•
 
 \
 
 ^-a^^^t-<^^ 
 
 ^/■/^-^u^ 

 
 FLOWERS 
 
 FROM 
 
 DELL AND BOWER.
 
 FLOWERS 
 
 FROM 
 
 DELL AND BOWER 
 
 POEMS ILLUSTRATED 
 
 SUSIE BARSTOW SKELDING 
 
 Author of '■^ Flowers from Hill ajid Dale," " The Flower-Songs Series, 
 
 etc., etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 WHITE, STOKES, & ALLEN 
 
 1886
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1886, 
 By white, stokes, & ALLEN.
 
 U\0 
 
 h(o Sh-5 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 BY SUSIE BARSTOW SKELDING. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 JACQUEMINOT ROSES, .... Frontispiece 
 
 TRAILING ARBUTUS, 23 
 
 WHITE DAISIES AND GRASSES, . . . 33 
 
 WILD ROSES, ^3 
 
 EASTER LILIES, 33 
 
 [With facsimile of manuscript, by Lucy Larcom.) 
 
 SWEET-PEAS, 63 
 
 VIOLETS, 7j> 
 
 MOSS ROSES, 83 
 
 JONQUILS AND CROCUSES, pj> 
 
 PINK AND WHITE AZALEAS, . ... 103 
 
 WHITE LILIES, 113 
 
 PALE YELLOW ROSES, 123
 
 The editor acknowledges the courtesy of Messrs. 
 Roberts Brothers and D. Appleton df Co. for the use 
 of poems by prominent writers.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A GARDEN IDYL . 15 
 
 {Frederick Locker.) 
 QUOTATION, 17 
 
 {Campbell.') 
 THE ROSE'S PRIDE 18 
 
 {Sir Richard Fanshawe.) 
 INCENSE OF FLOWERS, 19 
 
 {Robert Leighton.) 
 THE TRUE AND THE FALSE 20 
 
 {Shakespeare.) 
 THE ARBUTUS 25 
 
 {Fac-siinile of manuscript, by Helen Jackson — "^H. /T.") 
 ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY, . 27 
 
 {Coleridge.) 
 SPRING IN THE LAP OF WINTER 2S 
 
 {Anonymous.) 
 LATE SPRING, 29 
 
 {Southey. ) 
 TO A FLOWER, 30 
 
 {Ayionytnous.) 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 35 
 
 {Burns. ) 
 THE DAISIE 38 
 
 {Chaucer.) 
 MOSSGIEL, 39 
 
 {Wordsiuorth.)
 
 8 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 From EASTER MESSENGERS 40 
 
 {Lucy Larconi.) 
 
 THE WILD ROSES 45 
 
 {Elizabeth D. Bullock.) 
 SONG 48 
 
 {Arthur O' Shaughnessy.) 
 THE ROSE 49 
 
 {Lovelace.) 
 QUOTATION, 49 
 
 ( Thomson. ) 
 From EASTER BELLS, 55 
 
 {Facsimile of manuscript, by Helen Jackson — "//^ //!") 
 ANGELS ROLL THE ROCK AWAY, 56 
 
 {The Rev. Thomas Scott.) 
 WELCOME, O DAY! 57 
 
 {William Allen, D.D.) 
 QUOTATION, 58 
 
 ( Wordsworth.) 
 QUOTATION, 58 
 
 ( Ten7iyson.) 
 QUOTATION, 58 
 
 {Cowley.) 
 THE LILY, 59 
 
 (/. G. Percival.) 
 SWEET-PEAS, 65 
 
 {Keats.) 
 From THE FLOWER 65 
 
 {George Herbert.) 
 THE GARDEN, 66 
 
 {Andrciu Marvell.) 
 From EASTER MESSENGERS, 70 
 
 {Lucy Larcom.)
 
 CONTENTS. g 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SONG, 75 
 
 {IVillzam Cullen Bryant.) 
 VIOLETS, 77 
 
 {Leigh Hunt.) 
 THE CLOSE OF SPRING, ....." 78 
 
 {Charlotte Smith.) 
 FLOWERS 79 
 
 {Barry Cornwall.) 
 THE VIOLET, ■ . 80 
 
 ( Translated from Goethe. ) 
 SONNET, • 85 
 
 {Spenser.) 
 "DEEP IN THE SNOW'S BED BURY THE ROSE," 86 
 
 {Swinburne.) 
 "SEE, SEE THE FLOWERS THAT BELOW," 89 
 
 {Giles Fletcher.) 
 "THE ROSES FEARFULLY ON THORNS DID STAND," 89 
 
 {Shakespeare. ) 
 THE FUNERAL RITES OF THE ROSE, 90 
 
 {Herrick.) 
 MAY-TIDE, 95 
 
 {Lewis Morris.) 
 THE CROCUS, 97 
 
 {Mary Howitt.) 
 From EASTER MESSENGERS 97 
 
 {Liicy I^arcom.) 
 TO A CROCUS 98 
 
 {Bernard Barton.) 
 SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING, 105 
 
 {Barry Cornwall.) 
 FLOWERS, 107 
 
 {Anonymous.) *
 
 lO CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 From EASTER MESSENGERS 115 
 
 {Facsimile of manuscript, by Lucy Larconi.) 
 A DIAI.OGUE FROM SOUL GARDENING 116 
 
 {Dora GrecuTvell.) 
 LILIES 117 
 
 {Leigh Hunt.) 
 THE LILY 118 
 
 ( Coleridge. ) 
 I SEND THE LILIES GIVEN TO ME, 119 
 
 {Byron. ) 
 STANZA, 125 
 
 {Quarles.) 
 "O HAVE YOU SEEN?" 126 
 
 {L. E. Landon.) 
 "THE ROSE SAID," 126 
 
 {Augusta Webster.) 
 THE FALLING ROSE 127 
 
 {JVilliain Cox Bennett.) 
 "WOO ON, WITH ODOR WOOING ME," 128 
 
 {George MacDonald.) 
 "LIVE ALL THY SWEET LIFE THROUGH," 128 
 
 {Christina G. Rossetti.)
 
