Floral Poetry and the language of flowers. With coloured illustrations

Preface

HE Floral Poetry, composing the greater part of this book, has been selected with a view to the diversified tastes of those who may peruse it, and consequently a variety of styles will be found in the pieces. It is hoped, however, that 1 most readers will not only light here upon old friends, but also make the acquaintance, for the first time, of poems and fragments that will give pleasure whenever recalled. For the liberty to insert certain poems, the Editor's thanks are due to Theodore Martin, Esq. ; Samuel Ferguson, Esq., O.C., LL.D. ; Miss Agnes Rous Howell, and others. Many of the selections are new, and are the property of the Publishers. The First Part contains " Poems on Flowers Generally," and in the Second Part will be found " Poems on Special Flowers," arranged in the alphabetical order of their names to facilitate reference.

The two Indexes of the Language of Flowers have been made most full and complete, and the Months of flowering being introduced, it is hoped they will meet the wants of those using them. The Illustrations speak for themselves, and need here no recommendation. J. H. S. List of Authors Allingham, W., 57. Fletcher, Giles, 138. Gay, i jo. Gifford, William, 236. Gillespie, Thomas, 186. Gillet, Thomas, iio, 120, 143. Good, J. Mason, 96. Gould, H. F., 184. Gover, Rev. Canon, 193. G. W., 216. Hemans, Mrs., 28, 33, 38, 44, 126, 148, 154, 180, 192. Herrick, 45, 91, 148, 160. Hincks, Rev. T., 219. Hoffman, 9, 63, 201. Holmes, O. W., 146. Hood, 174. Howell, Agnes R., 144, 219. Howitt, Mary, 18, 78. Hunter, Mrs., 163. Hurdis, James, 145. Jewsbury, Miss, 46. Jonson, Ben, 149. Keats, 20, 65, 151. Keble, 190, 220.

Daniel, 197. Drayton, 14. Elliott, 48, 49, 72, 212. Ferguson, Samuel, 115. List of Authors. Smith, Charlotte, 223. Smith, Horace, 41. Morpeth, Lord, 130. Moultrie, 231. Nicoll, Robert, 30, 170. Patterson, Mary, 75. Patterson, Robert, 22. Percival, 12. Southey, R., 118. Southey, Caroline, 164. Spenser, 31, 176. Sterling, John, 182, 1S5. Strickland, Agnes, 53, 132. Symmons, Caroline, 114. Taylor, Miss Jane, 129. Peters, William, 34. Prior, 56. Prior, Emma, 235 Raleigh, 43, 232. Tighe, Mary, 134. Tinsley, 44. Ranking, B. Montgomerie, 77. Robinson, Mary, 224. Townsend, C. H., 238. Scott, Sir Walter, 84, 113, 233, 241. Shakspere, 13, 117, 125, 23S. Twamley, L. A., 55, 156, 239. Waller, 175. White, 162. Wordsworth, 74, 86, 94, 97, 100, 166. Shelley, 26, 202, 233. Sheridan, Mrs., 116.

Part I

-POEMS ON FLOWERS GENERALLY. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. EACH thee their language ? sweet, I know no tongue, No mystic art those gentle things declare, I ne'er could trace the schoolman's trick among Created things, so delicate and rare : Their language ? prythee ; why, they are themselves But bright thoughts syllabled to shape and hue, The tongue that erst was spoken by the elves, When tenderness as yet within the world was new. And oh ! do not their soft and starry eyes, Now bent to earth, to heaven now meekly pleading, Their incense fainting as it seeks the skies, Yet still from earth 'with freshening hope receding — Say, do not these to every heart declare, With all the silent eloquence of truth, The language that they speak is Nature's prayer, To give her back those spotless days of youth ?

Hoffman. B ON FLOWERS. SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. Stars they are, wherein we read our history, As astrologers and seers of eld ; Yet not so wrapped about with awful mystery, Like the burning stars, which they beheld. Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, God hath written in those stars above ■ But not less in the bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of His love. Bright and glorious is that revelation Written all over this great world of ours • Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth — these golden flowers. And the poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver linin<r. Buds that open only to decay ; Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gaily in the golden light ; Large desires, with most uncertain issues ; Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! ir These in flowers and men are more than seeming ; Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green emblazoned field, But in the arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield : Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ; Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But on old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient games of Flowers ; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things.

