Part 7

The Primrose pale is Nature’s meek and modest child.

Balfour.

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Nay, weep not while thy sun shines bright, And cloudless is thy day, While past and present joys unite To cheer thee on thy way; While fond companions round thee move, To youth and nature true, And friends whose looks of anxious love Thy every step pursue.

Common-Place Book of Poetry.

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The Primrose, tenant of the glade, Emblem of virtue in the shade.

John Mayne.

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Ask me why I send you here This firstling of the infant year; Ask me why I send to you This Primrose all bepearled with dew: I straight will whisper in your ears, The sweets of love are washed with tears. Ask me why this flower doth show So yellow, green, and sickly too; Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break: I must tell you these discover What doubts and fears are in a lover.

Thomas Carew.

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By the soft green light in the woody glade, On the banks of moss where thy childhood played, By the household tree through which thine eye First looked in love to the summer sky; By the dewy gleam, by the very breath Of the Primrose-tufts in the grass beneath, Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, Holy and precious--oh, guard it well! Yes! when thy heart in its pride would stray From the first pure loves of its youth away; When the sullying breath of the world would come O’er the flowers it brought from its native home; Think thou again of the woody glade, Of the sound by the rustling ivy made; Think of the tree at thy father’s door, And the kindly spell shall have power once more.

Mrs. Hemans.

ALMOND BLOSSOM. ... Indiscretion.

The Almond tree is the first of the trees to put forth its blossoms, when spring breathes the breath of life through nature. It has been made the emblem of indiscretion, from flowering so early that frosts too often give a death-chill to the precocious germs of its fruit. In ancient times, the abundance of blossoms upon the Almond tree was considered to promise a fruitful season. The following is the fabulous account of the origin of this tree:--Demophoon, son of Theseus and Phædra, in returning from the siege of Troy, was thrown by a storm on the shores of Thrace, where then reigned the beautiful Phyllis. The young queen graciously received the prince, fell in love with him, and became his wife. When recalled to Athens by his father’s death, Demophoon promised to return in a month, and fixed the day. The loving Phyllis counted the hours of his absence, and, at last, the appointed day arrived. Nine times she repaired to the shore; but, losing all hope of his return, she died of grief, and was converted into an Almond tree. Soon afterwards, Demophoon returned. Overwhelmed with sorrow, he offered a sacrifice at the sea-side, to appease the manes of his bride. The Almond tree instantly put forth its blossoms, and seemed to sympathize with his repentance.

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Oh! had I nursed when I was young The lessons of my father’s tongue, (The deep laborious thoughts he drew From all he saw, and others knew,) I might have been,--ah, me! Thrice sager than I e’er shall be. For what says Time? Alas! he only shows the truth Of all that I was told in youth.

Barry Cornwall.

CROCUS. ... Youth.

The Crocus is one of the earliest of the spring flowers, and, therefore, a fit emblem of the spring of life. It is a small flower, of variegated hues; the principal being purple, yellow, and white. The Crocus Vernus, or Spring Crocus, is a wild flower now in various parts of England, though not considered to be really a native of the country. We learn from the favourite writers, Mr. and Mrs. Howitt, that they are plentiful about Nottingham, “gleaming at a distance like a perfect flood of lilac, and tempting very many little hearts, and many graver ones too, to go out and gather.”

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Oh! many a glorious flower there grows In far and richer lands; But high in my affection e’er The beautiful Crocus stands. I love their faces, when by one And two they’re looking out; I love them when the spreading field Is purple all about. I loved them in the by-gone years Of childhood’s thoughtless laughter, When I marvelled why the flowers came first, And the leaves the season after. I loved them then, I love them now-- The gentle and the bright; I love them for the thoughts they bring Of spring’s returning light; When, first-born of the waking earth, Their kindred gay appear, And, with the Snowdrop, usher in The hope-invested year.

Louisa A. Twamley.

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You’re glad Because your little tiny nose, Turns up so pert and funny; Because I know you choose your beaux More for their mirth than money; Because your eyes are deep and blue,-- Your fingers long and rosy; Because a little maid like you Would make one’s home so cozy; Because, I think, (I’m just so weak,) That some of these fine morrows You’ll listen while you hear me speak My story, and my sorrows!

Anon.

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