Ever, the melody of nature’s voice,
And see all lovely visions that she will.
Are motives of more fancy.
Dyer’s Weed.... Relief.
Dyer’s Weed is like a very large upright plant of Mignonette, to which sweet exotic it is nearly related, both being members of the reseda family. The Reseda odorata, or Mignonette, is a native of Egypt, and was introduced into England in 1752. The word reseda is from resedo, to calm, to appease. The plants were thought useful applications to external bruises, to ease pain. There are two species growing wild in England. Reseda lutea, or Base-rocket, likes a chalky soil, but R. luteola, the Dyer’s Weed, is often found on waste ground everywhere. It is much used by dyers, particularly in France. It affords a most beautiful yellow dye, for cotton, woollen, mohair, silk, and linen. Blue cloths dipped in a decoction of it become green. The entire plant, when about to flower, is pulled up, and employed both fresh and dried. Like the Coltsfoot, this plant is among the first which spring from the rubbish thrown out of coal-pits. Linnæus observed, that the nodding spike of flowers always follows the sun, even on a cloudy day, pointing eastward in a morning, southward at noon, westward in the afternoon, and northward at night. If this be true, it may supplant the sunflower in the favour of sentimental florists, for the inconstancy of that has long been proved. Good old Gerarde, who evidently did his best to believe all things, says, that he has seen four sunflowers on one stem, pointing to the four cardinal points. I am wandering from my subject, but must remind you of some sweet lines by that poet of nature—Clare, where he groups the sunflower so nicely; and you may look at that cottage, where the children are playing, and see the picture nearly realized:
The rose and straggling woodbine to the eaves,
And on the crowded spot that pales enclose
The white and scarlet daisy rears in rows,
Training the trailing peas in clusters neat,
Perfuming evening with a luscious sweet,
And sun-flowers planting for their gilded show,
That scale the window’s lattice ere they blow,
And, sweet to habitants within the sheds,
Peep through the crystal panes their golden heads.
Nasturtion.... Patriotism.
The Nasturtion is a native of Europe and the East. The flowers are of a very brilliant golden yellow, and present a beautiful appearance. The plant is said to emit flashes of light in the morning before sunrise, and also at twilight. Its pure, glowing hue recalls that ardent feeling, so clear of self, which leads men to lay down their lives and fortunes for their country’s safety and glory.
Of dark blue lake and mighty river—
Of mountain reared aloft to mock
The storm’s career and lightning’s shock,
My own green land forever!
Unfurls its stars o’er the land and the sea;
While tyrants are warring, and freemen love honour,
That banner shall be the light of the free.
Speaks in the eye and step—
He treads his native land!
The tardy pile, slow rising there,
With tongueless eloquence shall tell
Of them who for their country fell.
This makes him wish to live, and dare to die.
The first beloved in life, the last forgot,
Land of his frolic youth,
Land of his bridal eve,
Land of his children—vain your column’s strength,
Invaders! vain your battles’ steel and fire!
Choose ye the morrow’s doom—
A prison or a grave!
Nightshade, or Bitter-sweet.... Truth.
According to the belief of the ancients, Truth was the mother of Virtue, the daughter of Time, and queen of the world. It is a frequent saying, that Truth lies at the bottom of a well, and that she always mingles some bitterness with her sweet blessings; and we have chosen for her emblem a plant which, like her, delights in the shade, and is evergreen. The Nightshade is the only plant in England which loses and reproduces its leaves twice a year.
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among her worshippers.
Though mists and clouds may long obscure its face,
Gaze with patience, and ere long they’ll pass.
Men will believe, because they love the lie;
But truth herself, if clouded with a frown,
Must have some solemn proofs to pass her down.
And what dilates the powers must needs refine.
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
The Sweet Flag—Acorus Calamus.... Grace.
Beside my study fire;
I’d written long, and eyes and head
And fingers ’gan to tire.
Quite weary—half asleep—
A book fell open as I moved;
E’en sleepy eyes must peep;
The portrait of a friend,
Whose smiling face bade my dull thoughts
To happy memories wend.
Lay pictured there so true,
I could have deemed some fairy hand
The faithful image drew.
