Part 37

“We’ll cut this barley to-day,” quoth he, As he tied his white pony under a tree, “Next to the upland wheat, and then the oats.” How the Poppies shook in their scarlet coats!

Ay, shook with laughter, not fear, for they Never dreamed they too should be swept away, And their laughter was spite, to think that all Their “useful” neighbours were doomed to fall.

They swelled and bustled with such an air, The corn-fields quite in commotion were, And the farmer cried, glancing across the grain, “How those rascally weeds have come up again!”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the Red-caps, “ha! ha! what a fuss Must the poor weeds be in! how they’re envying us!” But their mirth was cut short by the sturdy strokes They speedily met from the harvest-folks.

And when low on the earth each stem was laid, And the round moon looked on the havoc made, A Blue-bottle propped herself half erect, And made a short-speech--to this effect.

“My dying kins-flowers, and fainting friends, The same dire fate alike attends Those who in scarlet or blue are dressed; Then how silly the pride that so late possessed

“Our friends the Red-caps! how low they lie, Who were lately so pert, and vain, and high! They sneered at us and our plain array; Are we now a whit more humbled than they?

“They scorned our neighbours:--the goodly corn Was the butt of their merriment eve and morn, They lived on its land, from its bounty fed, But a word of thanks they never have said.

“And which is the worthiest now, I pray? Have ye not learned enough to-day? Is not the corn sheafed up with care, And are not the Poppies left dying there?

“The corn will be carried and garnered up To gladden man’s heart both with loaf and cup; And some of the seed the land now yields Will be brought again to its native fields,

“And grow and ripen and wave next year As richly as this hath ripened here; And we poor weeds, though needed not, Perchance may spring on this very spot.

“But let us be thankful and humble too; Not proud and vain of a gaudy hue, Ever remembering, though meanly drest, That usefulness is of all gifts the best.”

Louisa A. Twamley.

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Will you drink of this fountain, and sorrow forget? Has the past been so blest that you hesitate yet? Can love, when ’tis slighted, still cherish a token, Or hearts still forgive, that unkindness has broken?

Percival.

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From a Poppy I have taken Mortal’s balm and mortal’s bane; Juice that, creeping through the heart, Deadens every sense of smart; Doomed to heal or doomed to kill, Fraught with good or fraught with ill.

Mrs. Robinson.

ACANTHUS.... The Arts.

The Acanthus blooms in greatest perfection by the great rivers of hot climates. Among the ancients, it was a favourite, and they adorned their furniture, vases, and costly dresses, with its elegant leaves. When any obstacle obstructs the growth of the Acanthus, it puts forth fresh force and grows with additional vigour. Thus genius is strengthened by the difficulties which it cannot overcome. Callimachus, an ancient architect, derived the idea of the Corinthian capital, from seeing the leaves of an Acanthus surrounding a basket which had been set upon the ground, and impeded the regular growth of the plant.

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Tired at first sight with what the muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, While from the bounded level of our mind Short views we take, nor see the length behind; But, more advanced, behold with strange surprise New distant scenes of endless science rise.

Pope.

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For though I must confess an artist can Contrive things better than another man, Yet when the task is done, he finds his pains Sought but to fill his belly with his brains. Is this the guerdon due to liberal arts, To admire the head and then to starve the parts? Timely prevention though discreetly used Before the fruits of knowledge were abused. When learning has incurred a fearful damp, To save our oil, ’tis good to quench the lamp.

Lady Alimony.

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