THE DAY OF FLOWERS.
A MOTHER’S WALK WITH HER CHILD.
“One spirit—His
Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows.
Rules universal nature. Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain,
Of his unrivall’d pencil. He inspires
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues.
And bathes their eyes with nectar.
Happy who walks with him!” Cowper.
Come to the woods, my boy!
Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth,
My happy child! The spirit of bright hours
Woos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents,
From thickets, where the lonely stock-dove broods,
Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joy
Float in with each soft current of the air;—
And we will hear their summons; we will give
One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts,
And thou shalt revel midst free nature’s wealth,
And for thy mother twine wild wreaths; while she,
From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart
The vernal ecstasy of childhood back.
Come to the woods, my boy!
What! wouldst thou lead already to the path
Along the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truth
Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child,
Is a glad, singing stream, heard or unheard,
Singing its melody of happiness
Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace
To that sweet chime. With what a sparkling life
It fills the shadowy dingle!—now the wing
Of some low-skimming swallow shakes bright spray
Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave;
Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep,
The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam
And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings
Of mazy insects o’er the shallow tide
Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light
From burnish’d films! And mark yon silvery line
Of gossamer, so tremulously hung
Across the narrow current, from the tuft
Of hazels to the hoary poplar’s bough!
See, in the air’s transparence, how it waves,
Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale,
Yet breaking not—a bridge for fairy shapes,
How delicate, how wondrous!
Yes, my boy!
Well may we make the stream’s bright, winding vein
Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream
Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness,
For ever deepening. Oh, forget him not,
Dear child! That airy gladness which thou feel’st
Wafting thee after bird and butterfly,
As ’twere a breeze within thee, is not less
His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours,
Than this rich, outward sunshine, mantling all
The leaves, and grass, and mossy-tinted stones
With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step,
My merry wanderer!—let us rest a while
By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung
From alder boughs and osiers o’er its breast,
The soft red of the flowering willow-herb
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not
E’en melting to a more transparent glow
In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams!
And, through all ages, human hearts have loved
Their music, still accordant with each mood
Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown
Into vain worship, which hath left its trace
On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still
Beneath dim olive-boughs, by many a fount
Of Italy and Greece. But we will take
Our lesson e’en from erring hearts, which bless’d
The river-deities or fountain-nymphs,
For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade,
And the sweet water’s tune. The One supreme,
The all-sustaining, ever-present God,
Who dower’d the soul with immortality,
Gave also these delights, to cheer on earth
Its fleeting passage; therefore let us greet
Each wandering flower-scent as a boon from Him,
Each bird-note, quivering midst light summer leaves,
And every rich celestial tint unnamed,
Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and eve,
Kindle and melt away!
And now, in love,
In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend
Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers
Around the ruin’d mansion. Thou, my boy!
Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn
But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee
Will wear no shadow of subduing thought—
No colouring from the past. This way our path
Winds through the hazels. Mark how brightly shoots
The dragon-fly along the sunbeam’s line,
Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of life,
The life of song, and breezes, and free wings,
Is all the murmuring shade! and thine, oh thine!
Of all the brightest and the happiest here,
My blessed child! my gift of God! that makest
My heart o’erflow with summer!
Hast thou twined
Thy wreath so soon! yet will we loiter not,
Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeously
Round the brown, twisted roots of yon scathed oak
The heath-flower spread its purple. We must leave
The copse, and through yon broken avenue,
Shadow’d by drooping walnut-foliage, reach
The ruin’s glade.
And lo! before us, fair
Yet desolate, amidst the golden day,
It stands, that house of silence! wedded now
To verdant Nature by the o’ermantling growth
Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman’s hands
Once loved to train. How the rich wallflower-scent
From every niche and mossy cornice floats,
Embalming its decay! The bee alone
Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more
Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine,
Watching some homeward footstep. See! unbound
From the old fretted stone-work, what thick wreaths
Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down,
Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and load
The air with mournful fragrance—for it speaks
Of life gone hence; and the faint, southern breath
Of myrtle-leaves, from yon forsaken porch,
Startles the soul with sweetness! Yet rich knots
Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown
Through all the sunny hollow, spread around
A flush of youth and joy, free nature’s joy,
Undimm’d by human change. How kindly here,
With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent!
And, under arches of wild eglantine,
Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seems
The frail gum-cistus o’er the turf to snow
Its pearly flower-leaves down! Go, happy boy!
Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets;
Whilst I, beside this fallen dial-stone,
Under the tall moss-rose tree, long unpruned,
Rest where thick clustering pansies weave around
Their many-tinged mosaic, midst dark grass
Bedded like jewels.
He hath bounded on,
Wild with delight!—the crimson on his cheek
Purer and richer e’en than that which lies
In this deep-hearted rose-cup! Bright moss-rose!
Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree!
Once thou wert cherish’d! and, by human love,
Through many a summer duly visited
For thy bloom-offerings, which o’er festal board,
And youthful brow, and e’en the shaded couch
Of long-secluded sickness, may have shed
A joy, now lost.
Yet shall there still be joy,
Where God hath pour’d forth beauty, and the voice
Of human love shall still be heard in praise
Over his glorious gifts! O Father! Lord!
The All-beneficent! I bless thy name,
That thou hast mantled the green earth with flow’rs,
Linking our hearts to nature! By the love
Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first
Into her deep recesses are beguiled—
Her minster-cells—dark glen and forest bower,
Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee,
Amidst the low, religious whisperings
And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude,
The spirit wakes to worship, and is made
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers,
Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares,
Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain-streams,
That sing of thee! back to free childhood’s heart,
Fresh with the dews of tenderness! Thou bidd’st
The lilies of the field with placid smile
Reprove man’s feverish strivings, and infuse
Through his worn soul a more unworldly life,
With their soft, holy breath. Thou hast not left
His purer nature, with its fine desires,
Uncared for in this universe of thine!
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved
Of poet-hearts, touch’d by their fervent dreams
With spiritual light, and made a source
Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E’en to faint age
Thou lend’st the vernal bliss: the old man’s eye
Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul
Remembers youth and love, and hopefully
Turns unto thee, who call’st earth’s buried germs
From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed
Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up
To put on glory, to be girt with power,
And fill’d with immortality. Receive
Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons,
And, most of all, their heavenward influences,
O Thou that gavest us flowers!
Return, my boy!—
With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return!
See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch’d
And glorified the ruin!—glow-worm light
Will twinkle on the dewdrops, ere we reach
Our home again. Come! with thy last sweet prayer
At thy bless’d mother’s knee, to-night shall thanks
Unto our Father in his heaven arise,
For all the gladness, all the beauty shed
O’er one rich day of flowers.