 JACQUEMINOT ROSES. 
 
 ,13)
 
 A GARDEN IDYLL. 
 
 There are plenty of roses [J he patriarch speaks)^ 
 But alas not for nie^ on your lips and your checks ; 
 Sweet Maiden^ rose-laden — enough and to spare — 
 Spare ^ O spare me the rose that you wear in your hair. 
 
 We have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flower}^ croft, 
 
 We have met under wintry skies ; 
 Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft 
 
 Is the light in her wistful eyes ; 
 It is sweet in the silent woods, among 
 
 Gay crowds, or in any place 
 To hear her voice, to gaze on her 3'oung 
 
 Confiding face.
 
 l6 A GARDEN IDYLL. 
 
 Forever may roses divinely blow, 
 
 And wine-dark pansies charm 
 By the prim box-path where I felt the glow 
 
 Of her dimpled, trusting arm, 
 And the sweep of her silk as she turn'd and smiled 
 
 A smile as fair as her pearls ; 
 The breeze was in love with the darling child. 
 
 As it moved her curls. 
 
 She showed me her ferns and woodbine sprays, 
 
 Fox-glove and jasmine stars, 
 A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze 
 
 Of red in the celadon jars : 
 And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, 
 
 And roses of beautiful June — 
 Oh, who would think the Summer spells 
 
 Could die so soon ! 
 
 For a glad song came from the milking shed. 
 
 On a wind of that Summer south. 
 And the green was golden above her head. 
 
 And a sunbeam kissed her mouth ; 
 Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt — 
 
 And the wings of Time were fleet 
 As I gazed ; and neither spoke, for we felt 
 
 Life was so sweet !
 
 A GARDEN IDYLL. 17 
 
 And the odorous limes were dim above 
 
 As we leant on a drooping bough ; 
 And the darkling air was a breath of love, 
 
 And a witching thrush sang " Now !" 
 For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew 
 
 As we listened, and sigh'd, and leant — 
 That day was the sweetest da}' — and we knew 
 
 What the sweetness meant. 
 
 Frederick Locker. 
 
 When Love came first to earth, the Spring 
 Spread rose-beds to receive him. 
 
 Caynpbeil.
 
 i8 
 
 THE ROSE'S PRIDE. 
 
 Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves 
 The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, 
 
 Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives 
 For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes ! 
 
 Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon ; 
 
 What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee ? 
 Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, 
 
 And passing proud a little color makes thee. 
 
 Sir Richard Fanshaive.
 
 19 
 
 INCENSE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 This rich abundance of the rose, its breath, 
 
 On which I almost think my soul could live, 
 This svreet ambrosia, which even in death 
 Its leaves hold on to give — 
 
 Whence is it ? From dark earth or scentless air ? 
 
 Or from the inner sanctuaries of heaven ? 
 We probe the branch, the root, no incense there — 
 O God, whence is it given ? 
 
 ^ 
 
 Is it the essence of the morning dew, 
 Or distillation of a purer sphere — 
 The breath of the immortals coming through 
 To us immortals here ? 
 
 Exquisite m3^ster3^, my heart devours 
 The living inspiration, and I know 
 Sweet revelations with the breath of flowers 
 Into our beines flow. 
 
 't3' 
 
 Robert Leigh ton.
 
 20 
 
 THE TRUE AND THE FALSE. 
 
 O, HOW mucK more dotli beauty beauteous seem 
 By tbat sweet ornament wbich trutb doth give ! 
 
 Tbe rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
 For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 
 
 The canker blooms have full as deep a dye 
 
 As the perfumed tincture of the roses, 
 Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly 
 
 When Summer's breath their masked buds discloses. 
 
 But, for their virtue only is their show, 
 They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade. 
 
 Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so : 
 
 Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made ; 
 
 And so of you, beauteous and loveiy youth, 
 
 When that shall fade, thy verse distils your truth. 
 
 Shakespeare.
 
 TRAILING ARBUTUS, 
 
 (21)
 
 --■^w^ /t^j£**-i<^ ~"^..^T</^ -Z.,^.^^ ^z—
 
 27 
 
 ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF 
 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 Sweet Flower ! that peeping from thy russet stem 
 
 Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort 
 
 This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Month 
 
 Hath borrowed Zephyr's voice, and gazed on thee 
 
 With blue, voluptuous eye), alas, poor Flower! 
 
 These are but flatteries of the faithless year. 
 
 Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave, 
 
 B'en now, the keen North-Bast is on its way. 
 
 Flower that must perish ! Shall I liken thee 
 
 To some sweet girl, of too, too rapid growth. 
 
 Nipped by consumption 'mid untimely charms, 
 
 Or to Bristowa's bard, the wondrous boy ! 
 
 An amaranth, which earth scarce seemed to own, 
 
 Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong 
 
 Beat it to Earth ? or with indignant grief 
 
 Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope. 
 
 Bright flower of hope, killed in the opening bud ? 
 
 Farewell, sweet blossom ! better fate be thine. 
 
 Coleridge.
 
 a8 
 
 SPRING IN THE LAP OF WINTER. 
 
 The mist still hovers round the distant hills ; 
 But the blue sky above us has a clear 
 And pearly softness ; not a white speck lies 
 Upon its breast ; it is a crystal dome. 
 There is a quiet charm about this morn 
 Which sinks into the soul. No gorgeous colors 
 Has the undraperied earth, but yet she shows 
 A vestal brightness : not the voice is heard 
 Of sylvan melody, whether of birds 
 Intent on song, or bees mingling their music 
 With their keen labor ; but the twittering voice 
 Of chaffinch, and the wild unfrequent note 
 Of the lone woodlark, and the minstrelsy 
 Of the blest robin, have a potent spell 
 Chirping away the silence ; not the perfume 
 Of violets scents the gale, nor apple-blossom. 
 Nor satiating bean-flower ; the fresh breeze 
 Itself is purest fragrance. Light and air 
 Are ministers of gladness ; where these spread, 
 Beauty abides, and joy : where'er Life is 
 There is no melancholy. 
 
