| DAFFODILS. | I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden Daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle in the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company;
I gazed and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought!
For oft when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.
| | Wordsworth. | | THE ROSE. | Go, lovely Rose!
Tell her that wastes her time on me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young.
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.
Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair,
Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise
And teach the maid
That goodness Time's rude hand defies;
That virtue lives when beauty dies.
| | Waller. | | THE SENSITIVE PLANT. | A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light,
And closed them beneath the kisses of Night.
* * * * * *
But none ever trembled and panted with bliss
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness,
Like doe in the noontide with love's sweet want,
As the companionless Sensitive Plant.
The snowdrop, and then the violet,
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,
And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent,
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.
Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall,
And narcissi, the fairest among them all,
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess,
Till they die of their own dear loveliness.
And the naiad-like lily of the vale.
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale,
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen
Through their pavilions of tender green;
And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue,
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew
Of music so delicate, soft and intense,
It was felt like an odour within the sense!
And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest,
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast,
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare;
And the wand-like lily, which lifted up,
As a MÆnad, its moonlight-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, which is its eye,
Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky;
And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose,
The sweetest flower for scent that blows;
And all rare blossoms from every clime
Grew in that garden in perfect prime.
The Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root,
Received more than all [flowers], it loved more than ever,
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver—
For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower;
Radiance and odour are not its dower;
It loves, even like Love its deep heart is full,
It desires what it has not, the beautiful!
* * * * * *
Each and all like ministering angels were
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear.
Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by
Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky.
And when evening descended from heaven above,
And the earth was all rest, and the air was all love,
And delight, though less bright, was far more deep,
And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep,
* * * * * *
The Sensitive Plant was the earliest
Up-gathered into the bosom of rest;
A sweet child weary of its delight,
The feeblest, and yet the favourite,
Cradled within the embrace of night.
| | Shelley. | | O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN, &c. | | Tune—"The Posie." | O luve will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen,
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been;
But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green,
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.
The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year,
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear,
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer;
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view,
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou;
The hyacinth's for constancy w' its unchanging blue,
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair.
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air,
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day,
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away;
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near,
And the diamond-drops o' dew shall be her e'en sae clear:
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear,
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
I'll tie the posie round w' the silken band o' luve,
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above,
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve.
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.
| | Burns. | | MY NANNIE'S AWA. | | Tune—"There'll never be peace" &c. | Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays.
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes,
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw;
But to me it's delightless—my Nannie's awa.
The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn;
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o' Nannie—and Nannie's awa.
Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn,
The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking dawn,
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa',
Give over for pity—my Nanni
uty. Sideway his face reposed
On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed,
By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth
To slumbery pout; just as the morning south
Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head,
Four lily stalks did their white honours wed
To make a coronal; and round him grew
All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue,
Together intertwined and trammel'd fresh:
The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh,
Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine,
Of velvet leaves, and bugle blooms divine.
Hard by,
Stood serene Cupids watching silently.
One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd the strings,
Muffling to death the pathos with his wings;
And, ever and anon, uprose to look
At the youth's slumber; while another took
A willow bough, distilling odorous dew,
And shook it on his hair; another flew
In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise,
Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes.
| | Keats. | Modonna, wherefore hast thou sent to me
Sweet Basil and Mignonette,
Embleming love and health, which never yet
In the same wreath might be.
Alas, and they are wet!
Is it with thy kisses or thy tears?
For never rain or dew
Such fragrance drew
From plant or flower; the very doubt endears
My sadness ever new,
The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed, for thee.
| | P. B. Shelley. | There grew pied Wind-flowers and Violets,
Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flowers that never set;
Faint Oxlips; tender Blue-bells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
Its mother's face with Heaven-collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush Eglantine,
Green Cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May
And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day;
And Wild Roses, and Ivy serpentine
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray,
And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.
And nearer to the river's trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white,
And starry river buds among the sedge.
And floating Water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
| | P. B. Shelley. | Fade, Flow'rs! fade, Nature will have it so;
'Tis but what we must in our autumn do!
And as your leaves lie quiet on the ground,
The loss alone by those that lov'd them found;
So in the grave shall we as quiet lie,
Miss'd by some few that lov'd our company;
But some so like to thorns and nettles live,
That none for them can, when they perish, grieve.
| | Waller. | | ARRANGEMENT OF A BOUQUET. | Here damask Roses, white and red,
Out of my lap first take I,
Which still shall run along the thread,
My chiefest flower this make I.
Amongst these Roses in a row,
Next place I Pinks in plenty,
These double Pansies then for show;
And will not this be dainty
The pretty Pansy then I'll tie,
Like stones some chain inchasing;
And next to them, their near ally,
The purple Violet placing.
The curious choice clove July flower,
Whose kind hight the Carnation,
For sweetnest of most sovereign power,
Shall help my wreath to fashion;
Whose sundry colours of one kind,
First from one root derived,
Them in their several suits I'll bind:
My garland so contrived.
A course of Cowslips then I'll stick,
And here and there (though sparely)
The pleasant Primrose down I'll prick.
Like pearls that will show rarely;
Then with these Marigolds I'll make
My garland somewhat swelling,
These Honeysuckles then I'll take,
Whose sweets shall help their smelling.
The Lily and the Fleur-de-lis.
For colour much contending;
For that I them do only prize,
They are but poor in scenting.
The Daffodil most dainty is,
To match with these in meetness;
The Columbine compared to this,
All much alike for sweetness.
These in their natures only are
Fit to emboss the border.
Therefore I'll take especial care
To place them in their order:
Sweet-williams, Campions, Sops-in-wine,
One by another neatly;
Thus have I made this wreath of mine,
And finished it featly.
| | Nicholas Drayton. | | THE CHERRY. | There is a garden in her face,
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place.
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which, when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh.
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.
| | Richard Allison | | THE GARLAND. | The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Cloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchaf'd to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.
The flowers she wore along the day;
And every nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they look'd more gay
Than glowing in their native bed.
Undrest, at ev'ning, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past;
She chang'd her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast.
That eye dropt sense distinct and clear,
As any muse's tongue could speak,
When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.
Dissembling what I knew too well;
My love! my life! said I, explain
This change of humour; pray thee tell:
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