Flowers And Flower-Gardens Part 2

Musing through the _lawny_ vale:

alluded to by Warton, or over Milton's "level downs," or to climb up Thomson's

Stupendous rocks That from the sun-redoubling valley lift Cool to the middle air their _lawny_ tops.

It gives the Anglo-Indian Exile the heart-ache to think of these ramblings over English scenes.

ENGLAND.

Bengala's plains are richly green, Her azure skies of dazzling sheen, Her rivers vast, her forests grand.

Her bowers brilliant,--but the land, Though dear to countless eyes it be, And fair to mine, hath not for me The charm ineffable of _home_; For still I yearn to see the foam Of wild waves on thy pebbled sh.o.r.e, Dear Albion! to ascend once more Thy snow-white cliffs; to hear again The murmur of thy circling main-- To stroll down each romantic dale Beloved in boyhood--to inhale Fresh life on green and breezy hills-- To trace the coy retreating rills-- To see the clouds at summer-tide Dappling all the landscape wide-- To mark the varying gloom and glow As the seasons come and go-- Again the green meads to behold Thick strewn with silvery gems and gold, Where kine, bright-spotted, large, and sleek, Browse silently, with aspect meek, Or motionless, in shallow stream Stand mirror'd, till their twin shapes seem, Feet linked to feet, forbid to sever, By some strange magic fixed for ever.

And oh! once more I fain would see (Here never seen) a poor man _free_,[004]

And valuing more an humble name, But stainless, than a guilty fame, How sacred is the simplest cot, Where Freedom dwells!--where she is not How mean the palace! Where's the spot She loveth more than thy small isle, Queen of the sea? Where hath her smile So stirred man's inmost nature? Where Are courage firm, and virtue fair, And manly pride, so often found As in rude huts on English ground, Where e'en the serf who slaves for hire May kindle with a freeman's fire?

How proud a sight to English eyes Are England's village families!

The patriarch, with his silver hair, The matron grave, the maiden fair.

The rose-cheeked boy, the st.u.r.dy lad, On Sabbath day all neatly clad:-- Methinks I see them wend their way On some refulgent morn of May, By hedgerows trim, of fragrance rare, Towards the hallowed House of Prayer!

I can love _all_ lovely lands, But England _most_; for she commands.

As if she bore a parent's part, The dearest movements of my heart; And here I may not breathe her name.

Without a thrill through all my frame.

Never shall this heart be cold To thee, my country! till the mould (Or _thine_ or _this_) be o'er it spread.

And form its dark and silent bed.

I never think of bliss below But thy sweet hills their green heads show, Of love and beauty never dream.

But English faces round me gleam!

D.L.R.

I have often observed that children never wear a more charming aspect than when playing in fields and gardens. In another volume I have recorded some of my impressions respecting the prominent interest excited by these little flowers of humanity in an English landscape.

THE RETURN TO ENGLAND.

When I re-visited my dear native country, after an absence of many weary years, and a long dull voyage, my heart was filled with unutterable delight and admiration. The land seemed a perfect paradise. It was in the spring of the year. The blue vault of heaven--the clear atmosphere--the balmy vernal breeze--the quiet and picturesque cattle, browsing on luxuriant verdure, or standing knee deep in a crystal lake--the hills sprinkled with snow-white sheep and sometimes partially shadowed by a wandering cloud--the meadows glowing with golden b.u.t.ter-cups and be-dropped with daisies--the trim hedges of crisp and sparkling holly--the sound of near but unseen rivulets, and the songs of foliage-hidden birds--the white cottages almost buried amidst trees, like happy human nests--the ivy-covered church, with its old grey spire "pointing up to heaven," and its gilded vane gleaming in the light--the st.u.r.dy peasants with their instruments of healthy toil--the white-capped matrons bleaching their newly-washed garments in the sun, and throwing them like snow-patches on green slopes, or glossy garden shrubs--the sun-browned village girls, resting idly on their round elbows at small open cas.e.m.e.nts, their faces in sweet keeping with the trellised flowers:--all formed a combination of enchantments that would mock the happiest imitative efforts of human art. But though the bare enumeration of the details of this English picture, will, perhaps, awaken many dear recollections in the reader's mind, I have omitted by far the most interesting feature of the whole scene--_the rosy children, loitering about the cottage gates, or tumbling gaily on the warm gra.s.s_.[005][006]

Two sc.r.a.ps of verse of a similar tendency shall follow this prose description:--

AN ENGLISH LANDSCAPE.

I stood, upon an English hill, And saw the far meandering rill, A vein of liquid silver, run Sparkling in the summer sun; While adown that green hill's side, And along the valley wide, Sheep, like small clouds touched with light, Or like little breakers bright, Sprinkled o'er a smiling sea, Seemed to float at liberty.

Scattered all around were seen, White cots on the meadows green.

Open to the sky and breeze, Or peeping through the sheltering trees, On a light gate, loosely hung, Laughing children gaily swung; Oft their glad shouts, shrill and clear, Came upon the startled ear.