 Anony^nous.
 
 29 
 
 LATE SPRING. 
 
 Thou lingerest, Spring, still wintr}'- is the scene ; 
 
 The fields their dead and sapless russet wear ; 
 
 Scarce does the glossy Celandine appear 
 Starring the sunny bank, or, earl}^ green, 
 The Elder yet its circling tufts put forth ; 
 
 The sparrow tenants still the eave-built nest. 
 
 Where we should see our martin's snowy breast 
 Oft darting out. The blasts from the bleak North 
 
 And from the keener Bast still frequent blow ; 
 
 Sweet Spring, thou lingerest, and it should be so — 
 Late let the fields and gardens blossom out ! 
 
 Like man, when most with smiles thy face is drest, 
 
 'Tis to deceive, and he who knows you best. 
 When most ye promise, even most will doubt. 
 
 Southey.
 
 30 
 
 TO A FLOWER. 
 
 Dawn, gentle flower, 
 
 From the morning earth ! 
 We will gaze and wonder 
 
 At thy wondrous birth ! 
 
 Bloom, gentle flower ! 
 
 Lover of the light, 
 Sought by wind and shower, 
 
 Fondled by the night ! 
 
 Fade, gentle flower I 
 
 All thy white leaves close ; 
 Having shown thy beauty, 
 
 Time 'tis for repose. 
 
 Die, gentle flower. 
 
 In the silent sun ! 
 So, — all pangs are over. 
 
 All thy tasks are done. 
 
 Day hath no more glor^^. 
 
 Though he soars so high ; 
 Thine is all man's story, 
 
 Live, — and love, — and die ! 
 
 Anonymous.
 
 WHITE DAISIES AND GRASSES. 
 
 (31)
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH A PLOW. 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
 Thou's met me in an evil hour. 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 
 Thy slender stem ; 
 To spare thee now is past my power, 
 
 Thou bonnie gem. 
 
 Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
 The bonnie lark, companion meet, 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 
 
 Wi' speckled breast. 
 When upward springing, blithe to greet 
 
 The purpling east.
 
 36 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter, biting north 
 Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
 
 Amid the storm, 
 Scarce reared above the parent earth 
 
 Thy tender form. 
 
 The flaunting flowers our gardens 3deld, 
 High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield, 
 But thou, beneath the random bield 
 
 O' clod or stane 
 Adorns the histie stibble-field, 
 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 
 Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
 Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
 
 In humble guise ; 
 But now the share uptears thy bed, 
 
 And low thou lies I 
 
 Such fate to suffering worth is given. 
 Who lang with wants and woes has striven, 
 By human pride or cunning driven 
 
 To misery's brink. 
 Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 
 
 He ruined, sink !
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. -37 
 
 Even thou, who mourn'st the daisy's fate 
 That fate is thine — no distant date, 
 Stern Ruin's plowshare drives elate 
 
 Full on thy bloom, 
 Till, crushed beneath the furrow's weight, 
 
 Shall be thy doom ! 
 
 Burns,
 
 38 
 
 THE DAISIE. 
 
 DaisiE of light ! very ground of comfort ! 
 The sunnis doughtir ye hight, as I rede, 
 For when he westrith, farwell your disport ; 
 By your nature anone, right for pure drede 
 Of the rude Night, that with his boistous wede 
 Of derkenesse shadowith our hemisphere, 
 Then closin ye, my liv'is ladie dere. 
 
 Daunying the daie unto his kind resort. 
 And Phoebus your fethir with his stremes rede 
 Adorneth the morrowe, consuming the sort 
 Of mistie cloudes, that wouldin ovirlede 
 True humble hertis with ther mistie hede, 
 Nere comfort adaies, when your eyin clere 
 Disclose and sprede, my liv'is ladie dere. 
 
 Je vouldray; but the grete God disposeth 
 And makith casuell by His providence 
 Soche thing as mannis frele wit purposeth, 
 All for the best, if that your conscience 
 Not grutche it, but in -humble pacience 
 It receve ; for God saith withoutin fable, 
 A faithful! herte evir is acceptable. 
 
 Chancer.
 
 39 
 
 MOSSGIEL. 
 
 " There," said a stripling, pointing with much pride, 
 
 Towards a low roof, with green trees half-concealed, 
 " Is Mossgiel farm ; and that's the very field 
 Where Burns plough'd up the daisy !" Far and wide 
 A plain below stretch'd seaward ; while, descried 
 
 Above sea clouds, the peaks of Arran rose ; 
 
 And, by that simple notice, the repose 
 Of earth, sky, sea and air was vivified. 
 
 Beneath the random field of clod or stone 
 Myriads of daisies here shone forth in flower 
 Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour 
 
 Have passed away ; less happy than the one 
 That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove 
 The tender charm of poetry and love. 
 
 Wordsworth.
 
 40 
 
 From EASTER MESSENGERS. 
 
 A MESSAGE from the Grasses 
 
 Is whispered by the breeze : — 
 " O give thyself to service meek, 
 
 And lowly ministries ; 
 Contented, though unnoticed. 
 
 To weave a tender grace 
 Around the toiler's trodden path — 
 
 The poor man's dwelling-place." 
 
 And softly sighs the Daisy — 
 
 " Although thy lot be low. 
 The humblest wild-flower of the field 
 
 In light from heaven must grow. 
 The ploughboy, if he watches, 
 
 May see the King go by : 
 
 At work, at rest, still keep thy soul 
 
 Wide open to the sky !" 
 
 Lucy Larcom.
 
 WILD ROSES.
 
 THE WILD ROSES. 
 
 I WALKED in the joyous morning, 
 The morning of June and life, 
 
 Kre the birds had ceased to warble 
 Their sweetest of love and strife. 
 
 I walked alone in the morning, 
 
 And who so glad as I, 
 When I saw the pale wild roses 
 
 Hang from the branch on high ? 
 
 Fairer than stars were the roses. 
 Faint was the fragrance and rare, 
 
 Not any flower in the garden 
 Could with those roses compare.
 
