STARS ARE THE FLOWERS OF HEAVEN.
(Vol. vii. passim.)
I sent a Note to "N. & Q" some time ago, expressing my conviction that the original locale of this beautiful idea was in St. Chrysostom. but, as I could not then give a reference to the passage which contained it, my suggestion was of course not definite enough to call for attention. I am now able to vindicate to the "golden-mouthed" preacher of Antioch this expression of poetic fancy, the origination of which has excited, and deservedly, so much inquiry among the readers of "N. & Q." It occurs in Homily X., "On the Statues," delivered at Antioch. I transcribe the passage from the translation in The Library of the Fathers:
"Follow me whilst I enumerate the meadows, the gardens, the flowering tribes; all sorts of herbs and their uses, their odours, forms, disposition; yea, but their very names; the trees which are fruitful and the barren; the nature of metals; that of animals, in the sea or on the land; of those that swim and those that traverse the air; the mountains, the forests, the groves; the meadow below and the meadow above; for there is a meadow on the earth, and a meadow too in the sky, THE VARIOUS FLOWERS OF THE STARS; the rose below, and the rainbow above!... Contemplate with me the beauty of the sky; how it has been preserved so long without being dimmed, and remains as bright and clear as if it had been only fabricated to-day; moreover the power of the earth, how its womb has not become effete by bringing forth during so long a time!" &c. Homily X., "On the Statues," pp. 178-9.
W. Fraser.
Tor-Mohun.
P.S.—Are the following lines, which contain this idea, and were copied long ago from the poet's corner of a provincial paper, with the title of "The Language of the Stars, a fragment," worth preserving?
"The stars bear tidings, voiceless though they are:
'Mid the calm loveliness of the evening air,
As one by one they open clear and high,
And win the wondering gaze of infancy,
They speak,—yet utter not. Fair heavenly flowers
Strewn on the floor-way of the angels' bowers!
'Twas His own hand that twined your chaplets bright,
And thoughts of love are in your wreaths of light,
Unread, unreadable by us;—there lie
High meanings in your mystic tracery;
Silent rebukings of day's garish dreams,
And warnings solemn as your own fair beams."