As I have often done, high in the love With which the choicest of the little store Are plucked and offer'd you. The reddest rose- The matron daisy and her circling brood, "The hen and chickens." How I love the glance And are not FLOWERS the earliest gift of love? Do they not, mutely eloquent, oft speak For absent or for trembling hearts? and bear And worlds of thought and fancy in their leaves Some token flower? an early rose-a bunch Of young Spring's first and sweetest violets, culled And given into yours by hands so dear, That all flowers seemed grown holier from that time? Have ye ne'er hoarded such a simple gift? Aye, through long years-e'en when each shrunken leaf Bore not a semblance to the thing it was, And the soft fragrance that had once been there B 2 Had changed from sweet to noisome-and, e'en then, For very fondness could not fling away Those dim and faded records of the past, But laid the frail things in their wonted place, To gaze and dream-and weep upon again? What slowly-pacing band is gliding 'neath Yon aisle-like avenue of stately elms, Tow'rds the grey village church ?' 'A fun'ral train And she they mourn far fairer was than all Her maiden friends, who oft have gaily met Her bounding form amid the rustic dance, A chaplet of its flowers, the wan white rose, To lay upon her pall.' * * * And have not FLOWERS, E'en from the earliest time, been banquet guests? Of revelry to which they gave a grace, What any aid of human art could bring?. Beautiful, even in its error, seems The Pagan offering of flowers as gifts Looks on with smiles-and whom the careful sky Oh!-they're fair! Most wonderful and lovely are they all,- Our English childhood with its lowly look, Who does not love them? Reader, if thine heart Interminably spread before our eyes, Challenge our onward progress in its lore,- That now, with changeful tone, or grave, or gay, Wakes its wild music to a gentle theme, Gentle and sweet,-'tis THE ROMANCE OF FLOWERS. SONG OF THE FLOWERS. SEE, we come dancing in sunshine and showers, With our neighbour, the rugged old forest-tree, With the zephyrs we dance 'Neath the bright warm sun; But the moon's pale glance Bids our sport be done, Then we close our petals, nor, winking, peep Oh! are we not beautiful, bright young flowers, To us doth the lover his love compare, Then, think ye, can aught be more sweet or fair? Her brow is the lily, her cheek the rose, Her kiss is the woodbine (more sweet than those), When a bright dew-drop on its lustre gleams: By the hands loved best, Or clustered with care On her gentle breast. And oh what gems can so well adorn Blooming in sunshine, and glowing in showers, Of that blue-eyed darling, Forget me not. Her name is now grown a charmed word, By whose echo the holiest "thoughts are stirred." Come forth in the spring, And our wild haunts seek, When the wood-birds sing, And the blue skies break : Come forth to the hill-the wood-the vale Where we merrily dance in the sportive gale! |