 .Q THE WILD ROSES. 
 
 But the day was all before me, 
 The tumult of youth's delight ; 
 
 Why bear a burden of roses 
 Before the calm of the night ? 
 
 Let them stay awhile to gladden 
 The air and the earth below, 
 
 With tender beauty and sweetness 
 They cannot choose but bestow. 
 
 So I kissed the roses, and lightly 
 I breathed of their breath divine ; 
 
 It is time when I come back, I said, 
 To make the sweet roses mine. 
 
 I went in the gladsome morning, — 
 I said we part for an hour ; 
 
 The branch of wild roses trembled. 
 The dew was on every flower. 
 
 I returned in the joyless evening, 
 I yearned with passion then. 
 
 For the pale and peerless roses 
 I never should see again.
 
 THE WILD ROSES. 47 
 
 For another had taken delight 
 
 In color and perfume rare, 
 And another hand had gathered 
 
 My roses beyond compare. 
 
 I may wander East, may wander West, 
 
 Wherever the sun doth shine, 
 I never shall find the wild roses, 
 
 The roses I thought were mine. 
 
 Elizabeth D. Bullock,
 
 48 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When the rose came, I loved the rose, 
 
 And thought of none beside, 
 Forgetting all the other flowers. 
 
 And all the others died ; 
 And morn, and noon, and sun, and showers, 
 
 And all things loved the rose. 
 Who only half returned my love, 
 
 Blooming alike for those. 
 
 I was the rival of a score 
 
 Of loves on gaudy wing. 
 The nightingale I would implore 
 
 For pity not to sing ; 
 Each called her his, still I was glad 
 
 To wait or take my part ; 
 I loved the rose — who might have had 
 
 The fairest lily's heart. 
 
 Arthur O^Shaughnessy.
 
 49 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 Sweet, serene, sky-like flower, 
 Haste to adorn her bower ; 
 From thy long cloudy bed 
 Shoot forth thy damask head. 
 
 Vermillion ball that's given 
 From lip to lip in heaven ; 
 Love's couch's coverlid ; 
 Haste, haste to make her bed. 
 
 See, rosy is her bower, 
 Her floor is all thy flower ; 
 Her bed a rosy nest, 
 A bed of roses prest. 
 
 Lovelace, 
 
 Flowers of all hue, their queen the bashful rose. 
 
 TJiOtUson.
 
 EASTER LILIES. 
 
 (51)
 
 55 

 
 56 
 
 ANGELS ROLL THE ROCK AWAY I 
 
 Angels roll the rock away ! 
 Death, yield up the mighty prey ! 
 See! the Saviour quits the tomb, 
 Glowing with immortal bloom. 
 
 riallelujah! hallelujah! 
 Christ the Lord is risen to-day. 
 
 Shout, ye seraphs! angels, raise 
 Your eternal song of praise ! 
 Let the earth's remotest bound 
 Echo to the blissful sound ! 
 
 Hallelujah! hallelujah! 
 Christ the Lord is risen to-day. 
 
 Holy Father, holy Son, 
 Holy Spirit, three in One, 
 Glory as of old to thee, 
 Now and evermore shall bei 
 
 Hallelujah ! hallelujah ! 
 Christ the Lord is risen to-day. 
 
 — The Rev. Thomas Scott
 
 57 
 
 WELCOME, O DAY! 
 
 Welcome, O day ! in dazzling glory bright ! 
 
 Emblem of yet another day most blest, 
 
 When all Christ's friends with him in heaven shall rest ; 
 For on this day, in his recovered might. 
 The sleeper waked to see this morning's light, — 
 
 " The Son of God ! " glad angel hosts attest : 
 
 So, when alive, most fully shown confest ; 
 
 For on this day he took his heavenward flight. 
 
 When, therefore, our glad eyes this morning's sun 
 See rising on the earth, we'll lift our thought 
 To him who by his death our life hath bought, 
 
 And, Victor, King, for us a crown hath won. 
 It e'er shall be a day of sweetest joy. 
 Till we shall see our Lord in yonder sky! 
 
 — William Alleji, D.D,
 
 58 
 
 A LILY flower, 
 The old Egyptian's emblematic mark 
 Of joy immortal and of pure affection. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
 And slips into the bosom of the lake ; 
 So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
 Into my bosom, and be lost in me. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 The virgin lilies in their white. 
 Clad but with the lawn of almost naked white. 
 
 Cowley.
 
 59 
 
 THE LILY. 
 
 I HAD found out a sweet green spot, 
 Where a Lily was blooming fair ; 
 The din of the city disturbed it not, 
 But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot 
 With its wings of Love, was there. 
 
 I found that Lily's bloom 
 
 When the day was dark and chill : 
 It smiled, like a star in the misty gloom, 
 And it sent abroad a soft perfume, 
 Which is floating around me still. 
 
 I sat by the Lily's bell, 
 
 And watched it many a day : — 
 The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell, 
 Grew faint and dim, then drooped and fell, 
 
 And the flower had flown away. 
 
 I looked where the leaves were laid 
 
 In withering paleness, by, 
 And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said. 
 There is many a sweet and blooming maid. 
 
 Who will soon as dimly die. 
 
 J. G. Po'cival.
 
 SWEET-PEAS. 
 
 (61)
 
 SWEET-PEAS. 
 
 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. 
 
 Keats. 
 
 From THE FLOWER. 
 
 How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean 
 
 Are thy returns, e'en as the flowers in Spring ; 
 To which, besides their own demean. 
 
 The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. 
 Grief melts away 
 Like snow in ]\Iay ; 
 As if there were no such cold thing. 
 
 George Herbert.
 
 THE GARDEN. 
 
 How vainly men themselves amaze, 
 To win tlie palm, the oak, or bays ; 
 And their incessant labors see 
 Crown'd from some single herb, or tree, 
 Whose short and narrow verged shade 
 Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
 While all the flowers and trees do close, 
 To weave the garlands of Repose. 
 
