A little Cyclops, with one eye
Staring, to threaten or defy—
That thought comes next—and instantly
The freak is over;
The shape will vanish—and behold!
A silver shield with boss of gold,
That spreads itself, some fairy bold
In fight to cover.
I see thee glittering from afar,—
And then thou art a pretty star;
Not quite so fair as many are
In heaven above thee!
Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air thou seem’st to rest!
* * * *
Sweet flower! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,
I call thee, and to that cleave fast;
Sweet silent creature!
That breath’st with me in sun and air,
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share
Of thy meek nature!”
What poetry is here! It “dallies with the innocence” of the poet and of the flower, till we know not which to love best. But we must turn at once from the fascination of both, and not allow them again to seduce us from our duty to the rest of those sweet “children of the year” that are courting our attention.
See, upon the sloping sides of this bank, beneath the hedgerow, what companies of Primroses are dedicating their pale beauties to the pleasant breeze that blows over them, and looking as faint withal as if they had senses that could “ache” at the rich sweetness of the hidden Violets that are growing here and there among them.
The intermediate spots of the bank are now nearly covered from sight by the various green weeds that sprout up every where—beginning to fill the interstices between the lower stems of the Hazel, the Hawthorn, the Sloe, the Eglantine, and the Woodbine, which unite their friendly arms together above, to form the natural inclosure,—that prettiest feature in our English scenery, or at least that which communicates a picturesque beauty to all the rest.
Of the above-named shrubs, the Hazel, you see, is scarcely as yet in leaf; the scattered leaves of the Woodbine, of a dull purplish green, are fully spread; the Sloe is in blossom, offering a pretty but scentless imitation of the sweet hawthorn bloom that is to come next month. This latter is now vigorously putting forth its crisp and delicate filigree work of tender green, tipped with red; and the Eglantine, or wild rose, is opening its green hands, as if to welcome the sun.
Entering the little copse which this inclosure separates from the meadow, we shall find, on the ground, all the low and creeping plants pushing forth their various shaped leaves—stars, fans, blades, fingers, fringes, and a score of other fanciful forms; and some of them bearing the prettiest flowers in the world. Conspicuous among these, in addition to those of February and March, are the elegant little Wood-sorrel, with its delicately pencilled cups; the pretty Wild Strawberry; the common blue Hyacinth,—so delightful when it comes upon you in innumerable flocks while you are thinking of nothing less; the gently-stooping Harebell, the most fragile of all flowers, yet braving the angriest winds of heaven, by bowing to the ground before them; and, lastly, that strangest of flowers (if flower it be) called by the country folks Cuckoo-pint, and by the children Lords and Ladies.
Still passing on through this copse, we shall find all the young forest trees, except the oaks, in a kind of half-dress, like so many village maidens in their trim bodices, and with their hair in papers. Among these are conspicuous the graceful Birch, hanging its head like a half-shamefaced, half-affected damsel; the trim Beech, spruce as a village gallant dressed for the fair; the rough-rinded Elm, grave and sedate looking, even in its youth, and already bespeaking the future “green-robed senator of mighty woods.” These, with the white-stemmed Ash, the Alder, the artificial-looking Hornbeam, and the as yet bare Oak, make up this silent but happy company, who are to stand here on the same spot all their lives, looking upward to the clouds and the stars, and downward to the star-like flowers, till we and our posterity (who pride ourselves on our superiority over them) are laid in that earth of which they alone are the true inheriters.
But who ever heard of choosing a warm April morning to moralize in? Let us wait till winter for that; and in the mean time pass out of this pleasant little copse, and make our way windingly towards the village.