Part 18

Shakspeare.

LILY OF THE VALLEY.... Modesty.

The beautiful Lily of the Valley is the fit emblem of the union of beauty, simplicity, and love of retirement. It adds an indescribable charm to the spots where it blooms. Its snowy hues and general delicacy of appearance excite emotions of a kindred nature to those we experience in the company of one whose heart is free from guile, and whose manners are gentle and unpretending.

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Lilacs then, and daffodillies, And the nice-leaved, lesser Lilies, Shading, like detected light, Their little green-tipt lamps of white.

Hunt.

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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 a misty gloom, And it sent abroad a soft perfume, Which is floating around me still.

Percival.

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The Lily, in whose snow-white bells Simplicity delights and dwells.

Balfour.

HYACINTH.... Constancy.

The blue Hyacinth is mentioned by several English writers as the emblem of constancy. There are many varieties found in Europe and America, but the variety known in Scotland as the “Blue Bell” is the most common and the most celebrated.

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When daisies blush, and wind-flowers wet with dew, When shady lanes with Hyacinth’s are blue, When the elm blossoms o’er the brooding bird, And, wild and wide, the plover’s wail is heard, Where melts the mist on mountains far away, Till morn is kindled into brightest day.

Elliott.

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Then come the wild weather, come sleet, or come snow, We will stand by each other however it blow. Oppression and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.

Longfellow.

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She loves him yet! The flower the false one gave her When last he came, Is still with her wild tears wet. She’ll ne’er forget, Howe’er his faith may waver, Through grief and shame, Believe it,--she loves him yet!

Mrs. Osgood.

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Over the moorland, over the lea, Dancing airily, there are we: Sometimes, mounted on stems aloft, We wave o’er broom and heather, To meet the kiss of the zephyr soft; Sometimes, close together, Tired of dancing, tired of peeping, Under the whin you’ll find us sleeping. Daintily bend we our honied bells, While the gossipping bee her story tells, And drowsily hums and murmurs on Of the wealth to her waxen storehouse gone; And though she gathers our sweets the while, We welcome her in with a nod and a smile. No rock is too high--no vale too low, For our fragile and tremulous forms to grow. Sometimes we crown The castle’s dizziest tower, and look Laughingly down On the pigmy men in the world below, Wearily wandering to and fro. Sometimes we dwell on the cragged crest Of mountain high, And the ruddy sun, from the blue sea’s breast, Climbing the sky, Looks from his couch of glory up, And lights the dew in the bluebell’s cup. We are crowning the mountain With azure bells, Or decking the fountains In forest dells, Or wreathing the ruin with clusters gray, And nodding and laughing the livelong day; Then chiming our lullaby, tired with play. Are we not beautiful? Oh! are not we The darlings of mountain and moorland and lea? Plunge in the forest--are we not fair? Go to the high-road--we’ll meet ye there. Oh! where is the flower that content may tell, Like the laughing and nodding and dancing bluebell.

Louisa A. Twamley.

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The Hyacinth’s for constancy, Wi’ its unchanging blue.