The language of flowers The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowers
She’ll ne’er forget,
Howe’er his faith may waver,
Through grief and shame,
Believe it,--she loves him yet!
_Mrs. Osgood._
* * * * *
Over the moorland, over the lea,
Dancing airily, there are we:
Sometimes, mounted on stems aloft,
We wave o’er broom and heather,
To meet the kiss of the zephyr soft;
Sometimes, close together,
Tired of dancing, tired of peeping,
Under the whin you’ll find us sleeping.
Daintily bend we our honied bells,
While the gossipping bee her story tells,
And drowsily hums and murmurs on
Of the wealth to her waxen storehouse gone;
And though she gathers our sweets the while,
We welcome her in with a nod and a smile.
No rock is too high--no vale too low,
For our fragile and tremulous forms to grow.
Sometimes we crown
The castle’s dizziest tower, and look
Laughingly down
On the pigmy men in the world below,
Wearily wandering to and fro.
Sometimes we dwell on the cragged crest
Of mountain high,
And the ruddy sun, from the blue sea’s breast,
Climbing the sky,
Looks from his couch of glory up,
And lights the dew in the bluebell’s cup.
We are crowning the mountain
With azure bells,
Or decking the fountains
In forest dells,
Or wreathing the ruin with clusters gray,
And nodding and laughing the livelong day;
Then chiming our lullaby, tired with play.
Are we not beautiful? Oh! are not we
The darlings of mountain and moorland and lea?
Plunge in the forest--are we not fair?
Go to the high-road--we’ll meet ye there.
Oh! where is the flower that content may tell,
Like the laughing and nodding and dancing bluebell.
_Louisa A. Twamley._
* * * * *
The Hyacinth’s for constancy,
Wi’ its unchanging blue.
_Burns._
ORCHIS.... _A Belle_.
The Butterfly Orchis is rather rare except where there is a chalky soil.
The Spider Orchis has gained its name from the great resemblance it
bears to one of those large, fat-bodied garden spiders, which are often
noticed for the singular beauty of the markings on their backs. Another
is so very like a fly, that it is named the Fly Orchis; another is like
a lizard, or some strange reptile, and the flowers being yellow, green,
and purple, and twisted in and about one another in a very odd way, it
really looks like some horrible group of queer living creatures. One,
from being fancied like a man, is called Man Orchis; another, very gayly
spotted, and ornamented with a helmet-like appendage, is the Military
Orchis; another is called Bee Orchis. Bishop Mant thus alludes to some
of these:
Well boots it the thick-mantled leas
To traverse: if boon nature grant,
To crop the insect-seeming plant,
The vegetable Bee; or nigh
Of kin, the long-horned Butterfly,
White, or his brother purple pale,
Scenting alike the evening gale;
The Satyr flower, the pride of Kent,
Of Lizard form, and goat-like scent.
* * * * *
No wonder that cheek in its beauty transcendent,
Excelleth the beauty of others by far;
No wonder that eye is so richly resplendent,
For your heart is a rose and your soul is a star.
_Mrs. Osgood._
* * * * *
What right have you, madam, gazing in your shining mirror daily,
Getting so by heart your beauty, which all others must adore;
While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gayly,
You will wed no man that’s only good to God,--and nothing more.
_Miss Barrett._
BOX.... _Stoicism_.
The common Box, of which our hedge is formed, is indigenous in England,
preferring the chalky hills of Surrey and Kent for its residence, but
flourishing well on other soils. It is one of the most useful evergreen
shrubs we possess, and especially as it will grow under the drip and
shadow of other trees, as you know is the case with our hedge. It is
found in most European countries, from Britain southwards, also about
Mount Caucasus, Persia, China, Cochin China, and America. It was
formerly much more common in England than now, having disappeared under
the spread of agriculture. Box-hill, in Surrey, is named from this tree,
and is a conical elevation covered with a wood of Box-trees, some of
large size. Boxley in Kent, and Boxwell in Gloucestershire, are also
named from it. The leaf and general appearance of the tree are too
familiar to require any description. The scent of the spring blossoms is
rather powerful, and to some persons unpleasant. The timber is very
valuable, it is sold by weight, and, being very hard and smooth, and not
apt to warp, is well adapted for many nice and delicate purposes. In the
days of good old Evelyn, it appears to have been as much used as at
present, for he says, “It is good for the turner, engraver, carver,
mathematical instrument maker, comb and pipe, or flute-maker, and the
roots for the inlayer and cabinet-maker. Of box are made wheels,
sheaves, pins, pegs for musical instruments, nut-crackers,
button-moulds, weavers’ shuttles, hollar-sticks, bump-sticks, and
dressers for the shoemaker, rulers, rolling-pins, pestles, mall-balls,
beetles, tops, chessmen, tables, screws, bobbins for bone-lace, spoons,
knife-handles, but especially combs.” Most of those engravings in books,
called wood-cuts, are done upon Box wood, and for that purpose English
Box is superior to any other, though a great portion of what is used in
this country comes from the Levant. The ancients used combs made of
Box-wood, and also instruments to be played on with the mouth. The
Romans used to adorn their gardens with it, clipped into form, as we
find from mention being made of clipped Box-trees by their writers. It
was formerly much cut in this manner here, and was ranked next to the
Yew for its capabilities of taking artificial and grotesque forms; but
except a few ancient hedges of Box, like our own, and those at Castle
Bromwich Hall, where the Yew hedges are also preserved, there are not
many vestiges of its former garden-glory remaining. A dwarf kind is used
for making a neat and firm edging to flower borders, for which nothing
answers so well, or produces so proper an effect.
