The Little English Flora: Or a Botanical and Popular Account of All Our Common Field Flowers, Etc

Simpkin, Marshall & Company, Stationers Court, 1839 - 174 ˹

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˹ xiv - Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith that all which we behold Is...
˹ 62 - Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely ! Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery ? O, yes it doth ; a thousand-fold it doth.
˹ 13 - And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, Some harshness show, All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly tree.
˹ 132 - Of pleasure high and turbulent, Most pleased when most uneasy; But now my own delights I make, My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake, Of thee, sweet daisy! Thee winter in the garland wears That thinly decks his few gray hairs; Spring parts the clouds with softest airs That she may sun thee; Whole summer fields are thine by right ; And Autumn, melancholy Wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee.
˹ 13 - O READER ! hast thou ever stood to see The holly tree? The eye that contemplates it well, perceives Its glossy leaves Ordered by an intelligence so wise As might confound the atheist's sophistries. Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen Wrinkled and keen; No grazing cattle, through their prickly round, Can reach to wound ; But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.
˹ 132 - Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep, Need we to prove a God is here; The daisy, fresh from winter's sleep, Tells of his hand in lines as clear.
˹ 63 - As that the sweet brier yields it; and the shower Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower One half so lovely ; yet it grows along The poor girl's path-way, by the poor man's door. Such are the simple folks it dwells among ; And humble as the bud, so humble be the song. I love it, for it takes its...
˹ 41 - For thee the brake and tangled wood To thy protecting shade she runs, Thy tender buds supply her food; Her young forsake her downy plumes To rest upon thy opening blooms. Flower of the desert though thou art! The deer that range the mountain free, The graceful doe, the stately hart, Their food and shelter seek from thee; The bee thy earliest blossom greets, And draws from thee her choicest sweets.
˹ 76 - It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold: This neither is its courage nor its choice, But its necessity in being old. 'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; It cannot help itself in its decay; Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue.
˹ 132 - Could raise the daisy's purple bud ! Mould its green cup, its wiry stem, Its fringed border nicely spin, And cut the gold-embossed gem, That, set in silver, gleams within ! And fling it, unrestrained and free, O'er hill and dale, and desert sod, That man, where'er he walks, may see In every step the stamp of God.