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Charlotte Payne
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May 20, 2008
Charlotte Payne
-- ed.
[Engraved Title Page]
ENIGMETTES
OR
FLORA'S
Offering
to the
YOUNG
By Mary Kerr Hart.
[Title Page]
BY
MARY KERR HART,
Author of "Heath Blossoms."
"Storms but enliven its unfading green."
NEAR where the sacred ruin weeps,
And where the faithful ivy creeps,
My first is found—an evergreen
Which vivifies that spectral scene.
'Tis strange, that, loving haunts of gloom,
It loves, too, with my next to bloom,
And round that beauteous form to cling
Whose breath is love!—where clustering
Its green and russet mingled dyes,
It calls its birth-place—Paradise!
"The soothing power of the exalted skies
That holds communion with our sympathies."
Oh! seek 'mid the shadows that moonlight flings
This loveliest one of all lovely things;
A spirit of purity then unseen
Throws out pearl-white flowers with darker green.
Thus, touches that moonlight's rich pencil blends
With graces that Nature her fav'rite lends,
Invest it with almost a sensitive charm,
Ev'ry eye to enchant—ev'ry bosom to warm.
I borrow thy prop and external
Again thy black magic to use,
My friend and companion diurnal—
The Negro that waits on the Muse.
To Law, thou giv'st life and expression;
And light to Divinity's face;
And Love's most impassion'd confession
Thou'rt form'd in rich glowings to trace.
I return thee thy prop and external,
And lay down my pen and my brush,
When to seasons most lovely and vernal
Thou lendest a lovelier blush.
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.
La perce-neige blanche et blonde, elle est ma sœur,
Mais orgueilleuse et hautaine est cette fleur,
Elle aime toujours du jardin l'etiquette,
M'appellant la rustique—la— — —
J'aime moi, les vallons emaillés et doux,
Les champs de la nature, tous tableaux—tous—
Et j'aime de haut ecouter l'alouette;
Elle chant de moi—de moi—la — — —
Au grand matin, quand dorment ses autres amies,
J'envois mon haleine odorante à lui;
Ou, sur les collines vertes, lointaines, muettes,
Ou, dans les plaines elle trouve la — — —
Quoiqu'il ne soit mon teint de rose d'été,
Sur chaque sein doux je trouve un oreiller;
Quoique je ne sois vraiment qu'une jeune brunette,
Qui dira qu'on n'aime pas la — — —?
Du monde entier qui ne me connoîtra?—
Qui dira que du printems je ne sois
Et l'enfant cherie—et la belle jouette,
La fleur d'amour—la riante — — —!
"The various notes
Of music from a thousand throats."
To hail Spring's steps of infancy,
Awake thy curious, playful eye,
In all its laughing spells;
And let thy sister, Snow-drop shy,
To strains of festive minstrelsy
Attune her silver bells.
Let Echo send the fairy sound
Through ev'ry grove and valley round,
And let that key note move
The soul of young and tender Spring,
On Winter's breast still slumbering,
To harmony and love.
Then swelling shall the concert rise
A full and gen'ral sacrifice
From mountain, vale, and plain,
While dews of tearful sympathy,
Irradiating ev'ry eye,
Shall mingle with the strain.
"Like those sweet murmurings
Which balmy zephyrs, greeting bud and flower,
Make in their pilgrimage from bower to bower."
Hence, gaudy, wild, plebeian thing,
And bring not here thy offering
To blend with garlands of the Spring:
The Garden owns thee not her flower,
'Mid coarse damp grass still form thy bower,
There toss thy head—and use thy power.
Uncultur'd, virtueless, and gay,
The grove admits thee where no ray
Of fost'ring sun-shine e'er can play;
In shade, in deep unwholesome shade,
(The toad's retreat) thy bed is made;
There laugh thy life away—and fade,
Reprov'd by ev'ry passing breeze,
That seeks, among the tuneful trees,
To wake Eolian harmonies.
"Hence, hoyden, hence! the zephyr's sigh
Wastes not on thee its fragrancy,
But shuns thy forward courtesy.
"Hence, hoyden, hence! the zephyr's wing
(The perfum'd spirit of the Spring)
Saluteth not so coarse a thing.
"It loves amid-sweet mountain air
To rush—that startled lambkins there
May bruise the thyme-beds fresh and fair.