The stem, like a tall leaf too,
Except where, halfway up its side,
A cone-shaped flower-spike grew,
From end to end arrayed
In close scale-armour, that was all
Of starry flowers made.
Would mimic works of ours,
You’d think their dainty fingers here
Had wrought mosaic flowers.
With geometric skill,
Are each one so exactly shaped,
Its proper place to fill.
Spangle the flowerets green;
Aught more compact and beautiful,
Mine eyes have never seen!
The Sweet Flag’s graceful form;
’Twas on a glowing summer’s day,
Mid hearts as bright and warm.
And eyes as kind and bright,
And spirits that, like sunshine too,
Are cheering, loved, and light.
From Claremont’s quiet lake;
And home with me, full many a mile,
I did the pale flower take.
So very scarce and rare,
As many a river knoweth well;
None better than the Yare!
The fragrant tall leaves grow;
Singing with reedy rustling voice,
Whene’er soft breezes blow.
His annual feast and show;
And to the grand cathedral church
Processions with him go.
And all the ancient floor,
Are with the aromatic leaves
Bestrewèd thickly o’er.
Of incense here were shed;
But sweeter far the fragrant gush
That greets each passing tread.
Of these same reeds as well,
Plaited and wrought like basket-work,
All full of spicy smell.
Are round about them made,
Of the gold and red ranunculus,
In varied shape and shade.
Is blithe as blithe can be,
To walk through Norwich streets that morn,
The decked out bowers to see.
So mighty nice and clever—
When carpets were unheard-of things,
And druggets dreamed of never—
Or stone, not over even,
Were all that unto knightly strides,
Or dames’ light steps, were given—
Where royal banquets were—
How precious must these reeds have been
Beside the banks of Yare!
Sending stout serving-men
To gather store of these sweet Flags,
From river, pool, and fen.
Perhaps the castle hall,
Where warlike lords and knights should meet
At stately festival.
The fresh-thrown reeds might lie;
While the tears and smiles of a bridal band
Went softly passing by!
Wept the untimely doom
Of young, and bright, and beautiful,
Borne to the ancestral tomb.
This new-found friend of mine,
And many a scene of joy and wo
Hath it known in days lang syne.
But yet I love it more
For the fairy scene that lay around
Its home on that lakeless shore:
Waved gently to and fro,
And flitting specks of sunlight fell
The leafy branches thro’,
And on the water fell,
Where the merry fish were glancing swift;
And the water snake, as well,
All silently and still,
Like a lord in his own dominions there,
Swimming about at will.
We saw him steering on,—
Then under groups of lily leaves
The happy thing was gone.
Lived in that little lake;
Oh, what a pleasant picture now
My thoughts of it awake!
Was mossy, soft, and deep,
Where the shadows broad of the beech and oak
Seemed quietly to sleep.
With many a massive wreath,
Had seedling plants, a countless host,
Crowding the turf beneath.
From spots where I have been,
That seem to certify the facts
Of memory’s pictured scene;
The pleasantest of all;—
I’ve Broom-seeds from a heathy glen,
And ferns from an old stone wall.
So many, that I’m fain,
Dear as they are to me, to turn
Many adrift again.
Four winters’ stormy weather;
I’ve scraps, too, from proud Kenilworth,
And here they grow together.
In Goodrich I have caught;
Hartstongue from Ragland’s lofty keep,
With maiden-hair, I brought.
Of rhododendrons grew,
My whims were humoured, and I now
Am rearing one or two.
Before me, passing well,
The very nook where the scented leaves
Of the graceful calamus dwell.
Broom.... Humility.
Thomas Miller thus speaks of the “bonny Broom,” in his Romance of Nature:—
Beautiful art thou, O Broom! waving in all thy rich array of green and gold, on the breezy bosom of the bee-haunted heath. The sleeping sunshine, and the silver-footed showers, the clouds that for ever play about the face of Heaven, the homeless winds, and the crystal-globed dews, that settle upon thy blossoms like sleep on the veined eyelids of an infant, are ever beating above and around thee, as if to tell that they rejoice in thy companionship, and that, although a thousand years have strided by with silent steps, time hath not abated an atom of their love. Who can tell the thoughts of Saxon Alfred when, wandering alone, crownless and sceptreless, he stretched himself on the lonely moor beneath the shadow of thy golden blossoms, sighing for the fair queen he had left far behind? When he bowed his kingly head, and, musing on thy beauty, buried in a solitary wild, thought how even regal dignity would be enhanced by humility, and that, although thou didst grow there unmarked and unpruned, not a more princely flower waved in his own English garden.
