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In: Godey's Lady's Book·Poetry·Art
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #33983.
The opening · free to read
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
MAY.
May-Day Morning. The Language of Flowers. Spring. "Now be Careful." Music, &c.
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.
BY JNO. B. DUFFEY.
(See Plate.)
AS, wandering forth at rosy dawn, When sparkling dew-drops deck the lawn, From glen and glade, and river-side, We bring young flowers--the morning's pride.
And, bound in wreaths, or posies sweet, With flowers our favored ones we greet; For flowers a silent language own, That makes our maiden wishes known.
A language that by love was wrought, And by fond love to mortals taught; A language, too, that lovers know, Where, watched by love, sweet flowers may blow.
A language richer, purer far Than all the tongue-born dialects are; And, as the flowers, devoid of art, It is the language of the heart.
Thoughts that would perish all untold Live on the tongues that flowers enfold: Thus will the Tulip's crimson shell The love of stammering youth unveil.
And happy will that trembler be, If she, with cheek of modesty, Shall give his soft avowal room, And twine it with the Myrtle's bloom.
But, should her heart feel not his glow, The mottled Pink may answer "No;" Yet Friendship, in an Ivy wreath, A balm upon the wound will breathe.
The Morning-glory's dewy bell In mystic tones of hope may tell-- Tell of a struggle in the breast, Where, warring, love 'gainst love is pressed.
The Heartsease, flower of purple hue, Seeks an affection ever true; And, in the Bay-leaf's still reply, Speaketh a love will never die.
The little Daisy grows for her Who heedeth not the flatterer; And spotless Lilies love the breast Where child-like Innocence is pressed.
Young Beauty's symbol is the Rose Whose blushing petals half unclose; And in the snowy Violet Sweet Modesty her home hath set.
And thus of feeling, every shade May be through voiceless flowers conveyed; And all the fond endearments known To deep-felt love, thus greet love's own.
Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by W. E. Tucker
Printed by H. Quig.]
AH! is he blind, who erst, untiringly, Searched wildwood, prairie, meadow, rock, and wold, For you, sweet songsters, clad in yellow gold? When comes spring's carnival, enchantingly Sing ye to him, with sorrow in your song; For that his sightless orbs now roll in vain, No more to view your rainbow-tints again-- Love-lays in gratitude to him belong, From matin Lark, loud herald of the day-- From Philomel, coy chorister of night: Listens he yet, ye birds, with dear delight, In rapture musing on your plumage gay, Hoping to soar, when life's short day is done, On eagle-pinions up to yonder central sun.
SPRING, with its glad influences Stealing up from bosky dell, Once more quickens Nature's heart-pulse With its sunny, witching spell.
Each new morn the boughs hang thicker With the leaves of Nature's book; Each new eve adds a new chapter To the life of bird and brook.
Each new morn the world is greener; Age forgets its shriveled years In the warmth and life upspringing Out from Winter's chill and tears.
Each new morn the song grows sweeter-- Song of loving bee and bird; Each new eve, from youth and maiden, Softer cadences are heard.
Each new morn her heart beat warmer, Dreaming o'er his tale of love; Each new eve, that tale repeated, Brighter spells around her wove.
At the early, early daybreak, To caress her as she slept, Greetingly, the light spring zephyr Through her open lattice crept.
Roving mid the golden tangles Of her tresses' braidless flow, Nestling in the half-veiled dimples Of her bosom white as snow.
Mingling with her fragrant breathing, Closely to her ear it came, Murm'ring to her gentle dreaming, In sweet music, his dear name.
"Through the valley, o'er the mountain," Sang the zephyr in her ear, "At my own sweet will, I wander All the loving, livelong year.
"With the lowly, tender grass-blade, With the solemn, stately trees, With each swelling bud and blossom Sport I ever as I please.
"All the humble wayside flowers-- Daisy, king-cup, light harebell; All the tall and proud ones--Kalmia, Rose, and orchis--know me well.
"Of the brightest, sweetest flower-buds, Sheltered by the mountain's brow, Blooming in the wide, wide valley, Loveliest of them all art thou.
"That is why he loves thee dearly, Modest, gentle as thou art, The proud lord of wood and manor The proud lord of thy young heart.
"Oh, I heard a song last evening, Sung to tremulous guitar, Through the yellow, mellow moonlight, Floating on the air afar;
"Breathing warmest, truest passion For one bearing thy sweet name, Telling of that passion thwarted Bending unto station's claim:
"Telling how the claim of station Must at last be overborne, By a will and faith unyielding, By a love no time can turn.
"'I must see her at the day-dawn,' Sighed he, at the ballad's close, 'By the brook in the still copse-wood, Where the purple violet grows.'"
Rose the maiden from her slumbers, Fresher than the break of dawn, Binding up her heavy tresses, Looked she out upon the lawn.
Like a shower of yellow guineas Flashing back the morning sun, Crocuses and dandelions Half the golden fields had won.
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