"It loves to sport through valleys gay,
To steal the od'rous breath of May,
And visits to the Violet pay;
"To woo the Primrose, pale and shy,
And call the Cowslip courtingly,
To blow her horn of jubilee;
"To drink from Flora's cups the dew,
To ring the peal of Harebells blue,
And o'er green Earth star-blossoms strew;
"To shake the spider's web, and see
Th' ensnarer's victim thence set free,
And greet with love the 'homeward bee;'
"To aid the Willow's murmuring,
To rock the cradle of young Spring,
And hushing lullabies to sing.
"Then hence! rough winds that rage and swell
May seek
jaune Jaquenetta's dell,
But I—I love thee not. Farewell!"
"Felici coloro che hanno in odio i piaceri violenti."
Oh! yellow and white are the flowers that blow
On the delicate sprigs that enchant me so;
Let the yellow be twin'd round the archway there,
But the white, be they wreath'd with Georgina's hair.
There's an elegant purity blended with them,
Far exceeding the rays of the diadem,
And that yields a more exquisite, purer joy,
Than the costly gem or the coronet toy.
"Unica mia bene."
When wrapp'd in eve's oblivious veil
Are slumbering the ma-ny,
'Tis sweet to hear the tender wail,
And wooing of the nightingale,
His
"Unica mia bene."
'Tis sweet to see his own lov'd flower,
The flower more true than a-ny,
Awake and list'ning in her bower,
To serenade, at twilight hour,
The
"Unica mia bene."
And holier smiles the gentle Moon
At that fond hour than a-ny,
Oh! say my lovely flower's name,
It wakes, when sleep the ma-ny,
It shares the Heav'n-taught Newton's fame,
While nightingales its power proclaim
With
"Unica mia bene."
"As transient is the smile of fate."
When smiles break out on Heaven's face,
Bright smiles—too bright to last,
And gild the Earth with that warm grace
Which mem'ry lends the past,
Th' uplifted eye a name may trace
For this my humble theme,
A moment yet may mark its place,
And glory in its beam.
But ere another moment's birth,
An "alter'd look" Heav'n wears,
And eyes uplifted turn to Earth,
To Earth o'erwhelm'd in tears.
Then fresh and fair my lovely theme
See smiling in its bower,
'Tis Heaven's coroneted dream,
'Tis Earth's most simple flower!
"Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And watch, sweet Spring, thy fair unfolding charms."
Cerulean and roseate hues combine
To give my fair theme its complexion,
Ah! hues of the Vi'let and Eglantine
Are blended to yield it perfection;
But interests dearer than colours bring
Are claim'd by this herald of gladness,
It blossoms to hail the young steps of Spring,
Chasing Winter's last tear of sadness.
"Our country—our country, bright pearl of the waters,
Fill the wine cup! the pledge be—her sons and her daughters;
Oh! deep may our bosoms with ecstasy glow,
'Tis a pledge to the bravest—the fairest below."
My first bore Nelson to the tomb,
Where laurels never cease to bloom;
My next that hero died to save,
His blood enrich'd the swelling wave;
My whole, his emblem you will find,
Which, dying, leaves perfume behind!
" 'Tis through the mist of falling tears
We catch the clearest glimpse of Heaven."
What, fondly on Earth's bosom press'd,
Almost declares a place of rest
That treach'rous bosom—and a bed
Where Innocence might lay its head,
And rest as in Elysium? No—
As soon a substance seek in snow!
The "soul of perfume" hov'ring there,
Commingling with the ambient air,
May creep into the slumb'rer's dream,
And nectarize life's tasteless stream,
And form with wreathlets of my flower
An Eden—an ambrosial bower—
Ah—qu'elle est joyeuse, qu'elle est gaie,
Cette brunette jolie à vos pieds;
En robe de velours,*
et jupe de soie,
Quel est son nom? O, dites le moi!
Attachée à la royauté
On trouve toujours cette jeune beauté,
Fidelle par-tout, cette humble fleur
S'appelle repos—repos du cœur!
Velours pronounced as v'lours, the e being mute.
"Oh! their heads would be the hollowest things
But for their hollower hearts."
Oh! could'st thou, with the topaz' blaze
And em'rald's, boast the garnet's rays—
Did precious sapphire lend thine eye
Its beauty and its brilliancy—
And did the splendid ruby glow
Upon thy lips, and light thy brow
With polish of the di'mond's beam—
Of ladies' love yet never dream.