 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here. 
 And Innocence, thy sister dear ! 
 IMistaken long, I sought you then 
 In busy companies of men. 
 Your sacred plants, if here below, 
 Only among the plants will grow. 
 Society is all but rude 
 To this delicious solitude.
 
 THE GARDEN. 6/ 
 
 No wliite nor red was ever seen 
 So am'rous as this lovel}' green. 
 Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 
 Cut in these trees their mistress' name. 
 Little, alas, they know or heed 
 How far these beauties her exceed ! 
 Fair trees, where'er your barks I wound, 
 No name shall but your own be found. 
 
 When we have run our passion's heat, 
 Love hither makes his best retreat. 
 The gods, who mortal beauty chase, 
 Still in a tree did end their race. 
 Apollo hunted Daphne so, 
 Only that she might laurel grow. 
 And Pan did after S\^rinx speed, 
 Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 
 
 What wondrous life is this I lead ! 
 Ripe apples drop about my head ; 
 The luscious clusters of the vine 
 Upon my mouth do crush their wine 
 The nectarine, the curious peach. 
 Into my hands themselves do reach. 
 Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
 Ensnar'd with flovrers, I fall on grass.
 
 68 THE GARDEN. 
 
 Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, 
 
 Withdraws into its happiness ; 
 
 The mind, that ocean where each kind 
 
 Does straight its own resemblance find ; 
 
 Yet it creates, transcending these. 
 
 Far other worlds, and other seas ; 
 
 Annihilating all that's made 
 
 To a green thought in a green shade. 
 
 Here, at the fountain's sliding foot, 
 Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 
 Casting the body's vest aside, 
 My soul into the boughs does glide : 
 Here, like a bird, it sits and sings. 
 Then whets, and claps its silver wings ; 
 And, till prepared for longer flight. 
 Waves in its plumes the various light. 
 
 Such was that happy garden-state. 
 While man there walk'd without a mate 
 After a place so pure and sweet. 
 What other help could yet be meet ! 
 But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
 To wander solitary there : 
 Two Paradises are in one. 
 To live in Paradise alone.
 
 THE GARDEN. 69 
 
 How well the skillful gard'ner drew 
 Of flowers and herbs, this dial new : 
 Where, from above, the milder sun 
 Does through a fragrant zodiac run ; 
 And, as it works, th' industrious bee 
 Computes his time as well as we. 
 How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
 Be reckon'd but with herbs and flowers ? 
 
 Andrew MarvelL
 
 70 
 
 From EASTER MESSENGERS. 
 
 The Sweet-pea flutters upward — 
 
 Almost a flower with wings — 
 Her tendrils steadying her flight ; 
 
 Ascending while she clings. 
 Through fragrant mists she murmurs 
 
 " O make life sweet with prayer ! 
 Hold firmly b}^ the human ties, 
 
 But breathe in heavenly air!" 
 
 Lucy Larcom.
 
 VIOLETS. 
 
 (71)
 
 75 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Dost thou idly ask to hear 
 
 At what gentle seasons 
 Nymphs relent, when lovers near 
 
 Press the tenderest reasons ? 
 Ah, they give their faith too oft 
 
 To the careless wooer ; 
 Maidens' hearts are always soft : 
 
 Would that men's were truer ! 
 
 Woo the fair one when around 
 
 Early birds are singing ; 
 When o'er all the fragrant ground, 
 
 Early herbs are springing : 
 When the brookside, bank, and grove, 
 
 All with blossoms laden. 
 Shine thy beauty, breathe of love, — 
 
 Woo the timid maiden. 
 
 Woo her when, with rosy blush. 
 
 Summer eve is sinking ; 
 When on rills that softly gush, 
 
 Stars are softly winking ;
 
 76 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When through boughs that knit the bower 
 
 Moonlight gleams are stealing ; 
 Woo her, till the gentle hour 
 
 Wake a gentler feeling. 
 
 Woo her, when autumnal dyes 
 
 Tinge the woody mountain ; 
 When the dropping foliage lies 
 
 In the weedy fountain ; 
 Let the scene, that tells how fast 
 
 Youth is passing over, 
 Warn her, ere her bloom is past, 
 
 To secure her lover. 
 
 Woo her when the north winds call 
 
 At the lattice nightly ; 
 When, within the cheerful hall, 
 
 Blaze the fagots brightly ; 
 While the wintry tempest round 
 
 Sweeps the landscape hoary, 
 Sweeter in her ear shall sound 
 
 Love's delightful story. 
 
 — William Ctillen Bryant.
 
 n 
 
 VIOLETS. 
 
 We are violets blue, 
 
 For our sweetness found 
 Careless in the mossy shades, 
 
 Looking on the ground. 
 Love's dropp'd eyelids and a kiss, — 
 Such our breath and blueness is. 
 
 lo, the mild shape 
 
 Hidden by Jove's fears. 
 Found us first i' the sward, when she 
 For hunger stoop'd in tears. 
 " Wheresoe'er her lips she sets," 
 Jove said, " be breaths call'd Violets." 
 
 Leigh Hunt.
 
 78 
 
 THE CLOSE OF SPRING. 
 
 The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, 
 
 Bacli simple flower wliich she had nursed in dew, 
 Anemones that spangled every grove — 
 
 The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. 
 No more shall violets linger in the dell, 
 
 Or purple orchis variegate the plain. 
 Till Spring again shall call forth every bell. 
 
 And dress with humid hands her wreaths again — 
 Ah, poor humanity ! so frail. So fair, 
 
 Are the fond visions of thine early day, 
 Till tyrant passion and corrosive care 
 
 Bid all thy fairy colors fade away ! 
 Another May new buds and flowers shall bring ; 
 Ah ! why has happiness no second Spring ? 
 
 Charlotte Smith.
 
 79 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 We have left behind us 
 
 The riches of the meadows, — and now come 
 
 To visit the virgin primrose where she dwells, 
 
 'Midst harebells and the wild-wood hyacinths. 
 
