Poems (Cook)/The Daisy

by Eliza Cook

THE DAISY.

When first the teeming world was rife
With beauty, plenty, light, and life;
When Nature's Godhead, great and wise,
Had look'd upon the earth and skies,
And "saw all good" that He had done,
From glow-worm's spark to rolling sun;
When every tribe, and every race,
Seem'd well contented with their place;
One little voice alone was heard
To utter a complaining word.

Creation's Spirit, ever just,
Turn'd to the murmuring thing of dust—
"Stand forth," He said, "and tremble not,
Relate the evil of thy lot;
Low as thou art, thou shalt be heard,—
Stand forth, thou need'st not fear my word."

A tiny flower from the shade,
Whose head scarce topp'd the emerald blade,
Came with a sad and plaintive tone,
And thus address'd the Mighty One:

"Oh! gaze, Creator, gaze around,
And see what brilliant tints abound.
The poppy, with its flaming breast,
Outshines the crimson of the west;
The speedwell, with its azure hue,
Peeps out and mocks the southern blue;
The foxglove shakes its ruby bells;
With purple pride the orchis swells;
The dog-rose, with its dewy charms,
Can lure the wild bee to its arms;
The cornflower and the asphodel
Are homes where golden moths will dwell;
The primrose glitters in the beam,
The pearly lily gems the stream;
The violet in its regal dress
Wins the young Zephyr's soft caress;
The pimpernel, with scarlet star,
Spangles the hill-top—trailing far:
All, all beside, are seen to wear
Garbs richly gay, or sweetly fair
The meanest of my kindred shine
With hues of rarer tint than mine.
Oh! who will praise, or who will seek
My simple form and scentless cheek?"

"Hush!" said the Spirit, "well I know
Thou hast no gaudy leaves to show;
But listen! Learn what thou wilt be:
Then change with any flower or tree.
"Thou shalt become a favour'd thing
With those who sweep the burning string;
The lyre shall echo for thy sake,
That brighter bloom shall fail to wake.
A future son of Song and Fame
Shall fling a halo round thy name;
The inspiration of thy flower
Shall kindle an immortal hour;
And the poor Daisy' in his way
Shall mingle with the Poet's bay.
Thou shalt be bound by mystic ties
To guileless souls and infant eyes;
The lisping ones shall clutch thy stem,
As though thy blossom were a gem.
In Spring-time troops of them shall come
To hail thee in thy fresh, green home;
And loudly glad, with bounding heart,
Tell all the world how dear thou art.
This, lowly Daisy, is thy lot;
Say, canst thou be content, or not?"

The little floweret "colour'd up"
Till rosy redness fringed its cup;
And never has it lost the flush
Of pride and joy that call'd the blush.

"Forgive me, mighty Lord," it cried
"Creation's realm, however wide,
Holds nought for which I'd change my fate,
And yield my blest, though humble state.
The mountain pine may rear its head,
The forest oak may nobly spread;
The rose may bloom, the jasmine breathe,
The vine and eglantine may wreathe;
Of all that springs beneath the sun,
I, the 'poor Daisy,' envy none:
For none can greater homage prove
Than Minstrel's song and Childhood's love."