Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/210
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To the Passion Flower.
What though not thine the rose's brilliant glow,
Or odour of the gifted violet,
Or dew with which the lily's cheek is wet;
Though thine would seem the pallid streaks of woe,
The drops that from the fount of sorrows flow.
Thy purple tints of shame; though strange appear,
The types of torture thou art doomed to wear;
Yet blooms for me no hue like thine below,
For from thee breathes the odour of a name,
Whose sweetness melts my soul and dims my eyes;
And in thy mystic leaves of woe and shame
I read a tale to which my heart replies
In voiceless throbbing and devoted sighs;
Death's darkest agony and mercy's claim,
And love's last words of grief are written in thy dyes.
Or odour of the gifted violet,
Or dew with which the lily's cheek is wet;
Though thine would seem the pallid streaks of woe,
The drops that from the fount of sorrows flow.
Thy purple tints of shame; though strange appear,
The types of torture thou art doomed to wear;
Yet blooms for me no hue like thine below,
For from thee breathes the odour of a name,
Whose sweetness melts my soul and dims my eyes;
And in thy mystic leaves of woe and shame
I read a tale to which my heart replies
In voiceless throbbing and devoted sighs;
Death's darkest agony and mercy's claim,
And love's last words of grief are written in thy dyes.
The Harebell and the Foxglove.
In a valley obscure, on a bank of green shade,
A sweet little Harebell her dwelling had made:
Her roof was a woodbine, that tastefully spread
Its close-woven tendrils, o'erarching her head;
Her head was of moss, that each morning made new;
She dined on a sunbeam, and supped on the dew;
Her neighbour, the nightingale, sung her to rest;
And care had ne'er planted a thorn in her breast.
A sweet little Harebell her dwelling had made:
Her roof was a woodbine, that tastefully spread
Its close-woven tendrils, o'erarching her head;
Her head was of moss, that each morning made new;
She dined on a sunbeam, and supped on the dew;
Her neighbour, the nightingale, sung her to rest;
And care had ne'er planted a thorn in her breast.
One morning she saw, on the opposite side,
A Foxglove displaying his colours of pride;
She gazed on his form that in stateliness grew,
And envied his height and his brilliant hue:
She marked how the flowerets all gave way before him,
While they pressed round her dwelling with far less decorum;
Dissatisfied, jealous, and peevish she grows,
And the sight of the Foxglove destroys her repose.
A Foxglove displaying his colours of pride;
She gazed on his form that in stateliness grew,
And envied his height and his brilliant hue:
She marked how the flowerets all gave way before him,
While they pressed round her dwelling with far less decorum;
Dissatisfied, jealous, and peevish she grows,
And the sight of the Foxglove destroys her repose.
She tires of her vesture, and swelling with spleen,
Cries, "Ne'er such a dowdy blue mantle was seen!"
Nor keeps to herself any longer her pain,
But thus to a Primrose begins to complain:
"I envy your mood, that can patient abide
The respect paid that Foxglove, his airs and his pride;
There you sit, still the same, with your colourless cheek,
But you have no spirit,—would I were as meek."
Cries, "Ne'er such a dowdy blue mantle was seen!"
Nor keeps to herself any longer her pain,
But thus to a Primrose begins to complain:
"I envy your mood, that can patient abide
The respect paid that Foxglove, his airs and his pride;
There you sit, still the same, with your colourless cheek,
But you have no spirit,—would I were as meek."