Go—bend thee o'er the glassy lake,
And of thyself soft glances take;
Enamour'd of a coxcomb be,
No warmer heart shall beat for thee!
"O'er friendless grief compassion shall awake,
And smile in gentleness for Mercy's sake."
An ancient regal emblem springs
Beneath my pen to sight;
While magic charm enchantment flings
O'er one lov'd branch which Mem'ry brings
From realms of fairy light.
If faded on old History's face,
Or dead in Fancy's dream,
In motto of a noble race,
"Je fleurie dans la——,"*
oh! trace
My lov'd, my honour'd theme.
See the Duke of Richmond's arms.
It buds and blooms in beauty there,
And richest fragrance breathes,
So rich—that even haggard Care
May lay her burden down, and wear
One smile beneath its wreaths.
Unknown be Grief's or Sorrow's sting
Where honours thus are worn,
Oh! garlands—freshest garlands bring,
And ever o'er their temples fling
The rose without a thorn!
"When the tongue speaks sweetly,
Then it names her name."
Oh! surely I have found the prize
Which Fairies sprinkle o'er the eyes
Of mortals when they sleep;
Ah! fallen from Titania's hair,
When on a billow of the air
She lay in slumbers deep.
But tiny fingers could have wrought
This work of love, ambrosia-fraught,
This essence-laden plume:
Behold——attir'd in shades of green,
Of flowers without a thorn the queen,
The fair Victoria, bloom!
A nation's darling, bud, and flower—
A nation's hope, nurs'd in a bower
Of fragrant loveliness:
Still spread your winglets, Fairies—speed!
O'er eyes that weep, and hearts that bleed,
Its royal virtues press!
"The bridegroom may forget the bride
Was made his wedded wife yestreen,
The monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour hath been;
The mother may forget the bairn
That smiles so sweetly on her knee,
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
And all that thou hast done for me."
Wreath the cradle with snow-drops and primroses fair,
Let white roses be twin'd with the bride's flowing hair;
Let green laurels be strew'd o'er the warrior's pall,
But to me bring the flower that's dearer than all.
Let the violet glow on the bosom of Spring,
And rich wreaths of carnations o'er Summer's brow fling;
Seek it not in the forest, the desert, the vale,
Seek it not where the Eglantine's breath's in the gale;
The fond flower I sing is no wilding—it can
Blossom only about the lov'd dwellings of man.
Both alike are to it the proud mansion and cot,
No distinction it owneth; and if 'tis forgot
'Mid the clustering beauties of Summer and Spring,
In the Winter how greeted its fair offering!
Then how courted in bower, in hall, and alcove,
Is this child of fidelity—scion of love,
As on sleeping babes' lips plays the smile, so my flower
Is the sweet smile of Nature asleep in her bower!
"Je reçois pour bonne
La croix qu'il me donne,
Quoiqu'en Toutes choses
Qu'il veut et qu'il fait
Mon Dieu se propose
Le bonheur parfait!"
Fair Purity's emblem my first in hue,
And equal, thus equal, to faithful blue;
My second, it lurks under every rose,
In pillows—as fair as the Alpine snows,
In bosoms—where pride and where guilt are found,
In the eye that soars—in the brow that's crown'd;
But seated within Sensibility's breast,
Ah! deep seated there is the home of this guest;
Yet nothing more pure and more innocent seems
Than their union—e'en angels might warm o'er such themes!
"Can flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?"
Two proper nouns combine to form
The predecessor to the worm;
It buds to weep o'er senseless clay,
To bloom at close of life's short day;
To breathe with the lone cypress tree,
Sincere, instinctive sympathy.
My first applies to age-less dames
Who never deign to change their names:
My second—poets love the theme,
And blend it with romance's dream;
And Nature smiles to see her face
Look lovelier through its blushing grace;
The fairest of the fair—it charms
All hearts, and ev'ry bosom warms
With admiration and delight,
(A universal favourite!)
My whole, the gentlest, sweetest thing
That decks the brow of infant Spring.
Though the garden disdaineth to know thee,
And in hedge-rows thy dwelling be found,
Though thy name e'en bespeak thee the lowly,
The mere weed—and thy "bed the cold ground."
Thy blue eye shall in my humble pages
With benignity glisten and glow:
Far outshining the language of sages
Is the tear which for others will flow.
