Part 6

Thou delightest the cold world’s gaze, When crowned with the flower and the gem, But thy lover’s smile should be dearer praise Than the incense thou prizest from them. And gay is the playful tone, As to the flattering voice thou respondest; But what is the praise of the cold and unknown To the tender blame of the fondest?

John Everett.

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Know, Celia, (since thou art so proud,) ’Twas I that gave thee thy renown: Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties, lived unknown, Had not my verse exhaled thy name, And with it impt the wings of Fame. That killing power is none of thine, I gave it to thy voice and eyes: Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine; Thou art my star, shin’st in my skies! Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fixed thee there.

Thomas Carew.

SNOWDROP. ... Hope.

The Snowdrop is looked upon as the herald of the approach of flower-wreathed Spring. The north winds howl; the naked branches of the trees are white with frost; the earth is carpeted with the virgin snow; the feathered musicians are silent; and stern Winter’s icy hand chills the rivulet till it ceases to murmur. At this season, a tender flower springs up amid the snow, expands its blossoms, and leads thought to the verdant hours to come. This beautiful sign of awakening Nature may aptly be considered as the emblem of Hope.

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The Snowdrop, winter’s timid child, Awakes to life bedewed with tears, And flings around its fragrance mild; And, where no rival flowerets bloom, Amidst the bare and chilling gloom A beauteous gem appears. All weak and wan, with head inclined, Its parent breast the drifted snow, It trembles, while the ruthless wind Bends its slim form; the tempest lowers, Its emerald eye drops crystal showers On its cold bed below. Where’er I find thee, gentle flower, Thou still art sweet and dear to me; For I have known the cheerless hour, Have seen the sunbeams cold and pale, Have felt the chilling wintry gale, And wept and shrunk, like thee!

Mary Robinson.

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No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own; Responds, as if with unseen wings An angel touched its quivering strings, And whispers in its song, “Where hast thou stayed so long?”

Longfellow.

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The star of Hope will beam in Sorrow’s night, And smile the phantoms of Despair to flight.

Anon.

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“Why do you call the Snowdrop pale, Our first of flowerets bright? For the Christmas Rose came long before, So did the Aconite.” I know the yellow Aconite; I know the Christmas Rose: But neither one nor other e’er Within my garden grows. They seem to me presumptuous things, That rudely hurry on, And struggle for the precedence A fairer flower hath won. When I was but a wee, wee thing, A young Snowdrop I nursed, And I loved it when they told me how It always blossomed first. I marked its tiny, trembling stem, And dainty little bell, And, oh! so tenderly enjoyed Its faint, delicious smell. It was not only fair and sweet, ’Twas the first flower that came; So said they then, and there is none I could love now the same. The Aconite may deck with gold Its merry little face-- The Christmas Rose at Christmas bloom, But none can fill her place. Within my garden’s small domain The Snowdrop still shall find Herself the earliest flower. She leads, The others come behind. And, lo! above the heaving mould The clustering bells hang here; Like foam upon the storm-black wave, Or pearls in Ethiop’s ear. And I know where they’re crowding thick, With none their wealth to note;-- All o’er that woody isle, that lies Girt by the ancient moat. There, under tall, dark crested firs, The Snowdrops spring each year; And shed about that gloomy place A lightness pale and clear. A grand old Manor House once stood On that dim moated isle; But long years since have floated by, And its story died the while. Yet roses, cultured ones, run wild, And fruits, grown rough and sour, That linger still around, tell tales Of garden and of bower. And so the Snowdrops may have dwelt In borders neat and trim, And gentle beings tended them, Though now all’s drear and dim. The brave and beautiful have died, Not e’en a name is known:-- Time hath laid low the stately house,-- Ye cannot find a stone. But still there runneth brightly there The little sedgy stream Into the moat, that lieth still And shadowy as a dream. And still there groweth plenteously The fragile Snowdrop’s bell:-- Oh, human pride! that thou wouldst list The tale these small things tell!

Louisa A. Twamley.

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As Hope, with bowed head, silent stood, And on her golden anchor leant, Watching below the angry flood, While Winter, mid the dreariment Half-buried in the drifted snow, Lay sleeping on the frozen ground, Not heeding how the wind did blow, Bitter and bleak on all around: She gazed on Spring, who at her feet Was looking on the snow and sleet. Spring sighed, and through the driving gale Her warm breath caught the falling snow, And from the flakes a flower as pale Did into spotless whiteness blow. Hope, smiling, saw the blossom fall, And watched its root strike in the earth: “I will that flower the Snowdrop call,” Said Hope, “in memory of its birth: And through all ages it shall be In reverence held, for love of me.” “And ever from my hidden bowers,” Said Spring, “it first of all shall go, And be the herald of the flowers, To warn away the sheeted snow. Its mission done, then by thy side All summer long it shall remain. While other flowers I scatter wide, O’er every hill, and wood, and plain, This shall return, and ever be A sweet companion, Hope, for thee.” Hope stooped and kissed her sister Spring, And said, “For hours, when thou art gone, I’m left alone without a thing That I can fix my heart upon: ’Twill cheer me many a lonely hour, And in the future I shall see Those who would sink raised by that flower; They’ll look on it, then think of thee: And many a sadful heart shall sing, The Snowdrop bringeth Hope and Spring.”

Miller.

PRIMROSE. ... Early Grief.

The Primrose is one of the earliest flowers of spring. It was anciently called Paralisos, the name of a beautiful youth, who died of grief for the loss of his betrothed Melicerta, and was metamorphosed by his parents into this flower, which has since been a favourite of the poets.

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With fairest flowers, Whilst summer last, and I live here, Fidele, I’ll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack The flower that’s like thy face, pale Primrose.

Cymbeline.

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