Blended with the tremulous bleat, Of truant lambs, or voices sweet, Of birds, that take us by surprise, And mock the quickly-searching eyes.

Nearer sat a fair-haired boy, Whistling with a thoughtless joy; A shepherd's crook was in his hand, Emblem of a mild command; And upon his rounded cheek Were hues that ripened apples streak.

Disease, nor pain, nor sorrowing, Touched that small Arcadian king; His sinless subjects wandered free-- Confusion without anarchy.

Happier he upon his throne.

The breezy hill--though all alone-- Than the grandest monarchs proud Who mistrust the kneeling crowd.

On a gently rising ground, The lovely valley's farthest bound, Bordered by an ancient wood, The cots in thicker cl.u.s.ters stood; And a church, uprose between, Hallowing the peaceful scene.

Distance o'er its old walls threw A soft and dim cerulean hue, While the sun-lit gilded spire Gleamed as with celestial fire!

I have crossed the ocean wave, Haply for a foreign grave; Haply never more to look On a British hill or brook; Haply never more to hear Sounds unto my childhood dear; Yet if sometimes on my soul Bitter thoughts beyond controul Throw a shade more dark than night, Soon upon the mental sight Flashes forth a pleasant ray Brighter, holier than the day; And unto that happy mood All seems beautiful and good.

D.L.R.

LINES TO A LADY,

WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH SOME ENGLISH FRUITS AND FLOWERS.

Green herbs and gus.h.i.+ng springs in some hot waste Though, grateful to the traveller's sight and taste, Seem far less sweet and fair than fruits and flowers That breathe, in foreign lands, of English bowers.

Thy gracious gift, dear lady, well recalls Sweet scenes of home,--the white cot's trellised walls-- The trim red garden path--the rustic seat-- The jasmine-covered arbour, fit retreat For hearts that love repose. Each spot displays Some long-remembered charm. In sweet amaze I feel as one who from a weary dream Of exile wakes, and sees the morning beam Illume the glorious clouds of every hue That float o'er scenes his happy childhood knew.

How small a spark may kindle fancy's flame And light up all the past! The very same Glad sounds and sights that charmed my heart of old Arrest me now--I hear them and behold.

Ah! yonder is the happy circle seated Within, the favorite bower! I am greeted With joyous shouts; my rosy boys have heard A father's voice--their little hearts are stirred With eager hope of some new toy or treat And on they rush, with never-resting feet!

Gone is the sweet illusion--like a scene Formed by the western vapors, when between The dusky earth, and day's departing light The curtain falls of India's sudden night.

D.L.R.

The verdant carpet embroidered with little stars of gold and silver--the short-grown, smooth, and close-woven, but most delicate and elastic fresh sward--so soothing to the dazzled eye, so welcome to the wearied limbs--so suggestive of innocent and happy thoughts,--so refres.h.i.+ng to the freed visitor, long pent up in the smoky city--is surely no where to be seen in such exquisite perfection as on the broad meadows and softly-swelling hills of England. And perhaps in no country in the world could _pic-nic_ holiday-makers or playful children with more perfect security of life and health stroll about or rest upon Earth's richly enamelled floor from sunrise to sunset on a summer's day. No Englishman would dare to stretch himself at full length and address himself to sleep upon an Oriental meadow unless he were perfectly indifferent to life itself and could see nothing terrible in the hostility of the deadliest reptiles. When wading through the long gra.s.s and thick jungles of Bengal, he is made to acknowledge the full force of the true and beautiful expression--"_In the midst of life we are in death_." The British Indian exile on his return home is delighted with the "sweet security" of his native fields. He may then feel with Wordsworth how

Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head.

And dear _the velvet greensward_ to his tread.

Or he may exclaim in the words of poor Keats--now slumbering under a foreign turf--

Happy is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than her own.

It is a pleasing proof of the fine moral influence of natural scenery that the most ceremonious strangers can hardly be long seated together in the open air on the "velvet greensward" without casting off for a while the cold formalities of artificial life, and becoming as frank and social as ingenuous school-boys. Nature breathes peace and geniality into almost every human heart.

"John Thelwall," says Coleridge, "had something very good about him. We were sitting in a beautiful recess in the Quantocks when I said to him 'Citizen John, this is a fine place to talk treason in!' 'Nay, Citizen Samuel,' replied he, 'it is rather a place to make us forget that there is any necessity for treason!'"

Leigh Hunt, who always looks on nature with the eye of a true painter and the imagination of a true poet, has represented with delightful force and vividness some of those accidents of light and shade that diversify an English meadow.

RAIN AND SUNs.h.i.+NE IN MAY.

"Can any thing be more lovely, than the meadows between the rains of May, when the sun smites them on the sudden like a painter, and they laugh up at him, as if he had lighted a loving cheek!

I speak of a season when the returning threats of cold and the resisting warmth of summer time, make robust mirth in the air; when the winds imitate on a sudden the vehemence of winter; and silver-white clouds are abrupt in their coming down and shadows on the gra.s.s chase one another, panting, over the fields, like a pursuit of spirits. With undulating necks they pant forward, like hounds or the leopard.