 'Tis here she keeps her court. Dost see yon bank 
 
 The sun is kissing ? Near, — go near ! for there, 
 
 ('Neath those broad leaves, amidst yon straggling 
 
 grasses) 
 Immaculate odors from the violet 
 Spring up for ever ! Like sweet thoughts that come 
 Winged from the maiden fancy, and fly off 
 In music to the skies, and there are lost, 
 These ever-steaming odors seek the sun, 
 And fade in the light he scatters. 
 
 Barry Corriwall.
 
 8o 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 A Violet blossom'd on the green, 
 With lowly stem, .and bloom unseen ; 
 
 It was a sweet, low flower. 
 A shepherd maiden came that way. 
 With lightsome step and aspect gay, 
 
 Came near, came near, 
 Came o'er the green with song. 
 
 Ah ! thought the Violet, might I be 
 The fairest flower on all the lea. 
 
 Ah ! but for one brief hour : 
 And might be plucked by that dear maid, 
 And gently on her bosom laid, 
 
 Ah ! but, ah ! but 
 A few dear moments long. 
 
 Alas ! the maiden, as she pass'd, 
 No eye upon the Violet cast ; 
 
 She crush'd the poor wee flower ; 
 It sank, and, dying, heaved no sigh, 
 And if I die, at least I die 
 
 By her, by her. 
 Beneath her feet I die. 
 
 Translated from Goethe.
 
 MOSS ROSES. 
 
 (81)
 
 85 
 
 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 branch is 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 tempered still, 
 
 That maketh it to 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.
 
 Deep in the snow's bed bury the rose. 
 Bury her deeper 
 Than any sleeper ; 
 Sweet dreams will keep her 
 
 All day, all night ; 
 Though sleep benumb her, 
 And time overcome her, 
 She dreams of Summer, 
 
 And takes delight. 
 Dreaming and sleeping 
 In love's good keeping. 
 While rain is weeping 
 
 And no leaves cling ; 
 Winds will come bringing her 
 Comfort, and singing her 
 Stories, and songs, and good news of the Spring.
 
 DEEP IN THE SNOW'S BED. 
 
 Draw the white curtain 
 Close, and be certain 
 She takes no hurt in 
 
 Her soft, low bed : 
 She feels no colder, 
 And grows no older. 
 Though snows enfold her 
 
 From foot to head ; 
 She turns not chilly 
 Like weed and lily 
 In marsh or hilly 
 
 High watershed, 
 
 Or green soft island, 
 
 In lake of highland ; 
 
 She sleeps awhile, and she is not dead. 
 
 For all the hours," 
 Come sun, come showers, 
 Are friends of flowers. 
 
 And fairies all ; 
 When frost entrapped her 
 They came and lapped her 
 In leaves, and wrapped her 
 
 With shroud and pall ; 
 In red leaves wound her, 
 With dead leaves bound her 
 Dead brows, and round her 
 
 &7
 
 88 DEEP IN THE SNOW'S BED. 
 
 A death-knell rang ; 
 Rang the death-bell for her, 
 Sang, "Is it well for her. 
 Well, is it well with you, rose ?" they sang. 
 
 O what and where is 
 The rose now, fairies, 
 So shrill the air is. 
 
 So wild the sky ? 
 Poor last of roses, 
 Her worst of woes is 
 The noise she knows is 
 
 The Winter's or}'- ; 
 His hunting hollo 
 Has scared the swallow ; 
 Fain would she follow 
 
 And fain would fly ; 
 But wind unsettles 
 Her poor last petals ; 
 Had she but wdngs, and she would not die. 
 
 Swinburne.
 
 89 
 
 See, see the flowers that below 
 Now as fresh as morning blow, 
 And of all the virgin rose, 
 That as bright Aurora shows : 
 How they all unleaved lie, 
 Losing their virginity ; 
 Like unto a Summer shade. 
 But now bom and now they fade. 
 Bverj^thing doth pass away; 
 There is danger in delay ; 
 Come, come, gather then the rose ; 
 Gather it, or it you lose. 
 
 Giles Fletcher. 
 
 The roses fearfully on thorns did stand. 
 One blushing shame, another white despair, 
 A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both, 
 And to his robbery had annexed thy breath. 
 
 Shakespeare.
 
 90 
 
 THE FUNERAL RITES OF THE ROSE. 
 
 The rose was sick, and, smiling, died ; 
 
 And, being to be sanctified, 
 
 About the bed there sighing stood 
 
 The sweet and flowery sisterhood. 
 
 Some hung the head, while some did bring, 
 
 To wash her, water from the spring ; 
 
 Some laid her forth, while others wept, 
 
 But all a solemn fast there kept. 
 
 The holy sisetrs, some among 
 
 The sacred dirge and trental sung : 
 
 But ah ! what sweets smelt everywhere. 
 
 As heaven had spent all perfumes there ! 
 
 At last, when prayers for the dead, 
 
 And rites, were all accomplished. 
 
 They, weeping, spread a lawny loom 
 
 And closed her up as in a tomb. 
 
 Herrick.
 
 JONQUILS AND CROCUSES. 
 
 (91)
 
 MAY-TIDE. 
 
 This is the hour, the day, 
 The time, the season sweet ! 
 Quick, hasten, laggard feet ! 
 Brook not dela}^ ! 
 Love flies, 3^outh passes, May-tide will not last : 
 Forth, forth, while yet 'tis time, before the Spring is 
 past. 
 
 The Summer's glories shine 
 From all her garden ground. 
 With lilies prankt around 
 And roses fine ; 
 But the pink blooms or white upon the bursting trees 
 Primrose and violet sweet, what charm has June like 
 these ?
 
 g6 MAY-TIDE. 
 
 This is the time of song ; 
 
 From many a joyous throat, 
 Mute all the dull year long, 
 Soars love's clear note. 
 Summer is dumb, and faint with dust and heat : 
 This is the mirthful time, when every sound is sweet. 
 
 Fair day of larger light. 
 
 Life's own appointed hour. 
 Young souls bud forth in white ; 
 The world's a-flower. 
 Thrill youthful heart, soar upward limpid voice ! 
 Blossoming time is here : rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! 
 
