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Dallas Lore Sharp: Collected Works (Illustrated): Nine Illustrated Books: The Spring Of The Year, The Fall Of The Year, Summer, Winter, Roof & Meadow, The.
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I have presented my graphic portraits of Spring's fair children to my readers, with little illustration save my own fanciful, and, it may be, feebly descriptive poems; but as several of the selected Flowers, and others which, though not represented in the illustrative groups, are famed gems , have poetic fables connected with them, I shall now give a few brief memoirs of familiar favourites, illustrating and enlivening my dull prose with extracts from our great old Poets.
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In suffering my own productions to take precedence of these jewels, drawn from the mines of poetic wealth bequeathed to us by our ancient Bards, I am not actuated by vanity, but by a very different feeling—that of policy; believing that my humble lays would be far more graciously received by my readers, before the memory of favourite passages on like subjects had been refreshed by my extract-gleanings; well knowing, how.
As in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious. But to the dwellers in pleasant country places, where the hills and dales are Nature's own—where the wide heaven is unsmirched by smoke, and the air is pure and bright, and fragrant with the springing Flowers and the fresh earth; where the birds are flitting gaily around, and trilling forth songs of liberty and love;—to all whose lives may happily be passed among such scenes, how glorious is the Spring-time!
How exhilirating are the first few warmer days—how joyously we fling aside portions of our cumbrous winter-walking attire, to ramble along "by hedge-row elms and hillocks green;" and, after the first small buds have burst forth on the branches, how anxiously we watch their growth, and fancy we may see the leaves expanding in the genial sunshine, and clothing the skeleton forms of winter with robes of young vernal beauty.
The general hue of the evergreens, which have so kindly solaced us during the wintry months, seem to acquire a more sombre tinge, as the vivid yellow green of the other trees now quite eclipses their beauty, although, when the young shoots of firs and cedars are put forth, the alternation of colour in them is very striking.
The birds are now busy, too, and musically clamorous; hundreds of them are warbling, and chirping, and chattering at once, yet in their mingled voices we hear no discord. I often listen to the happy creatures, singing so merrily in their greenwood haunts, and flitting airily along in search of materials for their nests, those wonderful little things!
The fathers of English poetry have so landed this, their favourite season, in undying verse, that of all poetical subjects, "Spring" has perhaps the least chance of receiving any thing like original treatment at the hands of their descendants, who must not only shrink to stars of small magnitude indeed beside the greater luminaries, but be content to appear, for the most part, as shining only with reflected light.
The Bards of old looked on nature with the eye of the naturalist, the fancy of the poet, and the grace of the painter. The simplest flower, or the most trivial incident, is described by the pencilling picture-like verse of Chaucer with a bright, clear, gleesome expression, only equalled in its peculiar beauty by his simple, impressive, and touching pathos. He revelled in the merry Spring-time, and many are the bright and sparkling descriptions of reviving nature which he has left us, telling how. Spenser, in his "Cantos of Mutability," describes a procession of the seasons and months, from which I select the following.
The attributes of each are very fancifully and appropriately marshalled forth. But it is in his pastoral poems, his "Shepheard's Calendar," "Colin Clout," "Hymmes of Beauty," "Muiopotmos," "Prothalamion," and "Epithalamion," his many sweet sonnets, and his "Ruines of Time," that Spenser's truly natural poetry is found; and it is most true and beautiful. We might almost fancy they were endowed with some spell of enchantment, they have such a delightfully calm, happy effect on the mind engaged in their contemplation.
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The verie nature of the place, resounding With gentle murmure of the breathing ayre, A pleasaunt bowre with all delight abounding In the freshe shadowe did for them prepayre, To rest their limbs, with wearines redounding. For first the high palme-trees, with braunches faire, Out of the lowly vallies did arise, And high shoote up their heades into the skyes. Emongst the rest the clambring Yvie grew, Knitting his wanton armes with grasping hold, Least that the Poplar happely should rew Her brother's strokes, whose boughes she doth enfold With her lythe twigs, till they the top survew, And paint with pallid greene her buds of gold.
Next did the Myrtle tree to her approach, Not yet unmindful of her old reproach. But the small birds in their wide boughs embowring, Chaunted their sundrie tunes with sweete consent; And under them a silver spring forth powring His trickling streames, a gentle murmure sent; Thereto the frogs, bred in the slimie scouring Of the moyst moores, their iarring voyces bent; And shrill grashoppers chirped them around: All which the ayrie Echo did resound.