There was One who was born in a manger,
Who on earth was as lowly as thou,
Still the humble in spirit he loveth,
And the hand which another's woe heals—
And the heart which another's woe moveth,
Ah! the heart which another's woe—feels!
Oh! then bloom, Christianity's flower,
Though thy name and thy birth-place be low,
There o'erhangs both thy name and thy bower
Verdure's spirit—an evergreen bough!
"The breezy call of incense-breathing morn."
Wing hither, wing hither, sweet flower-fed bee,
Where honey stores are I will whisper to thee;
When gather'd thy harvest, and May's blossoms flown,
When silent the cuckoo—her melody gone—
Then come, and beneath the late blossoming tree
I will show thee the honey-flower dear to the bee;
Its scent, if thou'lt come at the break of the day,
Will seem to bring back thy rich harvest of May!
"A trifle if you do not love
A treasure if you do.
'Mid pale pearl blossoms clustering
Search, ladies, for a hidden ring;
Oh! seek it not externally,
But where the young bee loves to pry
For honied riches of the spring,
And there you'll find the magic ring.
"On the bridge where Time
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime."
When the mystic shadows of twilight rest
On Creation's varied, ample breast,
When they veil the rose in her balmy bower,
Say—what sleepeth then?
The — — — — flower.
When the lily assumes a soul-like light,
And, embodied, grows 'neath the touch of night—
When green Earth steals spells from Dusk's dreamy power;
Say—what sleepeth then?
The — — — — flower.
When aside's thrown the shading brush of night
And eclips'd is imagination's light
By the clearer beams of Aurora's hour,
Say—what 'waketh then?
The — — — —f lower.
When the spirit of perfume loads the breeze,
And the spangles of dew fringe responsive trees,
To behold young Morn in her strength and power,
Say—what 'waketh then?
The — — — — flower.
"The small, dust-coloured beetle climbs with pain
O'er the smooth plantain-leaf—a spacious plain;
Then flirts his filmy wings, and looks around,
Exulting in his distance from the ground."
Behold—aspiring, lofty, high,
Assuming more than majesty,
This haughty Belle: around her wait
Of Nature's works—the rare, the great
There see the architect'ral bee—
The flower of idolatry—
The glow-worm, with its mystic light—
The silk-grub, and its after-flight—
The nettle, with its magic sting—
The star-nurs'd primrose, blossoming
When night-shades fall—the tiger flower
Ephemeral, which in its bower
Say, what is like my first?—'tis man
When almost done his mortal span;
Or 'tis the ivy on the tree
Climatis
, woodbine, and sweet pea;
Or 'tis the twilight, 'tis the dawn,
Or 'tis "good news with tight shoes on;"
Or 'tis the hour but just begun
Which parts thee from thy best lov'd one.
And what's my next?—oh! see her crown'd
In all the harvest fields around.
And what's my whole?—a beauteous thing
On Summer's bosom blossoming.
La guerison n'est pas si prompte que la blessure.
Behold my theme in triumph rest
Upon the Scottish Noble's breast—
Its amethyst and em'rald rays
Encircled by the di'mond's blaze.—
'Mid vegetation's tribe 'tis seen,
On barren heaths despis'd and mean,
Yet, finger on it never press
To interrupt its moodiness.
'Tis Retribution's child—beware
Of thorn that's known to harbour there;
Of heath it is the shrew confess'd,
Nor harmless quite on Noble's breast!
Oh! how shall I my first define?
'Tis like the harden'd heart
Dissever'd from all love divine,
'Tis Nature's human part.
Untouch'd and unsubdu'd it frowns,
Through ages it will sleep,
'Tis but in climes my second owns
It e'er was known to weep.
My whole 'tis rare, a tenderling!
Which scorns its kindred ties
With that hard-hearted, unmov'd thing,
That frowns 'mid northern skies.
White fingers tend this simple fair,
As if a perfect beauty 'twere;
Oh! say what lends it such excess
Of interesting loveliness?
It is when all is cold and bare
This little flow'r perfumes the air:
Of brighter days it decks the tomb,
And, 'mid the storm, upon its bloom
The eye may rest—the heart may feed—
Its motto is a "friend in need!"
Now my first is an adjective, suiting the bee
And her store when she wings from the rose to the pea;
And my second, 'tis loyal, but, like other things
Appertaining to courts, and to crowns, and to kings,
It will go with the monarch that reigns to the tomb,
Like my whole, which dares only through Summer to bloom.
