Then fair befall the flax-field,
And may the fruitful showers
Give strength unto its shining stem,
Give seed unto its flowers!
THE SONG OF THE POPPIES.
'WE little red-caps are among the corn,
Merrily dancing at early morn,
For we know that the farmer hates to see
Our saucy red faces, but here are we!
We pay no price for our summer coats,
Like those slavish creatures, Barley and Oats;
We don't choose to be ground and eat,
Like our heavy-head neighbour, Gaffer Wheat.'
But blithe was the rich rosy farmer that morn,
When he went with his reapers among the corn;
He trotted along, and cracked his joke,
And chatted and laughed with the harvest-folk.
'We'll cut this Barley to-day,' quoth he,
As he tied his pony under a tree.
Next the upland Wheat, and then the Oats.'
How the poppies shook in their scarlet coats !
Aye, shook with laughter, not fear, for they
Never dreamt that they too should be swept away;
And the farmer, glancing across the grain,
Cried, 'Look how these weeds have come up again.'
'Ha, ha!' laughed the red-caps; 'ha! ha! what a fuss
The poor weeds must be in, how they're envying us.'
-But their mirth was cut short by the sturdy strokes
Which they speedily met from the harvest-folks.
THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER.
THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!
So, put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.
Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers.
For dull the eye, the heart is dull,
That cannot feel how fair,
Amid all beauty, beautiful
Thy tender blossoms are !
How delicate thy gauzy frill !
How rich thy branchy stem!
How soft thy voice when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them!
While silent showers are falling slow,
And, 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush !
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn-flower is dead;
The violet by the mossed grey stone
Hath laid her weary head;
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,
The fresh green days of life's fair spring,
And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Scorned bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.
MOUNTAIN GORSES.
MOUNTAIN gorses, ever-golden,
Cankered not the whole year long!
Do ye teach us to be strong,
Howsoever pricked and holden
Like your thorny blooms, and so
Trodden on by rain and snow,
Up the hill-side of this life, as bleak as where ye grow?
Mountain blossoms, shining blossoms,
Do ye teach us to be glad
When no summer can be had,
Blooming in our inward bosoms?
Ye whom God preserveth still—
Set as lights upon a hill,
Tokens to the wintry earth that Beauty liveth still!
Mountain gorses, do ye teach us,
From that academic chair,
Canopied with azure air,
That the wisest word man reaches
Is the humblest he can speak?
Ye, who live on mountain peak,
Yet live low along the ground, beside the grasses meek!
Mountain gorses, since Linnæus
Knelt beside you on the sod,
For your beauty thanking God;
For your teaching, ye should see us,
Bowing in prostration new!
Whence arisen-if one or two
Drops be on our cheeks-O world, they are not tears,
THE lily has an air,
And the snowdrop a grace,
And the sweet-pea a way
And the heartsease a face;
Yet there's nothing like the rose,
When she blows.
The rose with such a bonny blush;
What has the rose to blush about?
If it's the sun that makes her flush,
What's in the sun to flush about?
OH! what shall I gather, my lady fair,
With the dark blue eyes, and the flowing hair? The rose is too common, the lily too pale,
Then, oh! what can rival, if these must fail?
The Primrose is pale, but its yellow and green
(Signs of sadness) in thee should never be seen;
And the Violet's sweetness is like thine own,
But why doth it dwell in a place so lone?
I could choose the wild Harebell's azure dye,
But it bends with a breath, and it breaks with a sigh ;
And Forget-me-not, ere the leaves expand,
Oft withers and dies as it rests in the hand.
There's a flower that blooms in sun and in shade,
That blooms when the rose and lily must fade,
Heartease is its name, and that shall be
The flower, sweet lady, I'll gather for thee.
OH! beautiful thou art,
Thou sculptur'd-like and stately river queen!
Crowning the depths as with the light serene
Of a pure heart.
Bright lily of the wave!
Rising in fearless grace with every swell,
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave
Dwelt in thy cell.
Of placid beauty, feminine, yet free,
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread
The waters be.
What is like thee, fair flower,
The gentle and the firm? thus bearing up
To the blue sky that alabaster cup,
As to the shower!
Oh! love is most like thee,
The love of woman; quivering to the blast Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, 'Midst life's dark sea.
And Faith-oh! is not faith
Like thee, too, lily? springing into light,
Still buoyantly, above the billows' might,
Through the storm's breath?
Yes, link'd with such high thoughts,
Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie!
Till something there of its own purity
And peace be wrought:
Something, yet more divine
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed,
As from a shrine.
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