew,
When, with the sister of my heart, time flew
On wings of innocence and hope! dear hours,
When joy sprang up about our path, like flowers!
_Mrs. A. M. Wells._
* * * * *
The lesser Periwinkle’s bloom,
Like carpet of Damascus’ loom,
Pranks with bright blue the tissue wove
Of verdant foliage: and above
With milk-white flowers, whence soon shall swell
Red fruitage, to the taste and smell
Pleasant alike, the Strawberry weaves
Its coronets of three-fold leaves
In mazes through the sloping wood.
_Mant._
* * * * *
Where captivates the sky-blue Periwinkle
Under the cottage eaves.
_Hurdis._
* * * * *
Remember thee?
Yea, from the table of my memory
I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,
That youth and observation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmixed with baser matter.
_Shakspeare._
* * * * *
Oh! only those
Whose souls have felt this one idolatry
Can tell how precious is the slightest thing
Affection gives and hallows! A dead flower
Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks
That made each leaf a treasure.
_Miss Landon._
SWEET-BRIER, OR EGLANTINE.... _Poetry_.
The Eglantine is the poet’s flower. In the floral games, it was the
prize for the best composition on the charms of study and eloquence.
Though its flowers are most beautiful in hue, their fragrance is their
more valuable quality. In like manner, the charms of poetry and
eloquence should be considered superior to those of appearance.
* * * * *
And well the poet, at her shrine,
May bend and worship while he woos;
To him she is a thing divine,
The inspiration of his line,
His loved one, and his muse.
If to his song the echo rings
Of fame--’tis woman’s voice he hears;
If ever from his lyre’s proud strings
Flow sounds, like rush of angel wings,
’Tis that she listens, while he sings,
With blended smiles and tears.
_Halleck._
* * * * *
Give me the poet’s lyre!
And as the seraph in his orbit sings,
Oh, may I strike the heaven-attuned strings,
With a seraphic fire!
With music fill the mighty dome of mind,
And the rapt souls of men in music brightly bind!
_J. W. H._
* * * * *
Trace the young poet’s fate;
Fresh from his solitude, the child of dreams,
His heart upon his lips he seeks the world,
To find him fame and fortune, as if life
Were like a fairy tale. His song has led
The way before him; flatteries fill his ear,
His presence courted, and his words are caught;
And he seems happy in so many friends.
What marvel if he somewhat overrate
His talents and his state? These scenes soon change.
The vain, who sought to mix their name with his;
The curious, who but live for some new sight;
The idle--all these have been gratified,
And now neglect stings even more than scorn.
_Miss Landon._
LILAC.... _First Emotions of Love_.
The freshness of the verdure of the Lilac; the flexibility of its
branches; the profusion of its flowers; their transitory beauty and
their soft hues,--all remind us of those emotions which embellish
beauty, and throw such a light around our youthful hours. It is said
that Van Spaendonc himself threw down his pencil on viewing a group of
Lilacs. Nature seems to have delighted in creating its delicate
clusters, which astonish by their beauty and variety. The fragrance of
the flowers is even more gratifying than their beauty.
* * * * *
She had grown,
In her unstained seclusion, bright and pure
As a first opening Lilac, when it spreads
Its clear leaves to the sweetest dawn of May.
_Percival._
* * * * *
When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond,
My purest, first-born love, and dearest treasure,
My heart received thee with a joy beyond
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure;
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong, as that I felt for thee.
_Mrs. Norton._
* * * * *
I love thee,--and I live! The moon,
Who sees me from her calm above,
The wind, who weaves her dim, soft tune
About me, know how much I love!
Naught else, save night, and the lonely hour,
E’er heard my passion wild and strong;
Even _thou_ yet deem’st not of thy power,
Unless thou read’st aright my song!
_Barry Cornwall._
* * * * *
She loves--but knows not whom she loves,
Nor what his race, nor whence he came;--
Like one who meets, in Indian groves,
Some beauteous bird without a name,
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze,
From isles in the undiscovered seas,
To show his plumage for a day
To wondering eyes, and wing away!
_Moore._
TULIP.... _Declaration of Love_.
The Tulip is an extraordinary favourite in many parts of Europe and
Asia; and, in Holland and Turkey, the most extravagant prices are paid
for fine specimens. On account of the elegance of its form, the beauty
of its colours, and its want of fragrance and other useful qualities,
this flower has been considered as an appropriate symbol of a female who
possesses no recommendation but a beautiful appearance. In the East, the
Tulip is employed as the emblem by which a lover makes known his passion
to his mistress; as the Tulip expresses the idea that he has a face all
fire and a heart all coal.
* * * * *
Not one of Flora’s brilliant race
A form more perfect can display:
Art could not feign more simple grace,
Nor Nature take a line away.
Yet, rich as morn, of many a hue,
When flushing clouds through darkness strike,
The Tulip’s petals shine in dew,
All beautiful, but none alike.
_Montgomery._
* * * * *
My heart is sad and lonely,
With weariness I pine;
Would thou wert here, mine only,--
Would I were wholly thine!
_H. J. H._
* * * * *
If spirits, pure as those who kneel
Around the throne of light above,
The power of beauty’s spell could feel,
And lose a heaven for woman’s love,--
What marvel that a heart like mine
Enraptured by thy charms should be!
Forget to bend at glory’s shrine,
And lose itself--ay, heaven--for thee!
_Memorial._
* * * * *
Fain would I speak the thoughts I bear to thee,
But they do choke and flutter in my throat,
And make me like a child.
_Joanna Baillie._
CYPRESS.... _Mourning_.
The ancients consecrated the Cypress to the Fates, the Furies and Pluto.
They placed it near tombs. The people of the East retain the same custom
in the decoration of their cemeteries. The Turks plant the Cypress at
the head and at the foot of the graves. According to Ovid, the Cypress
derived its name from Cyparissos, an especial friend of Apollo’s, who,
in grief at having inadvertently killed a favourite stag of his, prayed
the gods that his mourning might be made perpetual, and was changed into
a Cypress tree, the branches of which were thenceforward used at
funerals.
* * * * *
Lady dear! this history
Is thy fated lot,
Ever such thy watching
For what cometh not,
Till with anxious waiting dull,
Round thee fades the beautiful;
Still thou seekest on, though weary,
Seeking still in vain.
_Miss Landon._
* * * * *
Thou art lost to me for ever,--I have lost thee, Isadore,
Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more.
Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine,
Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine.
Thou art dead and gone, loving wife,--thy heart is still and cold,--
And I at one stride have become most comfortless and old;
Of our whole world of love and song, thou wast the only light,
A star, whose setting left behind, ah! me, how dark a night!
Thou art lost to me, for ever, Isadore.
_Albert Pike._