O'er the cowslip's velvet head,
That bends not as I tread.
Gentle swain, at thy request
I am here."
These flowers furnish an abundant supply of honey to the bee; for
"Rich in vegetable gold,
From calyx pale the freckled cowslip born,
Receives in amber cups the fragrant dews of morn."
Good neighbour cowslip, I have seen the bee
Whispering to you, and have been told he stays
Quite long and late amid your golden cells.
Is it not business that he comes upon-
Matter of fact? He never wastes an hour.
Know you that he's a subtle financier,
And shows some gain for every day he spends?
Oh! learn from him the priceless worth of time,
Thou fair and frail! So shalt thou prove the truth,
That he who makes companion of the wise
Shall in their wisdom share.
UNFOLDING to the breeze of May,
The cowslip greets the vernal ray ;
The topaz and the ruby gem
Her blossoms' simple diadem;
And as the dewdrops gently fall,
They tip with pearls her coronal.
In princely halls, and courts of kings,
Its lustrous ray the diamond flings,
Yet few of those who see its beam
Amid the torches' dazzling gleam,
As bright as though a meteor shone,
Can call the costly prize their own.
But gems of every form and hue
Are glittering here in morning dew;
Jewels that all alike may share
As freely as the common air;
No niggard hand, no jealous eye,
Protects them from the passer-by.
Man to his brother shuts his heart,
And science acts a miser's part;
But Nature with a liberal hand
Flings wide her stores o'er sea and land.
If gold she give, not single grains
Are scattered far across the plains;
But lo, the desert streams are rolled
O'er precious beds of virgin gold.
If flowers she offer, wreaths are given
As countless as the stars of heaven!
Or music, 'tis no feeble note
She bids along the valleys float,
Ten thousand nameless melodies
In one full chorus swell the breeze.
Oh, Art is but a scanty rill
That genial seasons scarcely fill,
But Nature needs no tide's return
To fill afresh her flowing urn:
She gathers all her rich supplies
Where never-failing fountains rise.
OH! fragrant dwellers of the lea,
When first the wildwood rings
With each sound of vernal minstrelsy,
When fresh the green grass springs!
What can the blessed spring restore
More gladdening than your charms,
Bringing the memory once more
Of lovely fields and farms!
Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers;
Of life's unfolding prime;
Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours;
Of souls without a crime.
Oh! blessed, blessed do ye seem,
For, even now, I turned
With soul athirst for wood and stream,
From streets that glared and burned.
From the hot town, where mortal care
His crowded fold doth pen ;
Where stagnates the polluted air
In many a sultry den.
And are ye here? and are ye here ?
Drinking the dew like wine,
'Midst living gales and waters clear,
And heaven's unstinted shine.
I care not that your little life
Will quickly have run through,
And the sward with summer children rife Keep not a trace of you.
For again, again, on dewy plain,
I trust to see you rise,
When spring renews the wildwood strain,
And bluer gleam the skies.
Again, again, when many springs
Upon my grave shall shine,
Here shall you speak of vanished things To living hearts of mine.
MISS LANDON.
THE Cowslip, that bending
With its golden bells,
Of each glad hour's ending
With a sweet chime tells.
CROCUS.
(Cheerfulness-Hope.)
CCORDING to some authors, these bright little
flowers, which
"Come before the swallow dares,
And take the winds of March with beauty,"
derive their name from a Greek word signifying thread, from the fact of their thread or filament being in such request for saffron dye.
The Greeks fabled that Crocu, a beautiful youth, was transformed into this flower; as his lady-love, Smilax, was at the same time into a yew-tree.
It is in England consecrated to St. Valentine.
Bees are excessively fond of the crocus; and Moore thus alludes to this fact in "Lalla Rookh":
"The busiest nive
On Bela's hills is less alive,
When saffron-beds are full in flower,
Than looked the valley in that hour."
Mrs. Howitt says of the purple crocus:
"Like lilac flame its colour glows,
Tender and yet so clearly bright,
That all for miles and miles about
The splendid meadow shineth out,
And far-off village children shout
To see the welcome sight."
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