There are things whose exteriors vie
With truth, yet end in falsity,
Of lofty, haughty, mien and air,
Impregnating the atmosphere
With strongest perfume—touch them not,
Thy beauty they'll deface and blot,
And leave their own dark jealous trace,
To mar thy young and pretty face.
I hail thee, sparkling dark-ey'd thing,
Belov'd brunetta of the Spring,
Like rays emitted from the eye
Of Ethiopian brilliancy,
And with thy soft and velvet touch
Alluring, winning very much
All hearts, but most the honey bee
'Mid beauty buzzing tenderly;
Beware! the young bee of the spring
Beneath gold plumage hides a sting.
I love thy fond and balmy sigh,
Which hushes with its lullaby,
Among thy graceful wreaths,
The sweet thing blooming at thy foot,
The lovely purple violet root,
Which scent Arcadian breathes.
I love thee when thy feather'd brow
Reclineth as the breezes blow
Upon the lilac fair,
For by that innocent embrace
Do dimples play on Nature's face,
Which love to linger there!
My first, a victim see it dies
'Mid cruel victors' shouts and cries;
My second, that by herald thrown
When kings ascend old England's throne:
My whole, in heath and hedge is seen,
And crowns with May the Village Queen!
Oh! thou—unlike the upstart race
Transplanted from the vale,
Would'st still conceal thy vestal face,
So delicately pale,
Within thy foliaged cloister wall,
And be a hooded nun,
To bloom unseen, unseen by all,
Beneath the glowing sun—
Oh! lead thy blanch'd and spotless veil,
Thy winning retinue,
To her, born with thee in the vale,
The forward Parvenue!
"Poor is the friendless master of a world."
Ah, qu'elle soit la primevere du soir,
De la lune la fleur cherie;
Que le rossignol lui prêtera
Et son chant, et sa compagnie.
Que le tournesol, fleur d'idolatrie,
Le monarque du ciel adore,
Et le coucou y mêlant son ris,
(Ris eclantant de la nature!)
Ah, ce sont de beaux tableaux d'eté—
Mais moi, j'aime la fleur d'hiver,
D'où la rouge-gorge vient me visiter,
Dont les rameaux toujours sont verts.
I'll sing first in night's diadem,
The star, the star of Bethlehem.
Religion lends this verdant wreath
The perfume of an angel's breath,
And lights the eyes which on it rest
With beams of tearful interest:
Almost two thousand years its bloom
Hath garlanded the silent tomb—
Hath told bless'd tales to Hope's quick ear,
Hath drawn from Faith the holy tear,
And fill'd with joy, the purest, best,
Fond Charity's expansive breast.
Then take it home, and let it blow,
Dear Charlotte, on its native snow—
Although humbly I'm born I was tempted to soar,
And entwine my pink wreaths with the dark lofty fir;
If my blossoms look lovely on that sombre tree,
Oh! then, beautiful maiden, climb up after me.
When you've pluck'd me you'll find me enchantingly sweet,
But not sweeter than flowers that blow at your feet.
Had I been but contented to blossom and die
On my own native hedge, oh! then that longing eye
Had not sought me in vain, and my wreaths, rich and gay,
Had now garlanded sweetly the young Queen of May.
Lay thy soft attractions by,
Lovely Violet of the vale,
And be shut the pleading eye,
With its tender witchery,
Of thy sister Primrose pale.
Be thy sweetly scented bed
To the nightingale still dear,
But my steps bend to the mead
Where Pastora, born and bred,
Smiles throughout the changeful year.
Her's the faithful smiles that last,
And that ever are the same—
Wither not 'mid Winter's blast,
Live through present, future, past,
Add Fidelia to her name.
'Tis elder Scripture writ by God's own hand
For man's perusal—all in capitals!
Heaven's golden alphabet!
Oh! there's an eloquence in thee
Which speaketh from thine eye,
At "night's hush" waking silently,
To greet the star-lit sky.
Grief's tear by it may be beguil'd,
Grief's pang it may assuage,
For thou, mild Contemplation's child,
The fair Urania's page,
Dost hold communion with the Suns
Of other worlds alone,
Asleep, when ours his day race runs—
Awake, when it is done.
Say, gentle student of the night,
Those golden tomes above,
How full their page in heav'nly light?