In this so pleasaunt place the Shepheard's flocke Lay everie where, their wearie limbs to rest, On everie bush, and everie hollow rocke, Where breathe on them the whistling wind mote best; The whiles the Shepheard self, tending his stocke, Sate by the fountaine side, in shade to rest, Where gentle slumbring sleep oppressed him Displaid on ground, and seized everie lim. Fled are the frosts, and now the fields appeare Recloth'd in freshe and verdant diaper; Thawed are the snowes, and now the lusty spring Gives to each mead a neat enameling; The palmes put forth their gemmes, and every tree Now swaggers in her leavy gallantry.
The while the Daulian minstrell sweetly sings, With warbling notes, her Tyrrean sufferings, What gentle winds respire! And look how when a frantick storme doth teare A stubborn oake or holme, long growing there, But lul'd to calmnesse, then succeeds a breeze That scarcely stirs the nodding leaves of trees; So when this warre, which tempest-like doth spoil Our salt, our corne, our honie, wine, and oil, Falls to a temper, and doth mildly cast His inconsiderate frenzie off at last, The gentle dove may, when these turmoils cease, Bring in her bill, once more, the branch of peace.
The changes from Winter to Spring, and from a time of war to that of peace, are here very happily compared. But in our Flower legends Herrick will be heard to greatest advantage; in grace, fancy, and the most melodious cadences of verse, he is unrivalled, either by old or modern writers. The gallant and graceful Earl Surrey, the lover of the fair Geraldine, has dedicated one of his sweetest sonnets to "A Description of Spring, in which eche thing renews, save only the lover.
Of all the attributes of Spring, Flowers take the precedence; the very mention of "the soote season" brings with it the thought of the "bud and bloom" that form its chiefest beauty, and ere. How gracefully linked together in perfect poesy are the few sweet Spring Flowers which our divine Shakspeare represents the fair Perdita as wishing for to present to her guests—. Daffodils That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty. Violets, dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, Or Cytherea's breath. Bold oxlips, and The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one.
Ben Jonson—" rare Ben Jonson"—has a most beautiful scene in "Pan's Anniversary," where all the flowers familiarly known are thus lightly yet richly grouped. Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground With every flower, yet not confound. Well done, my pretty ones—rain roses still, Until the last be dropt; then hence, and fill Your fragrant prickles for a second shower.
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Bring corn-flags, tulips, and Adonis-flower, Fair ox-eye, goldy-locks, and columbine, Pinks, goulands, king-cups, and sweet sops-in-wine, Blue hare-bells, pagles, pansies, calaminth, Flower-gentle, and the fair-haired hyacinth, Bring rich carnations, flower-de-luces, lilies, The chequed and purple-ringed daffodillies, Bright crown-imperial, kingspear, hollyhocks, Sweet Venus'-navel, and soft lady-smocks, Bring too some branches forth of Daphne's hair, And gladdest myrtle for these posts to wear, With spikenard weaved, and marjoram between, And starred with yellow golds, and meadow's queen, That when the altar, as it ought, is drest, More odour comes not from the phoenix' nest, The breath thereof Panchaia may envy, The colours China, and the light the sky.
Besides "eye of the day," it was also named "marguerite," a pearl, under which title it is celebrated by Chaucer. Chaucer's love of the daisy is most fully and beautifully expressed in the "Prologue to the Legende of goode Women," one of the many gems we find in his works. He describes his great fondness for study, and how he delights in reading his "olde bookes," for which he has such faith and credence that no sport nor game can entice him away from them,.
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Save certainly, whan that the month of Maie Is comen, and that I hear the foules sing, And that the floures ginnen for to spring, Farewell my booke, and my devocion: Now have I than eke this condicion, That of all the floures in the mede Than love I most these flowres white and rede, Soch that men callen Daisies in our toun, To hem I have so great affectioun, As I sayd erst, whan comen is the Maie, That in my bedde there daweth me no daie, That I n'am up and walking in the mede To see this floure ayenst the Sunne sprede; Whan it up riseth early by the morrow, That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow.
So glad am I, whan that I have presence Of it to done it alle reverence, As she that is of alle floures the floure, Fulfilled of all vertue and honoure, And ever ylike faire, and fresh of hewe, And ever I love it, and ever ylike newe, And ever shall, till that mine herte die, Alle sweare I not, of this I wool not lie. As soon as ever the Sunne ginneth west To seen this floure, how it will goe to rest, For feare of night, so hateth she darknesse, Her chere is plainly spred in the brightness Of the Sunne, for there it woll unclose:.
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He then complains that he has neither rhyme nor prose "suffisaunt this floure to praise aright," and describes his eagerness to go forth into the fields before sunrise, to wait the "resurection" of the days-eye. And doune on knees anon right I me sette, And as I could, this freshe floure I grette, Kneeling alway, till it unclosed was, Upon the smale, softe, swete gras, That was with floures swete embrouded all, Of soch swetenesse, and soch odour all, That for to speake of gomme, herbe or tree, Comparison may not ymaked be, For it surmounteth plainly all odoures, And of the rich beaute of the floures:.