And with child-like, credulous affection, We behold their tender buds expand ; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. Longfellow. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. V N Eastern lands they talk in flowers, X And tell in a garland their loves and cares ; Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language bears. The Rose is a sign of joy and love, Young blushing love in its earliest dawn ; And the mildness that suits the gentle dove, From the Myrtle's snowy flower is drawn. Innocence shines in the Lily's bell, Pure as the heart in its native heaven : Fame's bright star and glory's swell, Bv the glossy leaf of the Bay are given. The silent, soft, and humble heart In the Yiolet's hidden sweetness breathes ; And the tender soul that cannot part, A twine of evergreen fondly wreathes.

The Cypress that daily shades the grave, Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot ; And faith, that a thousand ills can brave, Speaks in thy blue leaves, Forget-me-not. Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers, And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers. Pereival. HERE'S FLOWERS FOR YOU. Rerdita. . . . Here's flowers for you : Hot Lavender, Mints, Savory, Marjoram : The Marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, And with him rises weeping; these are flowers Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given To men of middle age : you are very welcome. Camillo. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock, And only live by gazing. Perdita. Out, alas ! You'd be so lean, that blasts of January Would blow you through and through. — Now, my fairest friend, I would I had some flowers o' the Spring, that might Become your time of day ; and yours, and yours ; That wear upon your virgin branches yet Your maidenheads growing : — O, Proserpina, For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou lett'st fall From Dis's waggon !

Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty ; Violets, dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, Or Cytherea's breath ; pale Primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phœbus in his strength, a malady Most incident to maids ; bold Oxlips, and The Crown-imperial ■ Lilies of all kinds, The Flower-de-luce being one ! Oh ! these I lack, To make you garlands of; and, my sweet friend, To strew him o'er and o'er. Shakspere, "A Winter's Tale." ARRANGEMENT OF A BOUQUET. HERE damask Roses, white and red, Out of my lap first take I, Which still shall run along the thread, My chiefest flower this make I. Amongst these Roses in a row, Next place I Pinks in plenty, These double Daisies then for show, And will not this be dainty ? The pretty Pansy then I'll tie Like stones some chain inchasing ; And next to them, their near ally, The purple Violet placing.

The curious choice Clove July flower, Whose kinds hight the Carnation, For sweetness of most sovereign power, Shall help my wreath to fashion ; Whose sundry colours of one kind, First from one root derived, Them in their several suits I'll bind : My garland so contrived. A course of Cowslips then I'll stick And here and there (though sparely) The pleasant Primrose down I'll prick, Like pearls that will show rarely ; tS Then with these Marigolds I'll make My garland somewhat swelling, These Honeysuckles then I'll take, Whose sweets shall help their smelling. The Lily and the flower-de-lis, For colour much contending ■ For that I them do only prize, They are but poor in scenting. The Daffodil most dainty is To match with these in meetness ; The Columbine compared to this, All much alike for sweetness.

These in their natures only are Fit to emboss the border, Therefore I'll take especial care To place them in their order Sweet-Williams, Campions, Sops-in-wine, One by another neatly : Thus have I made this wreath of mine, And finished it featly. Drayton. r6 THE VOICE OF THE FLOWERS. BLOSSOMS that lowly bend, Shutting your leaves from evening's chilly dew ; While your rich odours heavily ascend, The flitting winds to woo. I walk at silent eve, When scarce a breath is in the garden bowers ; And many a vision and wild fancy weave 'Midst you, ye lovely flowers. Beneath the cool green boughs And perfumed bells of the just-blossomed Lime, That stoop and gently touch my feverish brow, Fresh in their Summer prime ; Or in the mossy dell, Where the pale Primrose trembles at a breath ; Or where the Lily, by the silent well, Beholds her form beneath ; Or where the rich Queen-Rose Sits, throned and blushing, 'midst her leaves and moss ■ Or where the Wind-flower, pale and fragile, blows, Or Violets banks emboss.

Here do I love to be — Mine eyes alone in passionate love to dwell Upon the loveliness and purity Of every bud and bell. Oh ! blessedness, to lie By the clear brook, where the Long-Bennet dips ! To press the Rosebud in its purity Unto the burning lips ! c Floral Poetry. 17 To lay the weary head Upon the bank with Daisies all beset ; Or with bare feet, at early dawn, to tread, O'er mosses cool and wet ! And then, to sit at noon When bees are humming low, and birds are still, And drowsy is the faint uncertain tone Of the swift woodland rill. And dreams can then reveal That, worldless though ye be, ye have a tone, A language, and a power, that I may feel Thrilling my spirit lone. Ye speak of hope and love, Bright as your hues, and vague as your perfume ; Of changeful, fragile thoughts, that brightly move Men's hearts amid their gloom.