How rich their page in love?
Doth not thy eye beyond the veil
Of mystery explore?
Or doth it but attain the pale
Of mortal sight? No more!
A fuller, deeper, view of Heav'n
'Tis surely thine to scan,
Than that dim meteor-insight giv'n
To hope-fed—hope-nurs'd man.
A flickering, sickly light 'tis his,
'Tis man's, to know at best
Of Heaven's grand sublimities,
Of Earth's chief interest,
Let man awake—oh, let his eye
Awake and watch with thine,
That his dark soul, more perfectly,
May taste thy draught divine!
To those who know thee not no words can paint,
And those who know thee know all words are faint.
I'd rather be the nettle weed
Or lowly trefoil of the mead,
Or thistle, rude and wild,
Than I would be th' exotic rare,
The plant of fame and curious care,
Full-hearted Nature's child!
I'd rather be the humblest thing
Which in the bouquet of young Spring
Lies blushing on his breast,
Or daffodilla of the shade,
The buxom, rustic, laughing maid,
With heart—with heart at rest—
The wilding, and the non-chalante,
Than I would be the tender plant,
The nerve-strung one I sing:
For sensibility's a thorn
More keen than that on briar worn,
More edg'd—more harrowing.
The briar's thorn hath but the pow'r
To wound the hand which steals its flow'r,
But sensibility
A dagger, hydra-pointed, wears,
Which its own bosom tortures, tears,
With strokes of agony!
I need not say my flower's name,
I need not dwell upon its fame,
I've wreath'd it round the tomb
Of happiness—and hung the brows
Of feeling with its kindred boughs;
There only can it bloom.
"Sometimes, through the yellow mead,
Me, Fancy, by the right hand lead."
HOW merrily ring they, the woodland bells,
Their soft music lending Eolian spells
To enrich the full concert of May;
The blossom-fill'd gale, as it boundeth by,
Among those gold bells waking harmony,
One two three, four five six,—and away!
A creature, domestic, and gentle, and sweet,
While browsing, those musical bells may greet
With the greeting of kindred. Say,
While pressing the sod with her fragrant lips,
What bell-flow'rs they are whence she nectar sips,
As they ring one two three,—and away!
I had wander'd through Memory's grove and heath,
From her bower and hedge I had cull'd a wreath,
And begun to tie up the clove
With the rose, and the pink, and ranuncula,
When on murmuring gales
"Ne m'oubliez pas"
Caught my ear—'twas the moan of love!
Then I turn'd to this object of tenderness
With the voice—still, small voice of full, fond distress,—
Whispering still,
"Ne m'oubliez pas;"
When behold, a false, fluttering butterfly
Wing'd above, singing gaily—"To fly, to fly,
Is the butterfly's nature and law."
My first, a substance much enjoy'd
By busy little fingers,
There—taste is ceaselessly employ'd,
There—infant fancy lingers.
My next, a jewell'd girdle seen
In mythologic pages;
My whole, of character and mien
To win the hearts of sages.
A beauty so supremely fair
We can but mark her bower,
And roam again to-morrow there—
Ah! where is gone the flower?
The fair Ephemera is gone
(Her nature evanescent)
Before the young and tender Moon
Puts on her silver crescent.
Oh! tell me—tell me what's the name
Of this all-beauteous courtly dame?
A queen 'mid Nature's works she smiles,
But with her beauty ne'er beguiles;
Perfection blushes on her face
'Tis true; but higher, nobler grace
Than beauty marks this matchless belle:—
The lady stamps her nameless spell
On this fair form! Refinement, birth,
And all the higher claims of Earth!
Of amaranthine tribe and class
I surely may proclaim this lass,
A ruddy, buxom, hardy creature,
A laughing, blushing child of Nature.
Thro' Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,
Rich garlands o'er her brow she'll fling;
But never dreams to tell her reason
For blooming thus thro' ev'ry season.
The fourth day of Creation bore
My first in all its matchless pow'r;
My second sprung upon the Earth,
Adoring that stupendous birth;
My whole still daily on it turns,
And its nocturnal absence mourns—
A pattern great for man below
To serve his God—and serve him so!
I'll rob this fragrant beauty here,
And glory in the theft,
And let it tell—that dewy tear—
The passion that is left.
That passion, and that passion's tear,
No fitter shrine can find:
It cannot prove a chang'ling here,
And leave a thorn behind!
