The Every-day Book and Table Book. v. 2 (of 3) / or Everlasting Calendar of Popular Amusements, Sports, Pastimes, Ceremonies, Manners, Customs and Events, Incident to Each of the Three Hundred and Sixty-five Days, in past and Present Times; Forming a Complete History of the Year, Month, and Seasons, and a Perpetual Key to the Almanac

by William Hone

Spring.

This open day may be devoted to the contemplation of appearances and products of the season, presented to us by ministering bards: the first to be ushered in, is an offering from a hand whence nothing can be proffered that will not be especially acceptable.

For the Every-Day Book

The Blackthorn.

The April air is shrewd and keen;
No leaf has dared unfold,
Yet thy white blossom’s radiant sheen,
Spring’s banner, I behold.
Though all beside be dead and drear,
Undauntedly thy flowers appear.

Thou com’st the herald of a host
Of blooms which will not fail,
When summer from some southern coast
Shall call the nightingale.
Yet early, fair, rejoicing tree,
Sad are the thoughts inspired by thee.

All other trees are wont to wear,
First leaves, then flowers, and last,
Their burden of rich fruit to bear
When summer’s pride is past:
But thou,—so prompt thy flowers to show,
Bear’st but the harsh, unwelcome sloe.

So oft young genius, at its birth,
In confidence untried,
Spreads its bright blossoms o’er the earth,
And revels in its pride;
But when we look its fruit to see,
It stands a fair, but barren tree.

So oft, in stern and barbarous lands,
The bard is heard to sing,
Ere the uncultured soul expands,
In the poetic spring;
Then, sad and bootless are his pains,
And linked with woe his name remains.

Therefore, thou tree whose early bough
All blossomed meets the gale,
Thou stirrest in my memory now
Full many a tearful tale:
And early, fair, rejoicing tree,
Sad are the thoughts inspired by thee.

W. Howitt.

Passing the eye from the hedge-row to the earth, it lights on the “wee-tipp’d” emblem of “modesty” sung by poets of every clime wherein it blows:—

The Daisy.

There is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field,
In gay but quick succession shine;
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to nature dear,
While moon and stars their courses run
Wreaths the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December’s arms.

The purple heath, the golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale,
O’er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale;

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forests, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox’s den.

Within the garden’s cultured round,
It shares the sweet carnation’s bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honour of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue fly bends its pensile stem,
Lights o’er the skylark’s nest.

’Tis Flora’s page:—in every place
In every season fresh and fair
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms every where.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The rose has but a summer reign,
The daisy never dies.

Montgomery.

The flower aptly described by Mr. Montgomery as “companion of the sun,” is not forgotten by a contemporary “child of song,” from whom, until now, no illustration has graced these pages: the absence may be apologized for, by opening one of his views of nature immediately.

Day Break in the Country.

Awake! awake! the flowers unfold,
And tremble bright in the sun,
And the river shines a lake of gold,—
For the young day has begun.
The air is blythe, the sky is blue,
And the lark, on lightsome wings,
From bushes that sparkle rich with dew,
To heaven her matin sings.
Then awake, awake, while music’s note,
Now bids thee sleep to shun,
Light zephyrs of fragrance round thee float
For the young day has begun.

I’ve wandered o’er yon field of light,
Where daisies wildly spring,
And traced the spot where fays of night
Flew round on elfin wing:
And I’ve watch’d the sudden darting beam
Make gold the field of grain,
Until clouds obscur’d the passing gleam
And all frown’d dark again.
Then awake, awake, each warbling bird,
Now hails the dawning sun,
Labour’s enlivening song is heard,—
For the young day has begun.

Is there to contemplation given
An hour like this one,
When twilight’s starless mantle’s riven
By the uprising sun?
When feather’d warblers fleet awake,
His breaking beams to see,
And hill and grove, and bush and brake,
Are fill’d with melody.
Then awake, awake, all seem to chide
Thy sleep, as round they run,
The glories of heaven lie far and wide,—
For the young day has begun.

R. Ryan.

Our elder poets are rife in description of the spring; but passing their abundant stores to “Rare Ben,” one extract more, and “the day is done.”

Whence is it————————
——————Winter is so quite forced hence
And lock’d up under ground, that ev’ry sense
Hath several objects; trees have got their heads,
The fields their coats; that now the shining meads
Do boast the paunse, lily, and the rose;
And every flower doth laugh as zephyr blows?
The seas are now more even than the land;
The rivers run as smoothed by his hand;
Only their heads are crisped by his stroke.
How plays the yearling, with his brow scarce broke,
Now in the open grass; and frisking lambs
Make wanton ’saults about their dry suck’d dams?
Who, to repair their bags, do rob the fields?
How is’t each bough a several musick yields?
The lusty throstle, early nightingale,
Accord in tune, tho’ vary in their tale;
The chirping swallow, call’d forth by the sun,
And crested lark doth his division run:
The yellow bees the air with murmur fill,
The finches carol, and the turtles bill.

Jonson.

---