Ye speak of human life : Its mystery — the beautiful and brief; Its sudden fading, 'midst the tempest strife, Even as a delicate leaf. And more than all, ye speak Of might and power, of mercy, of the One Eternal, who hath strewed you fair and meet To glisten in the sun : To gladden all the earth With bright and beauteous emblems of His grace, That showers its gifts of uncomputed worth In every clime and place. Brcnvne. FLOWERS. YE valleys low, where the mild whispers rise Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks. On whose fresh lap the Swart-star sparely looks ; Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe* Primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Jessamine, The white Pink, and the Pansy freaked with jet, The glowing Violet, The Musk Rose, and the well-attired "Woodbine, With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears ; Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And Daffodillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.

Milton. USE OF FLOWERS. /\OD might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The Oak tree and the Cedar tree, Without a flower at all. He might have made enough, enough For every want of ours : For luxury, medicine, and toil, And yet have made no flowers. * Early. l9 The ore within the mountain mine Requireth none to grow, Nor doth it need the Lotus flower To make the river flow. The clouds might give abundant rain, The mighty dews might fall, And the herb that keepeth life in man Might yet have drunk them all. Then wherefore, wherefore were they made All dyed with rainbow light : All fashioned with supremest grace, Upspringing day and night. Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountain high, And in the silent wilderness, Where no man passes by ? Our outward life requires them not — Then wherefore had they birth ?

To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth ; To comfort man, to whisper hope Whene'er his faith is dim ; For Who so careth for the flowers, Will much more care for him ! Mary Howitt. WILD FLOWERS. Y STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill ; I The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which, with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scanty-leaved, and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost their starry diadems, Caught from the early sobbings of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn. And fresh from the clear brook ; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves ; For not the faintest motion could be seen Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.

There was wide wandering for the greediest eye, To peer about upon variety ; Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ; To picture out the quaint and curious bending Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending: Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free As though the fanning wings of Mercury Had play'd upon my heels : I was light-hearted, And many pleasures to my vision started ; So I straightway began to pluck a posy Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy. A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them ; Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them ! And let a lush Laburnum oversweep them, And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them Moist, cool, and green ; and shade the Violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

A Filbert hedge with Wildbrier overtwined, And clumps of Woodbine taking the soft wind L'pon their Summer thrones ; there, too, should be The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, That with a score of light green brethren shoots From the quaint mossiness of aged roots : Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters, Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters, The spreading Bluebells : it may haply mourn That such fair clusters should be rudely torn From their fresh beds, and scatter'd thoughtlessly By infant hands, left on the path to die. Open afresh your round of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds ! Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, For great Apollo bids That in these days your praises should be sung On many harps, which he has lately strung ; And when again your dewiness he kisses, Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : So, haply when I rove in some far vale, His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

Here are Sweet Peas, on tiptoe for a flight : With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings. What next ? a turf of evening Primroses, O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that 'tis ever startled by the leap Of buds into ripe flowers Keats. SONGS OF THE FLOWERS. SNOWDROP. HURSLING of the new-born year, Sporting with the tempest's might, Like the snowflake I appear, Robed in winter's vestal white. (. K(K US. Forth from my bulbous dwelling I leapt at the summons of Spring, What herald of emperor's telling So gorgeous a tabard could bring ? sweet violet. Born on a sloping bank, 'neath an old hawthorn tree, I shrank from the passing gaze, like a maiden, timidly, Till the wooing winds of March came whispering such a tale, That I op'd my balmy stores to enrich their healthful gale.

PRIMROSE. Near to a prattling stream, Or under the hedgerow trees, I bask in the sun's glad beam, And list to the passing breeze. When the village school is o'er, And the happy children free, Gladly they seek to explore Haunts that are perfumed by me. -3 HEATH. When the wild bee comes with a murmuring song, Pilfering sweets as he roams along, I uprear my purple bell : Listening the freeborn eagle's cry, Marking the heath-cock's glancing eye, On the mountain side I dwell. The echoes yet the notes prolong, When one, who oft o'er hill and dell Had sought the spots where flowerets dwell, And knew their names and functions well, And could of all their changes tell, Thus answered to their song : " Loveliest children of earth, Of more than each rainbow hue, Of beauty coeval with birth, And fragrance found only in you !

