Part 12

Shakspeare speaks of the Daisy as the flower

Whose white investments figure innocence;

and succeeding poets have generally used it as the image of that pure quality. Fable informs us that the Daisy owes its origin to Belides, one of the Dryads, who were supposed to preside over meadows and pastures. While dancing on the turf with Ephigeus, whose suit she encouraged, she attracted the admiration of Vertumnus, the deity who presided over orchards; and, to escape from him, she was transformed into the humble flower, the Latin name of which is Bellis. The ancient English name of the flower was Day’s Eye, of which Daisy is a corruption. In Ossian’s poems, the Daisy is called the flower of the new-born--most expressive of innocence.

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When smitten by the morning ray, I see thee rise alert and gay, Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness: And when, at dark, by dews opprest, Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness.

Wordsworth.

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She dwells amid the world’s dark ways, Pure as in childhood’s hours; And all her thoughts are poetry, And all her words are flowers.

Mrs. M. E. Hewitt.

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’Twas when the world was in its prime, When meadows green and woodlands wild Were strewn with flowers, in sweet spring-time, And everywhere the Daisies smiled. When undisturbed the ring-doves cooed, While lovers sang each other’s praises, As in embowered lanes they wooed, Or on some bank white o’er with Daisies: While Love went by with muffled feet, Singing, “The Daisies they are sweet.” Unfettered then he roamed abroad, And as he willed it past the hours-- Now lingering idly by the road, Now loitering by the wayside flowers; For what cared he about the morrow? Too young to sigh, too old to fear-- No time had he to think of sorrow, Who found the Daisies everywhere; Still sang he, through each green retreat, “The Daisies they are very sweet.” With many a maiden did he dally, Like a glad brook that turns away-- Here in, there out, across the valley, With every pebble stops to play; Taking no note of space nor time, Through flowers, the banks adorning, Still rolling on, with silver chime, In star-clad night and golden morning. So went Love on, through cold and heat, Singing, “The Daisy’s ever sweet.” ’Twas then the flowers were haunted With fairy forms and lovely things, Whose beauty elder bards have chanted, And how they lived in crystal springs, And swang upon the honied bells; In meadows danced round dark green mazes, Strewed flowers around the holy wells, But never trampled on the Daisies. They spared the star that lit their feet, The Daisy was so very sweet.

Miller.

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When soothed awhile by milder airs, Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few gray hairs; Spring cannot shun thee; Whole summer fields are thine by right, And autumn, melancholy wight, Doth in thy crimson head delight, When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet’st the traveller in the lane; If welcomed once thou count’st it gain, Thou art not daunted; Nor car’st if thou be set at naught: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

Wordsworth.

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I cannot gaze on aught that wears The beauty of the skies, Or aught that in life’s valley bears The hues of paradise; I cannot look upon a star, Or cloud that seems a seraph’s car, Or any form of purity-- Unmingled with a dream of thee.

P. Benjamin.

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The Daisy scattered on each meade and downe, A golden tuft within a silver crown; Faire fell that dainty flower! and may there be No shepherd graced that doth not honour thee.

Browne.

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There is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.

Montgomery.

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Heaven may awhile correct the virtuous, Yet it will wipe their eyes again, and make Their faces whiter with their tears. Innocence Concealed is the stolen pleasure of the gods, Which never ends in shame, as that of men Doth oftentimes do; but like the sun breaks forth, When it hath gratified another world; And to our unexpecting eyes appears More glorious through its late obscurity.

John Fountain.

PERIWINKLE.... Tender Recollections.