The Broom of the Cowden-knowes;
For sure so soft, so sweet a bloom,
Elsewhere there never grows.
Among the filth and rubbish of the world.
I’ll stoop for it, but when I wear it here,
Set on my forehead like the morning-star,
The world may wonder, but it will not laugh.
Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan,
Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang yellow Broom.
For he felt like a beggar who needed relief;
And he raised not his eyes, and he saw not the scorn
Which the lip of the Pharisee proudly had worn.
But he smote on his bosom, and deeply he sighed;
As a sinner, for mercy, sweet mercy, he cried.
It was all he could utter, but God hears a sigh,
And listens, no matter how feeble the cry.
Both unheard and unblest, the proud Pharisee then
Returned to the pomp of his riches again;
While the publican sinner, though loathed and oppressed,
Went joyfully homeward with peace in his breast.
St. John’s Wort.... Superstition.
This plant is an appropriate emblem of superstition; for it has always been regarded with reverence by the peasantry of Europe, on account of its real and supposed virtues. It was supposed to possess the power of defending persons from phantoms and spectres, and driving away all evil spirits. Its large, yellow flower grows close to the earth, and resembles a small wheel of fireworks.
Handed from ages down; a nurse’s tale—
Which children, open-eyed and mouthed, devour;
And thus as garrulous ignorance relates,
We learn it and believe.
As numerous as the stars could boast,
Matrons, who toss the cup, and see
The grounds of fate in grounds of tea.
The while such ghostly tales we hear,—
And wonder why they were believed,
And how wise men could be deceived:—
Bathing our renovated sight
In the free gospel’s glorious light,
We marvel it was ever night!
The vulgar mind, to superstition prone,
In nature’s workings fearful omens sees,
And shrinks aghast from terrors of its own
Absurd imagining. Despotic is the power
Of ignorance; and thousands live in fear
And die unnumbered times before the hour
That Heaven has set to end their being here.
The trustful, quiet, mighty thinker seeks
The beautiful and simple orderings
Of the Great Former of created things,
And God to him in guiding accents speaks.
Still, in the dealings of the Lord with men,
Some things there are beyond our human ken.
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillon brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life an mettle in their heels.
A winnock bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl.—
Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantraip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light,—
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer’s banes in gibbet airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen’d bairns;
A thief, new cutted frae a rape,
Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi’ bluid red-rusted;
Five scimiters, wi’ murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father’s throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o’ life bereft,
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awfu’,
Which ev’n to name wad be unlawfu’.
Vervain.... Enchantment.
Vervain was employed by the ancients in various kinds of divinations. They ascribed to it a thousand properties, and, among others, that of reconciling enemies. Whenever the Romans sent their heralds to offer peace or war to nations, one of them always carried a sprig of Vervain. The Druids, both in Gaul and Britain, regarded the Vervain with the same veneration as the misletoe, and offered sacrifices to the earth before they cut this plant in spring, which was a ceremony of great pomp. Though the Druids and their religion have passed away, the Vervain is still the plant of spells and enchantment. In the northern provinces of France, the shepherds gather it with ceremonies and words known only to themselves, and express its juices under certain phases of the moon. They insist that this plant enables them to cure their ailments, and to cast a spell on their daughters and cattle, by which they can make them conform to their wishes.
And witch the lady till I know she’s mine.
And, had she lived before the siege of Troy,
Helen, whose beauty summoned Greece to arms,
And drew a thousand ships to Tenedos,
Had not been named in Homer’s Iliad;
Her name had been in every line he wrote.
To plants in lonely forests found,
Could work such magic in Love’s doting slave,
As the voice which his wishes crowned.
Among the maidens, who happy as she?
