Opening the text

The language of flowers : $b The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowersDumont, Henrietta

General

The language of flowers : $b The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowers

Name: The language of flowers : $b The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowers
Author: Dumont, Henrietta

Dumont, Henrietta

Flower language; Flowers in literature

They too, who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell
      In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,
    As if the Star of Bitterness which fell
      On earth of old, and touched them with its beams,
    Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate,
    From Nature’s hands came kind, affectionate;
    And which, even now, struck as it is with blight,
    Comes out, at times, in love’s own native light--
    How gladly all, who’ve watched these struggling rays
    Of a bright, ruined spirit through his lays,
    Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,
      What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven
    That noble nature into cold eclipse--
      Like some fair orb, that, once a sun in heaven,
    And born, not only to surprise, but cheer
    With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,
    Is now so quenched, that, of its grandeur, lasts
    Naught but the wide cold shadow which it casts!

    _Moore._




DEW PLANT.... _Serenade_.


    Inesilla! I am here:
    Thy own cavalier
    Is now beneath thy lattice playing:
    Why art thou delaying?

    He hath ridden many a mile
    But to see thy smile:
    The young light on the flowers is shining,
    Yet he is repining.

    What to him is a summer star,
    If his love’s afar?
    What to him the flowers perfuming,
    When his heart’s consuming?

    Sweetest girl! why dost thou hide?
    Beauty may abide
    Even before the eye of morning,
    And want no adorning.

    Now, upon their paths of light,
    Starry spirits bright
    To catch thy brighter glance are staying:
    Why art thou delaying?

    _Barry Cornwall._

       *       *       *       *       *

    Listen! from the forest boughs
      The voice-like angel of the spring
    Utters his soft vows
      To the proud rose blossoming.

    And now beneath thy lattice dear!
      I am like the bird complaining:
    Thou above (I fear)
      Like the rose disdaining.

    From her chamber in the skies
      Shouts the lark at break of morning,
    And when day-light flies
      Comes the raven’s warning.

    This of gloom and that of mirth
      In their mystic numbers tell;
    But thoughts of sweeter birth
      Teacheth the nightingale.

    _Barry Cornwall._




PINE.... _Pity_.


    Naught is there under Heaven’s wide hollowness
      That moves more dear compassion of the mind
    Than beauty brought to unworthy wretchedness
      Through envy’s snares, or fortune’s freaks unkind:
      I, whether lately through her brightness blind,
    Or through allegiance and vast fealty,
      Which I do owe unto all womankind,
    Feel my heart pierced with so great agony,
    When such I see, that all for pity I could die.

    _Spenser._

       *       *       *       *       *

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

The language of flowers : $b The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowersDumont, Henrietta

General

The language of flowers : $b The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowers

Dumont, Henrietta

Flower language; Flowers in literature

They too, who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell
      In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,
    As if the Star of Bitterness which fell
      On earth of old, and touched them with its beams,
    Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate,
    From Nature’s hands came kind, affectionate;
    And which, even now, struck as it is with blight,
    Comes out, at times, in love’s own native light--
    How gladly all, who’ve watched these struggling rays
    Of a bright, ruined spirit through his lays,
    Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,
      What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven
    That noble nature into cold eclipse--
      Like some fair orb, that, once a sun in heaven,
    And born, not only to surprise, but cheer
    With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,
    Is now so quenched, that, of its grandeur, lasts
    Naught but the wide cold shadow which it casts!

    _Moore._




DEW PLANT.... _Serenade_.


    Inesilla! I am here:
    Thy own cavalier
    Is now beneath thy lattice playing:
    Why art thou delaying?

    He hath ridden many a mile
    But to see thy smile:
    The young light on the flowers is shining,
    Yet he is repining.

    What to him is a summer star,
    If his love’s afar?
    What to him the flowers perfuming,
    When his heart’s consuming?

    Sweetest girl! why dost thou hide?
    Beauty may abide
    Even before the eye of morning,
    And want no adorning.

    Now, upon their paths of light,
    Starry spirits bright
    To catch thy brighter glance are staying:
    Why art thou delaying?

    _Barry Cornwall._

       *       *       *       *       *

    Listen! from the forest boughs
      The voice-like angel of the spring
    Utters his soft vows
      To the proud rose blossoming.

    And now beneath thy lattice dear!
      I am like the bird complaining:
    Thou above (I fear)
      Like the rose disdaining.

    From her chamber in the skies
      Shouts the lark at break of morning,
    And when day-light flies
      Comes the raven’s warning.

    This of gloom and that of mirth
      In their mystic numbers tell;
    But thoughts of sweeter birth
      Teacheth the nightingale.

    _Barry Cornwall._




PINE.... _Pity_.


    Naught is there under Heaven’s wide hollowness
      That moves more dear compassion of the mind
    Than beauty brought to unworthy wretchedness
      Through envy’s snares, or fortune’s freaks unkind:
      I, whether lately through her brightness blind,
    Or through allegiance and vast fealty,
      Which I do owe unto all womankind,
    Feel my heart pierced with so great agony,
    When such I see, that all for pity I could die.

    _Spenser._

       *       *       *       *       *

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

The language of flowers : $b The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowers

The language of flowers : $b The floral offering ; a token of affection and esteem ; comprising the language and poetry of flowers

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