Their groves of sweet myrtle, let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan,
Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang yellow Broom.
Burns.
But the publican stood afar off in his grief,
For he felt like a beggar who needed relief;
And he raised not his eyes, and he saw not the scorn
Which the lip of the Pharisee proudly had worn.
But he smote on his bosom, and deeply he sighed;
As a sinner, for mercy, sweet mercy, he cried.
It was all he could utter, but God hears a sigh,
And listens, no matter how feeble the cry.
Both unheard and unblest, the proud Pharisee then
Returned to the pomp of his riches again;
While the publican sinner, though loathed and oppressed,
Went joyfully homeward with peace in his breast.
St. John’s Wort.... Superstition.
This plant is an appropriate emblem of superstition; for it has always been regarded with reverence by the peasantry of Europe, on account of its real and supposed virtues. It was supposed to possess the power of defending persons from phantoms and spectres, and driving away all evil spirits. Its large, yellow flower grows close to the earth, and resembles a small wheel of fireworks.
’Tis a history
Handed from ages down; a nurse’s tale—
Which children, open-eyed and mouthed, devour;
And thus as garrulous ignorance relates,
We learn it and believe.
Southey.
A fortune-telling host,
As numerous as the stars could boast,
Matrons, who toss the cup, and see
The grounds of fate in grounds of tea.
Churchill.