Nor will I e'er restore the part—
The little part I steal—
Be't henceforth call'd fair Flora's heart—
To glow, expand, and feel.
Aurora's blush of fond adieu
Hath glow'd and died away in dew;
The tear upon the thorn is dry,
The matin hymn sinks silently,
And soaring glides the Idol Sun,
Proclaiming day, full day begun:
Then thine's the eye that watches, glows,
And drinks the radiance he bestows;
Nor thine alone the heart and eye
That worshipp'd solar majesty:
Beyond Atlantic seas, a race,
(Oh, Spaniard, hide thy burning face!)
"Not a beauty blows,
And not an opening blossom breathes in vain."
The essence of all sweets combin'd
Extracted in my first you'll find;
And Nature's fond, maternal breast
Expands and warms to hear confess'd
My next, the sweetest task she lent
To yield Earth's children full content;
My whole—'twill woo thy ev'ry sense,
And win thee with its innocence!
"I clasp'd the phantom, and I found it air!"
A pronoun from the French we'll borrow,
Denoting scorn, and sometimes sorrow,
To form my first. My second—surely
No pair of rose-buds more securely,
More fondly grew, while overscreening
The lily's bed beneath. The meaning?
Thou'lt find my whole uninteresting,
Tho' Flora's gayest robes 'tis dress'd in.
"Oh! how the soul o'erwhelm'd by sorrow clings
To all that adds new venom to her stings."
"Silken rest,
Tie all my cares up."
Let me forget—there's death to care
Where sleep's oblivious blossoms are,
Oh! lead me where those flowers blow
'Mid harvest waves, that fondly flow
And whisper,—(love's own whisper 'tis,)
Replete with promise, hope, and bliss;
And crown me with the red, red wreath,
Which mingles there its downy breath:—
Forgetfulness! I'd wear thy shield,
I'd e'en forget the harvest-field,
"Friendship twines her garland round the brow of Death."
A "Parasite!!" recall the taunt,
A Parasite prefers not haunt
Of ruin and of sadness, where
No gold—no pomps—no pleasures are!
Oh! rather designate me Friend,
Contented o'er the aged to bend,
O'er desolation and the tomb
Contented e'er to bud and bloom;
Or symbol, of a mother's love,
The passion purest from above;
The passion of divinest birth,
Unsullied most on selfish Earth!
My first, it is a lady's spouse,
Where sacred are not rings or vows;
My second, would'st thou know its state
And value true, ask not the great,
But ask the good, who only knows
The real blessings it bestows;
Not one beside, throughout the earth,
Can in it find pure abstract worth;
Of many—many, 'tis a toy,
But relatively yielding joy,
And ofttimes satisfies the soul
Less fully than my simple whole!
"I have found out a gift for my fair."
The voice that nearest to the skies
Aspires to chaunt sweet melodies—
My first.—My next is us'd, I ween,
Upon the road to Gretna Green.
My whole in Summer's garland blows:
Oh! train it with the damask rose,
The heartsease, and the passion flower—
A wreathlet meet for Hymen's bower.
"An evergreen that stands the northern blast,
And blossoms in the rigour of our fate."
'Tis among the "on dits"
At the top of the trees,
When the March winds blow roughly and rude,
That if Spring's foliage stay
To be greeted in May,
And poor robins must pick up the food
Still on thresholds of man,
With what shelter they can
But obtain from his home and caprice—
That 'tis better to flee
From the uncover'd tree
To the shrub with the ample green fleece.
"Peace, oh, Virtue! peace is all thy own."
"Cette gloire est aux Dieux
Ainsi que le bonheur, la vertu nous vient d'eux."
"My mind to me a kingdom is,"
I scorn mere Beauty's power,
Her trappings and her vanities,
Her triumph of an hour.
One colour only I assume,
And that of sombre dye,
But do I less a fav'rite bloom,
Or less regretted die
Than others of the Summer's race?
Oh, don't I rather breathe
With genuine worth and modesty,
My unpretending branch?
E'en after death in state I lie,
My name's nor Rose, nor Blanche!
"Dwells not a voice in things inanimate?"
My first the dairy's store provides;
My second, formless it abides
In dark recesses of the earth,
Till labour's hand complete its birth;
The poor man solace in it finds,
While garlands round Toil's brow it binds:
And as amid the dews of morn
He brushes, hail'd by scented thorn,
With myriad sweets that touch his soul,
He greets the simple thing—my whole.