By love’s enchantment her thrilling breast
Is wildly, witchingly, over-blest:
And gushing joys, like the sun in May,
Enliven the noon of her bridal-day.
Corn.... Riches.
Ceres, the goddess of Corn and harvest, was represented with a garland of ears of Corn on her head. The commemoration of the loss of her daughter Proserpine, was celebrated about the beginning of harvest; that of her search after her, at the time of sowing Corn. A whole straw has been made the emblem of union; and a broken straw, of rupture. The custom of breaking a straw, to express the rupture of a contract, may be traced back to an early period of French history, and may be said to have had a royal origin. When Charles the Simple, of France, was abandoned by his principal lords, they broke a straw to express that they would no longer acknowledge him as their king. Corn may be regarded as an appropriate emblem of wealth; since, wherever it grows, it leads us to infer plenty and comfort.
Get riches first, get wealth.
Much wealth, how little worldlings can enjoy:
At best, it babies us with endless toys,
And keeps us children till we drop to dust.
As monkeys at a mirror stand amazed,
They fail to find what they so plainly see;
Thus men, in shining riches, see the face
Of happiness, nor know it as a shade;
But gaze, and touch, and peep, and peep again,
And wish, and wonder it is absent still.
To be possessed of wealth and of a heart
So heavenly made that it refuses not
Of its abundance freely to impart!
To lordships, mansions, forests, parks, and gems.
You have three mighty manors in Castile;
Two broad estates in Leon; two amidst
The mulberry trees of Murcia, and huge chests
Crammed full of ingots, dug by naked slaves,
Who famished on coarse bread. Besides all these,
There bloom plantations in the East, whose fruits
Are pearls, and spice, and princely diamonds;
And in Brazil, Pactolus floods, ne’er dumb,
Whose waves all talk in gold!
Cranberry.... Cure for the Heartache.
Far from tower and town,
Where wide moors and heaths lie spread,
Desolate and brown.
Far from gun and dog,
A delicate and tiny flower
Decks swamp and watery bog.
Amid the mountains cold,
Seeming like a fairy gift
Left on the dreary wold.
The flowers are pink and white,
And the small oval polished leaves
Are evergreen and bright.
You’d think a greenhouse warm
Would be its proper dwelling-place,
Kept close from wind and storm.
Like a fearless mountain child;
With a rosy cheek, a lightsome look,
And a spirit strong and wild.
And marshes soft and wet,
Come troops of poor hill-children
The ripened fruit to get.
In those small pools, that lie
In scores among the turfy knolls
On mountains broad and high.
To pull the Cranberries red,
Where bold and booted sporting squires
Would scarcely dare to tread.
And chase the timid hare,
For their diversion; they can live
In luxury, without care.
Is full of human wo,
And hungry, thinly clad, and cold,
They o’er the mountains go;
And legs all blue and bare,
And yet, so light are they of heart,
You’ll hear them laughing there.
Leap up with joy to hear,
It tells that even poverty
Is not entirely drear.
That God is good indeed;
And that he suiteth, in us all,
Our spirit to our need.
All discontent and sour—
If they in frowns and murmurings
Spent every wretched hour:—
Whom wealth and fondness cloy,
Till e’en the knowledge of a want
Would be a novel joy:—
For pleasures they have not,
How manifold would then have been
The sorrows of their lot!
Fed sparsely with coarse food,
Go laughing on their gleesome way,
As God’s bright creatures should.
In some unkindly place,
Yet full of all their colours rare,
Their sweetness and their grace.
E’en penury’s wilderness,
And often with a swelling heart,
Those human flowers I bless.
And elvish, unbound hair;—
And blessings on their laughter wild,
Mid crags and moorlands bare!
With baskets to the wold,
Some of wicker, some of rush,
Some new, and many old.
The merry creatures bound,
On to the wide and boggy heaths,
Where a thousand streamlets sound.
Heeding not cold nor wet,
So long as busy eyes can see,
And hands the treasure get.
What profit win they thence?”—
Perhaps a long day’s work may bring
A few poor sordid pence.
Are pennies to the poor,
And thankfully they seek and sell
The Cranberries on the moor.