" O ! that like you I could live, Free from all malice and strife, That each thought and each pulse I could give To the beautiful Giver of Life. " Until earth shall wax old and decay, You shall ever triumphantly shine, And on leaf and on petal display The work of an Artist Divine." Robert Patterson. A WILD FLOWER. DOWN the shadowed lane she goes, And her arms are laden With the Woodbine and Wild Rose — Happy little maiden ! Sweetly, sweetly doth she sing As the lark above her : Surely every living thing That has seen must love her. As she strayed and as she sung, Happy little maiden ! Shadowy lanes and dells among, With wild flowers laden, Chanced a bonny youth that wav, For the lanes were shady : She dropped one wee flower, they say, Did this little lady. Dropped a flower, so they say ; Dropped, and never missed it ; And the youth, alack-a-day !

Picked it up and kissed it. Now in sweet lane wanderings, With love flowers laden, With her love she strays and sings, Happy little maiden ! Anon EMBLEMS OF FLOWERS. A DOWN winding Nith I did wander To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ! Adown winding Nith I. did wander, Of Phillis to muse and to sing. The Daisy amused my fond fancy, So artless, so simple, so wild ; Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, For she is simplicity's child. The Rosebud 's the blush o' my charmer, Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : How fair and how pure is the Lily, But fairer and purer her breast. Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : Her breath is the breath of the Woodbine, Its dew-drop o' diamond her eye. Her voice is the song of the morning, That wakes through the green-spreading grove, When Phœbus peeps over the mountains, On music, and pleasure, and love.

But beauty how frail and how fleeting, The bloom of a fine summer's day ! While worth in the mind o' my Phillis Will flourish without a decay. Burns. i) WILD FLOWERS. Y DREAMED that, as I wandered by the way, A Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, And gentle odours led my steps astray, Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay LTnder a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kissed it and then fled, as thou might'st in a dream. There grew pied Wind-flowers and Violets, Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets ; Faint Oxlips ; tender Bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that wets Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush Eglantine, Green Cowbind and the moonlight-coloured May, And Cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day ; And Wild Roses, and Ivy serpentine, With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray, And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold, Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. And nearer to the river's trembling edge, There grew broad Flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, And starry River-buds among the sedge, And floating Water Lilies, broad and bright, -7 Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own. watery light ; And bulrushes and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues which in their natural bowers Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprisoned children of the hours Within my hand, — and then, elate and gay, I hastened to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it ! — Oh ! to whom ?

Shelley. DECISION OF THE FLOWER. AND with scarlet Poppies, around like a bower, The maiden found her mystic flower. " Now, gentle flower, I pray thee, tell If my lover loves me, and loves me well : So may the fall of the morning dew Keep the sun from fading thy tender blue. Now I number the leaves for my lot — He loves not — he loves me — he loves me not — He loves me — yes, thou last leaf, yes — I'll pluck thee not for the last sweet guess ! He loves me ! " — " Yes," a dear voice sighed, And her lover stands by Margaret's side. L. E. London. "GO TO THE FOREST SHADE." GO to the forest shade — Seek thou the well-known glade, Where, heavy with sweet dew, the Violets lie, Gleaming through moss-tufts deep, Like dark eyes filled with sleep, And bathed in hues of summer's midnight sky. Bring me their buds, to shed Around my dying bed A breath of May, and of the wood's repose ; For I in sooth depart With a reluctant heart, That fain would linger where the bright sun glows.

Fain would I stay with thee Alas ! this may not be ; Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours ! Go where the fountain's breast Catches, in glassy rest, The dim green light that pours through Laurel bowers. I know how softly bright, Steeped in that tender light, The Water-lilies tremble there e'en now ; Go to the pure stream's edge, And from its whispering sedge Bring me those flowers to cool my fevered brow ! Then, as in Hope's young days, Track thou the antique maze Of the rich garden to its grassy mound ; There is a lone White Rose, Shedding, in sudden snows, Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around. Well know'st thou that fair tree — A murmur of the bee Dwells ever in the honied lime above ; Bring me one pearly flower Of all its clustering shower — For on that spot we first revealed our love.