And leaning on my elbow and my side The longe day I shope me to abide, For nothing els, and I shall not lie, But for to looke upon the daisie, That well by reason men it calle may, The daisie, or else the iye of the day, The Emprise, and floure of floures all, I pray to God that faire mote she fall, And all that loven floures for her sake:. Whan that the Sunne out of the south gan west, And that this floure gan close, and gan to rest; For darkness of the night, the which she dred, Home to mine house full swiftly I me sped, To gone to rest, and earely for to rise, To seene this floure to sprede, as I devise.
The daisy has never received homage like Chaucer's; nor has any flower Shakspeare's Love-in-idleness alone excepted become so entirely associated with a poet's fame. How simply, and how lovingly he paints his affection for this darling of the year! A beautiful portrait of a gentle, happy, and truly poetic mind may be found in Chaucer's passages descriptive of his own habits and fancies; and yet, comparatively, his works are known to but a small portion of readers, and are but little appreciated, chiefly for want of the attention at first required to understand the varying accents and form the correct rhythm in reading them.
His poems are so replete with beauties, and so thoroughly English in spirit, that they must , ere long, occupy that place among familiar favourites which they have so long in vain deserved.
Without the bed her other fair hand was, On the green coverlet; whose perfect white Showed like an April daisy on the grass. To our flower-loving Herrick I must be indebted for the last specimen of daisy eulogy which I shall quote here; it is a sweet melodious little fancy, and, as is usual in such compositions of his day, conveys a very elegant compliment to his mistress.
Among the poetic groups of Spring Flowers, culled from the rich parterre of Britain's noble and immortal Bards, I cannot omit the following exquisite description of the vernal season, by Gawain Douglas, Bishop of Dunkeld. The epithets in it are often peculiarly happy; but to those of my readers who think Chaucer's language obscure, these truly beautiful lines will seem utterly unintelligible, even with the glossary appended.
And blissful blossoms in the bloomed sward Submit their heads in the young sun's safe-guard: Ivy-leaves rank overspread the Barmekyn [5] wall; The bloomed hawthorn clad his pykis [6] all Forth of fresh burgeons [7] ; the wine-grapis ying Endlong the twistis did on trestles hing. Beholdand them so many divers hue, Some pers [8] , some pale, some burnet [9] , and some blue, Some grey, some gules [10] , some purpure, some sanguene, Blanchet [11] or brown, fauch-yellow [12] many ane. The flower-de-luce forth spread his heavenly hue, Flower-damas [16] , and columbo black and blue. Sere downis smale on dandelion sprung, The young green bloomed strawberry leaves among: Gimp gilliflowers their own leaves un-shet [17] ; Fresh primrose, and the purpure violet.
The rose-knobbis tetand [18] forth their head, Gan chip, and kyth [19] their vernal lippis red; Crisp scarlet leaves sheddand, baith at anes, Cast fragrant smell amid from golden grains. Leaving the old Bards, I shall now introduce one of the loveliest flower scenes ever painted by poet's pen, and which has few rivals, even among the bright and beautiful creations of its author.
We find Shelley, too, lavishing words of praise and fondness on the daisy. How exquisitely descriptive is the epithet "pearled Arcturi of the earth, the constellated flower that never sets;" the association of true and beautiful ideas is the happiest that can be conceived in so few words.
The pearl-like whiteness of the flower; the name "Arcturi," from the star Arcturus, which is always visible to our hemisphere, as the daisy is ever in bloom; and the term "constellated flower," so beautifully realizing the starry groups in which they are seen clustering together, are ideas as truly as they are poetically emblematical of the subject.
Primroses and cowslips have ever been in high favour with the sovereigns of song. The Swedish name of the former, majnycklar , or the key of May, is very characteristic of the sudden arrival of Summer in high latitudes. The primrose comes, and, as if it unlocked the treasure-house of earth, all the other bright gifts of the season follow close upon it. And Herrick celebrates their meek, young beauty in one of his most musical, melancholy strains:.
Why doe ye weep, sweet babes? The cowslip bells are generally named by poets as the resort of fairies; Shakspeare's "dainty Ariel" sings—. The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats' spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours: I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
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The soft delicate blue of the bells hanging gracefully from the tall stem, and its waving leaves of bright green, which grow in great profusion, render it conspicuously beautiful; nor is its odour unworthy of its appearance. I intended to introduce portraits of the primrose and blue-bell, grouped, among the illustrations of Spring; but having exceeded the number of plates, that drawing, among others, is omitted.
It is remarkable that two flowers, so distinct from each other as the Spring blue-bell and the fragile harebell of Autumn, should be so frequently described as one and the same flower. No one thinks of mistaking a snowdrop for a lily, and yet these two blue-bells are more unlike.