 Lewis Morris.
 
 97 
 
 THE CROCUS. 
 
 Like lilac flame its color glows, 
 
 Tender and yet so clearly bright, 
 That all for miles and miles about 
 The splendid meadow shineth out, 
 And far-off village children shout 
 To see the welcome sight. 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 From EASTER MESSENGERS. 
 
 The Jonquil and the Crocus 
 
 Have climbed up from the mould. 
 And scattered broadcast over earth 
 
 Their amethyst and gold. 
 Like patient little miners 
 
 Delving in frozen ground, 
 They gladden all the shivering land 
 
 With treasures they have found. 
 
 Lucy Larcom.
 
 TO A CROCUS. 
 
 BLOOMING BENEATH A WALLFLOWER. 
 
 Welcome, wild harbinger of Spring ! 
 
 To this smjall nook of earth ; 
 Feeling and fancy fondly cling 
 
 Round thoughts which owe their birth 
 To thee, and to the humble spot 
 Where chance has fixed thy lowly lot. 
 
 To thee, — for thy rich golden bloom, 
 Like heaven's fair bow on high, 
 
 Portends, amid surrounding gloom, 
 That brighter hours draw nigh. 
 
 When blossoms of more varied dyes 
 
 Shall ope their tints to warmer skies.
 
 TO A CROCUS. 
 
 Yet not the lily, nor the rose, 
 
 Though fairer far they be. 
 Can more delightful thoughts disclose 
 
 Than I derive from thee : 
 The eye their beauty may prefer ; 
 The heart is thy interpreter ! 
 
 Methinks in thy fair flower is seen, 
 By those whose fancies roam. 
 
 An emblem of that leaf of green 
 The faithful dove brought home. 
 
 When o'er the world of waters dark 
 
 Were driven the inmates of the ark. 
 
 That leaf betokened freedom nigh 
 To mournful captives there ; 
 
 Thy flower foretells a sunnier sky. 
 And chides the dark despair, 
 
 By Winter's chilling influence flung 
 
 O'er spirits sunk, and nerves unstrung. 
 
 And sweetly has kind Nature's hand 
 Assigned thy dwelling-place 
 
 Beneath a flower whose blooms expand 
 With fond congenial grace, 
 
 On man}^ a desolated pile, 
 
 Brightening deca}'- with beauty's smile. 
 
 99
 
 lOO TO A CROCUS. 
 
 Thine is the flower of Hope, whose hue 
 
 Is bright with coming joy ; 
 The wallflower's that of Faith, too true 
 
 For ruin to destroy- ; — 
 And where, O ! where should Hope up-spring 
 But under Faith's protecting wing. 
 
 Bernard Barto7t.
 
 PINK AND WHITE AZALEAS. 
 
 (101)
 
 SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING. 
 
 When the wind blows 
 
 In tlie sweet rose-tree, 
 And the cow lows 
 
 On the fragrant lea, 
 And the stream flows 
 
 All bright and free, 
 
 'Tis not for thee, 'tis not for me ; 
 'Tis not for any one here, I trow. 
 
 The gentle wind bloweth, 
 
 The happy cow loweth, 
 
 The merry stream floweth, 
 For all below ! 
 
 Oh^ the Spring ! the bountiful Spring f 
 
 She shineth and smileth on everything ! 
 
 Where comes the sheep ? 
 
 To the rich man's moor. 
 Where cometh sleep ? 
 
 To the bed that's poor.
 
 I06 SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING. 
 
 Peasants must weep, 
 
 And kings endure ; 
 
 That is a fate that none can cure ! 
 Yet Spring does all she can, I trow : 
 
 She brings the bright hours, 
 
 She weaves the sweet flowers. 
 
 She dresseth her bowers, 
 For all below ! 
 
 OJi^ the Sprmg ! the bou7itiful Spring ! 
 
 She shmeth a^id smileth 07i everything ! 
 
 Barry Cornwall.
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 There are flowers round about me 
 As I sit beneath the lime ; 
 
 Sweet lowly things are breathing 
 The breath of olden time. 
 
 They look so kindly upward, 
 I greet them as my friends ; 
 
 And my mind to each small blossom 
 Such holy beauty lends, 
 
 That, as if to living creatures, 
 Where'er my glance may fall, 
 
 On the blue-bells or the daisies, 
 I say, " God bless you all !" 
 
 Go forth, my little daughter. 
 The mid-da}^ heat is o'er,
 
 I08 FLOWERS. 
 
 Go forth among the flowers, 
 And gather thee a store. 
 
 The little fairy Speedwell, 
 With its many eyes of blue. 
 
 How well I can remember 
 Green lanes wherein it grew. 
 
 The Daisies, see how gayly 
 Like little stars they shine. 
 
 The darlings of thy childhood, 
 As once they were of mine. 
 
 The Blue-bell — when I see it, 
 My thoughts fly back once more. 
 
 To a pine-wood, whose recesses 
 With its bloom were purpled o'er. 
 
 Go forth, dear child, and pluck them, 
 And bring thy spoils to me ; 
 
 Thou lov'st the gay, bright colors. 
 Though thou seest not what I see ! 
 
 To me they bring remembrance 
 Of many long past Springs ;
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 109 
 
 They are types to me and shadows 
 Of yet more lovely things. 
 
 They have sprung in joyous beauty 
 From the drear and Wintry earth, 
 
 When all was dead and dreary, 
 
 They have brought their new-born mirth. 
 
 Their stems are weak and fragile, 
 To the faintest wind they bend, 
 
 Yet their coming is a token 
 That death is not our end. 
 
 Not more of love than wisdom 
 Was theirs, who round the tomb 
 
 First brought, in faith far-seeing. 
 Gay flowers to bud and bloom. 
 
 On every leaf is written 
 
 A sweet consoling thought ; 
 The hope of life upspringing 
 
 From death, by them is brought. 
 
 My child, mj- happ}^ darling, 
 Go pluck me many a one,
 
 no > FLOWERS. 
 
 Though thou'rt the gayest flower 
 That smiles beneath the sun ! 
 
