Part 25

One more plant---- Which, consecrate to Salem’s peaceful King, Though fair as any gracing beauty’s bower, Is linked to sorrow like a holy thing, And takes its name from suffering’s fiercest hour. Be this my noblest theme--Imperial Passion Flower! Whatever impulse first conferred that name, Or Fancy’s dream, or Superstition’s art, I freely own its spirit-touching claim, With thoughts and feelings it may well impart.

Barton.

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Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of death, To break the shock blind nature cannot shun, And lands thought smoothly on the further shore.

Young.

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True faith nor biddeth nor abideth form. The bended knee, the eye uplift is all Which man need render; all which God can bear. What to the faith are forms? A passing speck, A crow upon the sky.

Bailey.

* * * * *

Faith is the subtle chain That binds us to the Infinite: the voice Of a deep life within, that will remain Until we crowd it thence.

Mrs. E. Oakes Smith.

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Naught shall prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings.

Wordsworth.

* * * * *

Ah, no! my dying lips shall close, Unaltered love, as faith professing; Nor (praising Him who life bestows) Forget who makes that life a blessing. My last address to Heaven is due;-- My last but one I give to you.

Lovibond.

PINK.... Pure Love.

The primitive Pink is simple red or white, and scented; but cultivation has varied the colour from the darkest purple to the purest white. Under all its diversities, however, it retains its delicious, spicy fragrance, and hence has been made the emblem of woman’s love, which no circumstance can change. Florists designate two principal divisions of these flowers, Pinks and Carnation. The former are marked by a spot resembling an eye, and by a more humble growth. The flower of the Carnation is much larger than that of the Pink, and of a deeper hue. The Carnation was called by some of the old English writers the clove-gilly flower, from its perfume resembling that of cloves.

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She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought; And with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat (like Patience on a monument) Smiling at grief.

Shakspeare.

* * * * *

It is a fearful thing, To love as I love thee; to feel the world-- The bright, the beautiful, joy giving world-- A blank without thee. Never more to me Can hope, joy, fear, wear different seeming. Now I have no hope that does not dream for thee; I have no joy that is not shared by thee; I have no fear that does not dread for thee.

L. E. L.

* * * * *

Alas! the love of woman! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And, if ’tis lost, life has no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone.

Byron.