Such as in Eden only dwelt, When angels hovered round its bowers, As through green lanes they wander singing, To gather the sweet Hawthorn bush; Which, homeward in the evening bringing With smiling faces, they shall say, 'There's nothing half so sweet as May.' And many a poet yet unborn Shall link its name with some sweet lay, And lovers oft at early morn Shall gather blossoms of the May; A sunshine o'er the watch they keep, Miller. With hope all pleases, nothing comes amiss. Rogers. And Hawthorn's early blooms appear, Drayton. Gay was the love of paradise he drew A tint of heaven athwart it—who can tell The yearnings of his heart, the charm, the spell, Percival. Love-lies-bleeding....Deserted Love. This beautiful emblem of love, wounded and bereaved by fate, is a species of Amaranthus. The flower is of a reddish-purple hue, which circumstance suggests its name. A single rose is shedding Its lovely lustre meek and pale: And on with many a step of pain, Our weary race is sadly run; Byron. Percival. Nor would I change my buried love I'll hunt my quarry in the wild; And cherish, for my warrior's sake, Campbell. Upon her face there was the tint of grief, As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. Byron. Myrtle....Love. The Myrtle has ever been consecrated to Venus. At Rome, the temple of the goddess was surrounded by a grove of Myrtles; and in Greece, she was adorned under the name of Myrtilla. It was observed by the ancients, that, wherever the Myrtle grew, it excluded all other plants. So love, wherever it is permitted to grow, excludes all other feelings. The ladies of modern Rome retain a strong affection for this plant, preferring its odour to that of the most fragrant essences. Our love came as the early dew Comes unto drooping flowers; Our life's dull, lonely hours. Mrs. R. S. Nichols. I. Love is a celestial harmony Of likely hearts, composed of stars' consent, To work each other's joy and true content, Which they have harboured since their first descent, Spenser. I have done penance for contemning love; With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs. The Myrtle on thy breast or brow Shakspeare. Would lively hope and love avow. J. H. Wiffen. Comfort cannot soothe The heart whose life is centred in the thought As in the sweetest bud Percival. The eating canker dwells, so eating love Shakspeare. LILY OF THE VALLEY....Modesty. The beautiful Lily of the Valley is the fit emblem of the union of beauty, simplicity, and love of retirement. It adds an indescribable charm to the spots where it blooms. Its snowy hues and general delicacy of appearance excite emotions of a kindred nature to those we experience in the company of one whose heart is free from guile, and whose manners are gentle and unpretending. Lilacs then, and daffodillies, And the nice-leaved, lesser Lilies, Their little green-tipt lamps of white. I had found out a sweet green spot, When the day was dark and chill; Which is floating around me still. The Lily, in whose snow-white bells Hunt. Percival. Balfour. |