* * * * *
Though youth be past, and beauty fled,
The constant heart its pledge redeems,
Like Box, that guards the flowerless bed,
And brighter from the contrast seems.
_Mrs. Hale._
NARCISSUS AND DAFFODIL.... _Self-Love_.
There are several species of the Narcissus. The Yellow Narcissus is
better known as the Daffodil, and bears much resemblance to the Yellow
Lily. The Poetic Narcissus is the largest of the species, and may be
distinguished by the crimson border of the very shallow and almost flat
cup of the nectary. Shakspeare, in his Winter’s Tale, speaks of
Daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and taste
The winds of March with beauty.
The ancients attributed the origin of the Narcissus to the metamorphosis
of a beautiful youth of that name, who, having slighted the love of the
nymph Echo, became enamoured of his own image, which he beheld in a
fountain, and pined to death in consequence.
* * * * *
I wandered lonely, as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden Daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of the bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay
In such a joyful company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth to me the show had brought.
For oft when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude.
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.
_Wordsworth._
* * * * *
Nature’s laws must be obeyed,
And this is one she strictly laid
On every soul which she has made,
Down from our earliest mother:
Be _self_ your first and greatest care,
From all reproach the darling spare,
And any blame that she should bear,
Put off upon another.
_Miss Gould._
* * * * *
The pale Narcissus
Still feeds upon itself; but, newly blown,
The nymphs will pluck it from its tender stalk,
And say, “Go, fool, and to thy image talk.”
_Lord Thurlow._
LILY.... _Majesty_.
The Lily’s height and beauty speak command. The Jews imitated its form
in the decorations of their first magnificent temple; and Christ
described it as more splendid than King Solomon in his most gorgeous
apparel. According to ancient mythology, there was originally but one
species of Lily, and that was orange-coloured; and the white was
produced by the following circumstance:--Jupiter, wishing to render
Hercules immortal, prevailed on Juno to take a deep draught of nectar,
which threw the queen into a profound sleep. Jupiter then placed the
infant Hercules at her breast, so that the divine milk might ensure
immortality. Hercules drew the milk faster than he could swallow it, and
some drops fell to the earth, from which immediately sprang the White
Lily.
* * * * *
Flowers of the fairest,
And gems of the rarest,
I find and I gather in country or town;
But one is still wanting,
Oh! where is it haunting?
The bud and the jewel must make up my crown.
Thou pearl of the deep sea
That flows in my heart free,
Thou rock-planted Lily, come hither, or send;
Mid flowers of the fairest,
And gems of the rarest,
I miss thee, I seek thee, my own parted friend!
_M. J. Jewsbury._
* * * * *
Ye well arrayed----
Queen Lilies--and ye painted populace,
Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives.
_Young._
* * * * *
The wand-like Lily, which lifted up,
As a Mœnad, its radiant-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, which is in its eye,
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky.
_Shelley._
* * * * *
Her glossy hair is clustered o’er a brow
Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth;
Her eyebrow’s shape is like the aerial bow,
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,
Mounting at times to a transparent glow,
As if her veins run lightning; she, in sooth,
Has a proud air, and grace by no means common,
Her stature tall,--I hate a dumpy woman.
_Byron._
* * * * *
Oh, he is all made up of love and charms,
Whatever maid could wish or man admire;
Delight of every eye! when he appears,
A secret pleasure gladdens all that see him;
And when he talks, the proudest men will blush
To hear his virtues and his glory!
_Addison._
MOSS ROSE.... _Confession of Love_.
The origin of this exquisitely beautiful variety of the Rose is thus