Voice of Flowers/A Circle of Friends compared to Flowers
A CIRCLE OF FRIENDS *[1]
COMPARED TO FLOWERS.
Go seek the choicest sweets that Nature fair
Hath kindly trusted to the culturer's care,—
Unfolding buds, with vernal dew-drops pure,
Resplendent flowers, that summer suns mature,
And changeless plants, whose firmer breasts defy
The frosts of autumn, or the wintry sky.
Bring first the thornless Rose, of colors rare,
Fresh, bright, and graceful, from the florist's care,
That reared in bowers, where nought was ever found
To chill, depress, contaminate, or wound,
Knows no dark art to rouse the breath of strife,
And bears enchantment for the vale of life.
Mark well yon Lily, on its stately stem,
Whose snowy leaves conceal a polish'd gem,
Thou may'st not miss it in the loveliest train,
Nor once beheld, forget its charms again;
Go, bow to taste its fragrance, and request
The favoring presence of the cherish'd guest.
And thou, Mimosa, dear and trembling flower,
Come from thy cell,—unshrinking leave thy bower;
No pressure rude, thy folded buds shall harm,
No touch unkind thy tender leaves alarm;
Though in the world's rough journey thou may'st fear
Unkindred spirits, none shall meet thee here;
This gentle band are form'd with thee to feel,
And well they prize what thou would'st fain conceal.
Come, loved and fearless, while our care shall set
Fast by thy side, thy sister Violet,
Still cheerful, unobtrusive, and serene,
To grace the high, or deck the lowly scene;
High be his bosom honor'd who shall gain
This as a solace, and a charm for pain.
The Woodbine next, whose graceful tendrils twine
In sweet luxuriance round the parent vine,
Whose heaven-born fragrance breathes reviving power,
'Neath dewy evening, or the summer shower,
Shall bless our wreath, for this can teach to glow
The morn of pleasure, or the night of woe.
Thou, too, pale Lily, leave thy native vale,
And yield thine essence to our fresher gale,
What though thy bending head no gaze would meet,
Thy perfume guides us to thy green retreat,
Where lingering zephyrs round thee gently sigh,
And catch the tones of music as they fly.
The orange Cowslip, pure in heart, and gay,
Bestows its beauty on our fair bouquet,
Known by its sweetness, for its worth approv'd,
If seen, remember'd, if remember'd lov'd.
And there, "wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,"
Meek Mountain Daisy, pride of friendship's bower,
Come all unconscious of thy winning grace,
And lend thy lusture to our charmed vase.
Wilt thou, bright Pink, all graceful as thou art,
Still 'mid our circle form a cherish'd part?
Or wouldst thou rather, in thy native glade,
Reserve thine incense for the healer's aid?
From beauty's sheltered sphere roam onward wide,
Invoking forms of loftier strength and pride,
That while the house-plants round the hearth shall glow,
As future years the varied lot bestow,
Perchance strong conflict with the storm may wage,
Or tower, the master spirits of the age.
Why do we ask the Laurel here to glow?
Is it that fame or glory blind us? No!
But that it hath a spirit nobly bold,
To bide the blast, or brave the tempest cold.
Not train'd by art, or nursed in idle ease,
Or taught to bow to what the world shall please,
But independent, and to honor true,
Might guard the weak, and charm the tasteful too.
One, too, there is, whose latent virtues claim
Of constancy, the undisputed name;
Who seeks, by shrinking in his favorite cell,
The applause to shun, that he deserves so well;
Yet all in vain, for few can fail to prize
The hues that change not with the changing skies.
Wilt thou. Oh Sage! from cloistered study deign
To heed our summons, and delight our train?
"Cur moriator homo,"*[2] might we say,
Dum salvia crescit in horto," but the lay,
Cramp'd by the unyielding chains of Saxon verse,
Suits not the Roman proverb, boldly terse;
Still more unworthy is this pencil faint,
Thy many virtues, lenient Sage, to paint.
And thou, Geranium, half exotic, say,
Why art thou from the ancestral halls away?
Thou need'st no gift that nature did not lend,
Or art improve, or cultivation blend:
Yet if thou better lov'st a sunnier sky,
Breathe there the fragrance that can, never die.
The meek Narcissus next invites our care,
With fragile stalk and efflorescence fair,
Which anxious friendship fears will scarce endure
The world's contagion, with a brow so pure;
Yet this, perchance, may bear the dangerous test,
For heaven's own spirit lives within its breast.
Lure from its home, 'mid green Vermonia's plain,
The English Holly to our classic train,
That fearless, firm, and scorning all disguise,
Where'er it dwells, points upward to the skies.
The Lilac, prompt to heed the call of Spring,
Shuns not the summons to our magic ring;
We saw it o'er the way-side traveller cast
Shade from the heat, and covert from the blast,
Yet from the meed of fame retire, to throw
Its wealth of fragrance on the vale below.
And shall the verdant Myrtle be forgot,
All unassuming in its shaded spot?
Perchance we may not win its wreathing vine
From Coke and Blackstone, where it fain would twine.
Yet might it be persuaded thus to cheer
The glowing circle, it were welcome here.
The varied Tulip, versatile and gay,
With colors changing to the changing ray,
Attracts the stranger by its brilliant dye,
And with rich tissue charms the studious eye,
Yet better loves in southern climes to bide,
Than hear the accents of our praise or pride.
Now bind the treasur'd sweetness.
Do you say
That aught is wanting? There are none away.
A plant there is, indeed, from mountains lone,
But blossom, flower, or fragrance, it hath none;
Yet since ye call it forth, with friendship kind,
It hath a tendril round your stalks to bind,
A rustic shoot, the florist ne'er could teach,
Yet loves the brilliance it despairs to reach.
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*At the dissolution of a Literary Society, whose members (nine of each sex) were united in friendship as well as in intellectual pursuit, it was proposed that some emblematic poem should preserve the recollection of their pleasant intercourse. Thus the foregoing poem, which has been hitherto unpublished, was called into existence; and a beautifully painted bouquet was also executed by another member, in which the eighteen personified flowers were tastefully grouped.
The arbitrary signification of the inmates of Flora's realm not being as generally adopted at that period, as now, the selections in the foregoing lines were founded less upon those, than upon some supposed resemblance between the flowers and the character they typified. Now, at the expiration of a quarter of a century, during which the spoiler has not left our circle unvisited, some of the passages acquire interest, as being linked by tender associations to the memory of the departed and beloved.
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* It would seem that the ancient Romans had a high respect for the salubrious properties of this plant, by the interrogative adage, "Why need any man die, who has Sage in his garden?"