 Go forth, thou blessed being, 
 
 And bring thy sweet spoils here, 
 
 Though I need no other token 
 Of Heaven, when thou art near ! 
 
 I need no other token 
 
 Than thy fair and happy face. 
 Through which on me are beamino^ 
 
 God's mercy and God's grace. 
 
 Ano7iy7nous.
 
 WHITE LILIES. 
 
 (lU)
 
 ^^5 
 
 Ce<Ji'^ ^^^i^:^ ti>7-*<,<^ /C*^^^ g.i't^e^-i^os-^ji^ 
 
 a;^<^e^ 
 
 4^^/p-e^'i'*-*^
 
 ii6 
 
 A DIALOGUE FROM SOUL GARDENING. 
 
 " Thou bearest flowers within Thy hand, 
 
 Thou wearest on Thy breast 
 A flower ; now tell me which of these 
 
 Thy flowers, Thou lovest best ; 
 Which wilt Thou gather to Thy heart 
 
 Beloved above the rest ?" 
 
 " Should I not love my flowers, 
 
 My flowers that bloom and pine, 
 Unseen, unsought, unwatched for hours 
 
 By any eye but Mine ? 
 Should I not love my flowers ? 
 
 I love my Lilies tall. 
 My Marigold with constant eyes, 
 Each flower that blows, each flower that dies 
 
 To Me, I love them all. 
 I gather to a Heavenly bower 
 
 My Roses fair and sweet ; 
 I hide within my breast the flower 
 
 That grows beside my feet." 
 
 Dora Greenwell.
 
 117 
 
 LILIES. 
 
 We are Lilies fair, 
 
 The flower of virgin light ; 
 Nature held us forth and said, 
 
 " Lo ! my thoughts of white." 
 
 Bver since then, angels 
 
 Hold us in their hands ; 
 You may see them where they take 
 
 In pictures their sweet stands. 
 
 Like the garden's angels 
 
 Also do we seem, 
 And not the less for being crown'd 
 
 With a golden dream. 
 
 Could you see around us 
 
 The enamored air, 
 You would see it pale with bliss 
 
 To hold a thing so fair. 
 
 Leigh Hunt.
 
 ii8 
 
 THE LILY. 
 
 The stream witii languid murmur creeps 
 
 In Lumin's flowery vale : 
 Beneath the dew the Lily weeps, 
 
 Slow waving to the gale. 
 
 '^ Cease, restless gale !" it seems to say, 
 " Nor wake me with thy sighing ! 
 The hours of my vernal day 
 On rapid wings are flying." 
 
 " To-morrow shall the traveler come 
 Who late beheld me blooming ; 
 His searching eye shall vainly roam 
 The dreary vale of Lumin." 
 
 Coleridge.
 
 119 
 
 I SEND THE LILIES GIVEN TO ME. 
 
 I SEND the lilies given to me, 
 
 Though, long before thy hand the}^ touch, 
 I know that they must withered be ; 
 
 But yet reject them not as such : 
 For I have cherished them as dear. 
 
 Because they yet may meet thine e3^e, 
 And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
 
 When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
 And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, 
 And offered from my heart to thine ! 
 
 The river nobly foams and flows, 
 
 The charm of this enchanted ground. 
 And all its thousand turns disclose 
 
 Some fresher beaut}^ varying round ; 
 The haughtiest breast its wish might bound, 
 
 Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
 Nor could on earth a spot be found 
 
 To nature and to me so dear. 
 Could thy dear eyes, in following mine, 
 Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine. 
 
 Byro7i.
 
 PALE YELLOW ROSES. 
 
 (121)
 
 125 
 
 STANZA. 
 
 As wlien a lad}^, walking Flora's bower, 
 Picks here a pink, and there a gilly flower, 
 Now plucks a violet from her purple bed, 
 And then a primrose — the 3'ear's maidenhead ; 
 There nips the brier, here the lover's pansy, 
 Shifting her dainty pleasures with her fancy — 
 This on her arms, and that she lists to wear 
 Upon the borders of her curious hair ; 
 At length a rosebud — passing all the rest — 
 She plucks, and bosoms on her breast. 
 
 Quarles.
 
 126 
 
 O HAVE you seen, bath'd in the morning dew ? 
 
 The budding rose its infant bloom display ? 
 When first the virgin tints unfold to view, 
 
 It shrinks and scarcely trusts the blaze of day. 
 
 L. E. La7idon. 
 
 The rose said, " Let but this long rain be past, 
 
 And I shall feel my sweetness in the sun, 
 And pour its fullness into life at last." 
 
 But when the rain was done. 
 But when dawn sparkled through unclouded air, 
 She was not there. 
 
 Augusta Webster.
 
 127 
 
 THE FALLING ROSE. 
 
 Pass, falling rose ! 
 Not now tHe glory of the Spring is round thee ; 
 
 Not now the air of Summer round thee blows ; 
 Pallid and chill the Autumn's mists have found thee ! 
 
 Pass, falling rose ! 
 
 Pass, falling rose ! 
 Where are the songs that wooed thy glad unfolding ? 
 
 Only the South the wood-dove's soft wail knows ; 
 Far southern eaves the swallow's nest are holding ; 
 Pass, falling rose ! 
 
 Pass, falling rose ! 
 Linger thy blooms to birth thy glory wooing ? 
 Linger the hues that lured thee to disclose ? 
 Long, long, their leaves the dark earth have been 
 strewing ; 
 
 Pass, falling rose ! 
 
 William Cox Bennett.
 
 128 
 
 Woo on, witli odor wooing me, 
 
 Faint rose, with fading core ; 
 For God's rose-thought that blooms in thee 
 
 Will bloom for evermore. 
 
 George MacDonald. 
 
 LiVK all thy sweet life through, 
 
 Sweet rose, dew-sprent. 
 Drop down thine evening dew 
 To gather it anew 
 When day is bright : 
 
 I fancy thou wast meant 
 Chiefly to give delight. 
 
 Christma G. Rossetii.
 
 piv) 
 
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