My first, 'tis the colour most dear to love;
My second, a summons to realms above;
Or if 'tis the echo of joy on earth,
How rarely a challenge to harmless mirth,
Unmingled with strokes that will reach the heart
Vibrating with sorrow, which claims a part
Of every joy cup that sparkles here,
Though my whole the fair handmaid of love appear.
Bring the plume—the plume, the rubied plume,
While bestudded with di'mond dew,
May September sun-beams this day illume,
May they play on Nasturtian's golden bloom,
And new life give the Astor
blue:
May they rest on the Dahlia's crimson glows,
And their rich velvet charms display;
Hang full jubilee wreaths o'er loyal brows
Of Hydranja
, and flow'ring laurel boughs;
'Tis our Nation's gala-day!
And warm national joy from dew-lit bower,
Would away chase autumnal gloom,
Would to-day challenge each remaining flower,
In its prime, to smile on the crowning hour;
Oh, then bring—bring the rubied plume.
Like rich sun-beams on Autumn's woods that lie,
Is, alas! ev'ry joy below;
They may gild, but they cannot vivify,—
They are farewell gleams that, just ere they die,
In more lambent effulgence glow.
Sure Nature, in painting these clusters so fair,
Her brush in the rainbow dipp'd, each tint is there.
Now to the green-house' southern side,
Oh, come with me, I pray,
There smile the gardener's hope and pride
('Tis Beauty's grand display.)
Gather not one, its charms are all
For sight, mere sight alone;
Soon its fair head will, faded, fall,
For Beauty soon is flown.
Not e'en in life is lov'd this flower,
As sweeter flowers less gay,
What then in death can be its power?
Oh! let it live its day!
Silent the tongue of fond applause,
No eye is seen to weep,
None to declare its urn a vase
Where scented ashes sleep!
Not from its tomb one perfum'd gale
Will make its winged way,
Greeted nor lov'd the moonbeam pale
That on its tomb will play.
"And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot,
And thereby hangs a tale."
My first is a prop which old Time hath impress'd
With his footmarks and sombre shade;
My second, in loveliness smiles on its breast,
There content both to bloom and fade.
My whole—the lov'd haunts of excursive bees,
Their ambrosia stores on high,
Whence fragrance is stolen by each kissing breeze
To enchant as it passes by.
With thee, Time's specious wing
Brought the bee's honey with the serpent's sting.
My first, 'twas her's (fair Scotland's pride)
Who by the stroke of envy died,
A lovely sacrifice!—
Through "weal and woe" it hath been mine,
Perhaps, fair reader, it is thine,
For numbers it supplies.
My second,—much more easily
May camels pass the needle's eye
Than man may enter Heav'n
Who hath it:—'tis corruption's seed
By which man's heart is made to bleed,
And oft—his honour riven.
Yet many in it find the meed,
The bless'd reward of generous deed:
A talent from on high
If used and estimated right—
My whole, the Cotter's favourite
Of Flora's family.
There's rosemary—that's for remembrance!
There's rue for you—and here's some for me!
Like my first in its loveliness, fragrance, and worth,
Liv'd my Friend, to refine, bless, and sublimate earth:
Nor could'st thou, cruel Death, by this pitiless stroke
The resemblance destroy: though the flower be broke
From its stem—yet too full and too balmy its breath
To be spent—there's a perfume that's strongest in death!——
In my second—a mourner—a mourner, indeed,
At the tomb of GOD'S CHOSEN—TH' ALL-SUCCOURING REED!*
James Reed, Esq. of Ipswich. This little book having been undertaken under the fostering and influential sanction of the Author's dear and honoured Patron, it is with feelings of the most poignant distress she fulfils the mournful duty of enwreathing the flower of death with his beloved and distinguished name—a name dear to thousands!
Not the Mary of old o'er a lov'd brother's bier
Felt more anguish—or shed a more agoniz'd tear;
He was brother to many—a father to more,
And to thousands he open'd his heart's noble store
Let me Sympathy's wounds bind with wreaths of my whole,
'Tis the flow'r of "remembrance," and soothes Sorrow's soul!
Who survives, to remember our REED'S genuine worth,
Would his Heaven-wing'd spirit have kept upon earth?——
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