Poems (Cook)/On receiving a Bunch of Heather, Gorse, and Fern

by Eliza Cook

 

ON RECEIVING A BUNCH OF HEATHER, GORSE, AND FERN.

Wild blossoms of the moorland, ye are very dear to me;
Ye lure my dreaming memory as clover does the bee;
Ye bring back all my childhood loved, when Freedom, Joy, and Health
Had never thought of weaving chains to fetter Fame and Wealth.
Wild blossoms of the common land, brave tenants of the earth,
Your breathings were among the first that help'd my spirit's birth;
For how my busy brain would dream, and how my heart would burn,
Where gorse and heather flung their arms above the forest fern.

Wild blossoms of the lonely waste, no fear could ever daunt
My tiny feet from wandering amid your jungle-haunt;
And many a bunch of purple bells that tower'd above myself,
And many a fragrant brake I pull'd like some wee, sylvan elf.
But, ah! those tempting leaves of gold were difficult to get;
Alas, I prove that winning gold is not more easy yet:
But then my fingers only felt the sharp and piercing smart,
And now I find the worldly thorns oft leave a wounded heart.

Oh, happy time, ere ruth or rhyme had crossed my sunny brain;
Tis not worth while to ask if such a time will come again;
For then my soul had not a thought but might be told aloud;
And Pleasure's optics always gave the bow without its cloud.
How bright my eye was when I gazed upon the plumes of green,
And saw young rabbits in their play go speeding on between;
When burrow'd sand with root-bound arch form'd strange and antique bowers,
And ye, wild blossoms of the waste, were fresh and Eden flowers.

Who loved me then? Oh, those who were as gentle as sincere,
Who never kiss'd my cheek so hard as when it own'd a tear.
Whom did I love? Oh, those whose faith I never had to doubt;
Those who grew anxious at my sigh and smiled upon my pout.
What did I crave? The power to rove unquestion'd at my will;
Oh, wayward idler that I was—perchance I am such still.
What did I fear? No chance or change, so that it did not turn
My footstep from the moorland coast, the heather and the fern.

Methinks it was a pleasant time, those gipsy days of mine,
When Youth with rosy magic turn'd Life's waters into wine;
But nearly all who shared those days have pass'd away from earth,
Pass'd in their beauty and their prime, their happiness and mirth.
So now, rich flowers of the waste, I'll sit and talk to ye;
For Memory's casket, fill'd with gems, is open'd by your key;
And glad I am that I can grasp your blossoms sweet and wild,
And find myself a dotard yet, a dreamer and a child.