Gather one Woodbine bough, Then, from the lattice low Of the bowered cottage which I bade thee mark, When by the hamlet last, Through dim wood-lanes we passed, While dews were glancing to the glow-worm's spark. Haste ! to my pillow bear Those fragrant things and fair, Thy hand no more may bind them up at eve — Yet shall their odour soft One bright dream round me waft Of life, youth, summer — all that I must leave ! And, oh ! if thou would'st ask Wherefore thy steps I task, The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace, 'Tis that some thought of me, When I am gone, may be The spirit bound to each familiar place. I bid mine image dwell (Oh ! break not thou the spell) In the deep wood and by the fountain side ; Thou must not, my beloved ! Rove where we two have roved, Forgetting her that in her spring-time died !

Mrs. Hemans. 3° WILD FLOWERS. BEAUTIFUL children os the woods and fields ! That bloom by mountain streamlets 'mid the heather, Or into clusters 'neath the hazels gather — Or where by hoary rocks you make your bields, And sweetly flourish on through Summer weather — I love ye all Beautiful flowers ! to me ye fresher seem From the Almighty Hand that fashioned all, Than those that flourish by a garden-wall ; And I can image you, as in a dream, Fair, modest maidens, nursed in hamlets small I love ye all ! Beautiful gems ! that on the brow of earth Are fixed as in a queenly diadem : Though lowly ye, and most without a name, Young hearts rejoice to see your buds come forth, As light erewhile into the world came — I love ye all ! Beautiful things ye are, where'er ye grow ! The wild Red Rose — the Speedwell's peeping eyes — Our own Bluebell — the Daisy, that doth rise Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow ; And thousands more, of blessed forms and dyes — I love ye all ! 3l Beautiful nurslings of the early dew, Fanned in your loveliness by every breeze, And shaded o'er by green and arching trees : I often wished that I were one of you, Dwelling afar upon the grassy leas — I love ye all !

Beautiful children of the glen and dell The dingle deep — the moorland stretching wide, And of the mossy fountain's sedgy side ! Ye o'er my heart have thrown a lovesome spell ; And though the worldling, scorning, may deride- I love ye all ! Robert Nicoll. SONNET. SWEET is the Rose, but growes upon a brere ; Sweet is the Juniper, but sharpe his bough ; Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere ; Sweet is the Firbloom, but his branches rough ; Sweet is the Cypress, but his rind is tough ; Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill ; Sweet is the Broome-flowere, but yet sowre enough ; And sweet is Moly, but his roote is ill. So every sweet with sowre is tempred still, That maketh it be coveted the more : For easie things that .may be got at will, Most sorts of men doe set but little store. Why then should I account of little pain, That endless pleasure shall unto me gaine ?

Spenser. 3- CHILDREN OF THE SUN'S FIRST GLANCING. CHILDREN of the sun's first glancing, Flowers that deck the bounteous earth ; Joy and mirth are round ye dancing, Nature smiled upon your birth • Light hath veined your petals tender, And with hues of matchless splendour Flora paints each dewy bell ; But lament, ye sweet spring blossoms, Soul hath never thrilled your bosoms, All in cheerless night ye dwell. Nightingale and lark are singing Many a lay of love to you ; In your chaliced blossoms swinging, Tiny sylphs their sylphids woo ; Deep within the painted bower Of a soft and perfumed flower, Venus once did fall asleep ; But no pulse of passion darted Through your breast, by her imparted — Children of the morning, weep. When my mother's harsh rejection Bids me cease my love to speak — Pledges of a true affection, When your gentle aid I seek — Then by every voiceless token Hope, and faith unchanged, are spoken.

And by you my bosom grieves ; Love himself among you stealeth, And his awful form concealeth, Shut within your folding leaves. From Schiller. THE FLOWER-DIAL. TWAS a lovely thought to mark the hours, As they floated in light away, By the opening and the folding flowers, That laugh to the Summer's day. Thus had each moment its own rich hue, And its graceful cup and bell, In whose coloured vase might sleep the dew, Like a pearl in an ocean shell. To such sweet signs might the time have flowed In a golden current on, Ere from the garden, man's first abode, The glorious guests were gone. So might the days have been brightly told — Those days of song and dreams — When shepherds gathered their flocks of old, By the blue Arcadian streams. So in those isles of delight, that rest Far off in a breezeless main, Which many a bark, with a weary quest, Has sought, but still in vain.