Flowers And Flower-Gardens Part 20

That very time I saw (but thou couldst not) Flying between the cold moon and the earth, Cupid all armed, a certain aim he took At a fair Vestal, throned by the west; And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts.

But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon-- And the imperial votaress pa.s.sed on In maiden meditation fancy free, Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell.

It fell upon _a little western flowers, Before milk white, now purple with love's wound-- And maidens call it_ LOVE IN IDLENESS Fetch me that flower, the herb I showed thee once, The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid, Will make or man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees.

Fetch me this herb and be thou here again, Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

_Midsummer Night's Dream._

The hearts-ease has been cultivated with great care and success by some of the most zealous flower-fanciers amongst our countrymen in India. But it is a delicate plant in this clime, and requires most a.s.siduous attention, and a close study of its habits. It always withers here under ordinary hands.

THE MIGNONETTE.

The MIGNONETTE, (_reseda odorato_,) the Frenchman's _little darling_, was not introduced into England until the middle of the 17th century.

The Mignonette or Sweet Reseda was once supposed capable of a.s.suaging pain, and of ridding men of many of the ills that flesh is heir to. It was applied with an incantation. This flower has found a place in the armorial bearings of an ill.u.s.trious family of Saxony. I must tell the story: The Count of Walsthim loved the fair and sprightly Amelia de Nordbourg. She was a spoilt child and a coquette. She had an humble companion whose christian name was Charlotte. One evening at a party, all the ladies were called upon to choose a flower each, and the gentlemen were to make verses on the selections. Amelia fixed upon the flaunting rose, Charlotte the modest mignonette. In the course of the evening Amelia coquetted so desperately with a das.h.i.+ng Colonel that the Count could not suppress his vexation. On this he wrote a verse for the Rose:

Elle ne vit qu'un jour, et ne plait qu'un moment.

(She lives but for a day and pleases but for a moment)

He then presented the following line on the Mignonette to the gentle Charlotte:

"Ses qualities surpa.s.sent ses charmes."

The Count transferred his affections to Charlotte, and when he married her, added a branch of the Sweet Reseda to the ancient arms of his family, with the motto of

Your qualities surpa.s.s your charms.

VERVAIN.

The vervain-- That hind'reth witches of their will.

_Drayton_

VERVAIN (_verbena_) was called by the Greeks _the sacred herb_. It was used to brush their altars. It was supposed to keep off evil spirits. It was also used in the religious ceremonies of the Druids and is still held sacred by the Persian Magi. The latter lay branches of it on the altar of the sun.

The ancients had their _Verbenalia_ when the temples were strewed with vervain, and no incantation or l.u.s.tration was deemed perfect without the aid of this plant. It was supposed to cure the bite of a serpent or a mad dog.

THE DAISY.

The DAISY or day's eye (_bellis perennis_) has been the darling of the British poets from Chaucer to Sh.e.l.ley. It is not, however, the darling of poets only, but of princes and peasants. And it is not man's favorite only, but, as Wordsworth says, Nature's favorite also. Yet it is "the simplest flower that blows." Its seed is broadcast on the land. It is the most familiar of flowers. It sprinkles every field and lane in the country with its little mimic stars. Wordsworth pays it a beautiful compliment in saying that

Oft alone in nooks remote _We meet it like a pleasant thought When such is wanted._

But though this poet dearly loved the daisy, in some moods of mind he seems to have loved the little celandine (common pilewort) even better.

He has addressed two poems to this humble little flower. One begins with the following stanza.

Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there's a sun that sets Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are Violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.

No flower is too lowly for the affections of Wordsworth. Hazlitt says, "the daisy looks up to Wordsworth with sparkling eye as an old acquaintance; a withered thorn is weighed down with a heap of recollections; and even the lichens on the rocks have a life and being in his thoughts."

The Lesser Celandine, is an inodorous plant, but as Wordsworth possessed not the sense of smell, to him a deficiency of fragrance in a flower formed no objection to it. Miss Martineau alludes to a newspaper report that on one occasion the poet suddenly found himself capable of enjoying the fragrance of a flower, and gave way to an emotion of tumultuous rapture. But I have seen this contradicted. Miss Martineau herself has generally no sense of smell, but we have her own testimony to the fact that a brief enjoyment of the faculty once actually occurred to her. In her case there was a simultaneous awakening of two dormant faculties--the sense of smell and the sense of taste. Once and once only, she enjoyed the scent of a bottle of Eau de Cologne and the taste of meat.

The two senses died away again almost in their birth.

Sh.e.l.ley calls Daisies "those pearled Arcturi of the earth"--"the constellated flower that never sets."

The Father of English poets does high honor to this star of the meadow in the "Prologue to the Legend of Goode Women."

He tells us that in the merry month of May he was wont to quit even his beloved books to look upon the fresh morning daisy.

Of all the floures in the mede Then love I most these floures white and red, Such that men callen Daisies in our town, To them I have so great affection.

As I sayd erst, when comen is the Maie, That in my bedde there dawneth me no daie That I nam up and walking in the mede To see this floure agenst the Sunne sprede, When it up riseth early by the morrow That blisfull sight softeneth all my sorrow.

_Chaucer_.

The poet then goes on with his hearty laudation of this lilliputian luminary of the fields, and hesitates not to describe it as "of all floures the floure." The famous Scottish Peasant loved it just as truly, and did it equal honor. Who that has once read, can ever forget his harmonious and pathetic address to a mountain daisy on turning it up with the plough? I must give the poem a place here, though it must be familiar to every reader. But we can read it again and again, just as we can look day after day with undiminished interest upon the flower that it commemorates.

Mrs. Stowe (the American writer) observes that "the daisy with its wide plaited ruff and yellow centre is not our (that is, an American's) flower. The English flower is the

Wee, modest, crimson tipped flower

which Burns celebrated. It is what we (in America) raise in green-houses and call the Mountain Daisy. Its effect, growing profusely about fields and gra.s.s-plats, is very beautiful."

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786

Wee, modest, crimson tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour, For I maun[080] crush amang the stoure[081]

Thy slender stem, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! its no thy neobor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet[082]

Wi' speckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east

Cauld blew the bitter biting north Upon thy early, humble, birth, Yet cheerfully thou glinted[083] forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the patient earth Thy tender form

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's[084] maun s.h.i.+eld, But thou beneath the random bield[085]

O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie[086] stibble field[087]

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawye bosom sun ward spread, Thou lifts thy una.s.suming head In humble guise, But now the share up tears thy bed, And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!

By love's simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple Bard, On Life's rough ocean luckless starred!

Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given Who long with wants and woes has striven By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine--no distant date; Stern Ruin's plough-share drives elate, Full on thy bloom; Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom.

_Burns._