Fables of Flowers for the Female Sex. With Zephyrus and Flora, a Vision — Edition Insights

strains, Which the whole soul of harmony inspir’d, Pour’d to the wild woods and the lonely plains, Though worthiest still by all to be admir’d.

Such were creation’s first imperfect hours, When the gay heav’ns in early beauty shone, And earth, bedeck’d with beasts, birds, plants, and flow’rs, Spread all her bosom to the genial sun;

Unfinish’d still the mighty work appear’d, Till Man, the lord of all, was bid to rise; With open brow his face divine who rear’d, And sought with upright look his native skies.

Thus as I paus’d, still louder swell’d the notes, From ev’ry bush, and brake, and echoing hill; While choirs cœlestial seem’d to tune their throats, And, with glad voice the chearful chorus fill.

Then, by some magic pow’r swift snatch’d away, Ev’n to the midst of that delightful land, I view’d at once all clad in bright array, A thousand Genii of the gardens stand.

But far above all these a seat was plac’d, Dress’d with each flow’r that ev’ry season knows, Whose vary’d tints, in gem-like order, grac’d The rural theatre which gradual rose.

For lo! the Genius of each blooming flow’r Brought his own fav’rite with peculiar care, To deck the arch of this inchanted bow’r, And, bowing at the throne, he plac’d it there.

A sight more beauteous ne’er did eye behold, Than these bright tribes that glitter’d on the day; And, rich in purple dyes and flaming gold, Did their bright bosoms to the sun display.

Such was the throne;—but oh! what pen can trace The heav’nly beauties of the matchless Two, Who, glowing with each bright cœlestial grace, Sat there aloft, conspicuous to the view!

The first, a youth of sweet and gentle mien, With many a wreath and knotted garland crown’d; Whose beauteous visage glow’d with charms serene, And on whose shoulders purple wings were bound:

These when he spreads, reviving Nature pours Her copious treasures of immortal bloom; Whilst through vast realms he scatters vernal stores, And from his downy pinions shakes perfume.

His name was ZEPHYRUS; and next him sat The beauteous goddess of the blooming year, The constant partner of his rural state, To heav’n and earth, to gods and mortals dear;

FLORA, bright pow’r, who sheds a thousand sweets O’er thousand lands, what time her gifts appear, What time her consort with his kisses greets Her coral lips, and wakes the rising year.

Her beauteous face was deck’d with youthful pride, Her graceful form in flamy robes was dress’d; And ev’ry charm wild Nature could provide, Adorn’d her head, and beam’d upon her breast.

Beside the throne, rang’d in fair order, stood The various Seasons of the rolling year; By all their train of months, weeks, days, pursu’d: And all their various symbols flourish’d here.

First came the SPRING, led by the rosy Hours, With all the Loves and Graces in her train; Deck’d with her wreath of never-fading flow’rs, Diffusing odours o’er the smiling plain.

Next SUMMER came; his cheeks with ardour fir’d, With his own blushing fruits and harvests crown’d; Before whose face the infant Spring retir’d, And with her roses strew’d the russet ground.

Stain’d with the grape’s press’d juice, with steadier pace, Still looking backward on preceding time, Ripe AUTUMN next succeeded in his place; Scatt’ring rich fruits, the growth of ev’ry clime.

Last WINTER comes, with heavy step and flow, A hoary captive bound in icy chains; With haggard eyes, and mantle dipp’d in snow, Who still of cold in Spring’s own realms complains.

Not one of these, but from their various store Some off’ring meet to lovely Flora pay; Not one of these, but with that off’ring more, And her soft reign most willingly obey.

Ev’n WINTER’S self, with look averted, throws, His thin-strewn flow’rets on the goddess’ shrine; Ev’n _his_ cold bosom for a moment glows, When he beholds her radiant form divine.

But now the Genii of each plant and flow’r, Rang’d in fair order, wait her high commands; And each, approaching her delicious bow’r, In expectation of her verdict stands.

For many of the _garden’s_ painted race, And some that with their colours deck the _field_, Rivals in wealth, in beauty, and in grace, Had wag’d high wars, unknowing how to yield.

All claim’d preferment, and each one could boast Of some bright beauty or perfection dear, Which should induce mankind to prize _her_ most, And to preferment make her title clear.

And some, of empty shew and titles vain; Alas! that Pride so many should deceive! Claim’d o’er their kindred plants and flow’rs to reign: And of their birthright others would bereave.

The Crown Imperial, and the spurious Flow’r Which boasts of royal arms and royal mien[3]; The warlike Plant that claims immortal pow’r[4], And that gay lady call’d the Meadow’s Queen.

All these, and more, that scorn’d a subject state, Rose to the claim of high imperial sway: Forgetting—to be _good_ was to be _great_— They rose to rule, unpractis’d to obey.

Others again for _beauty’s_ meed contend, Chief amidst whom appear’d the Tulip race; A painted tribe, born only to contend For praise, where _all_ is giv’n external grace.

Alcæa proud[5]; and lovely Venus’ joy, That does from adverse winds its title claim[6]; The once conceited, self-admiring Boy[7], Whose love prepost’rous gave a flow’r a name.

[3] Iris, or Fleur de lis.

[6] Anemone, or Wind Flower.

The proud Carnation dipp’d in brightest dyes, Who still with thirst of praise and glory burns; With her whose mirrour cheats deluded eyes[8], And she that still to her lov’d Phœbus turns[9].

There, with their num’rous chiefs of diff’rent hues, The painted Cock’s Comb, and his lofty train, Their beauties vaunting, to the rest refuse To share the glories of their gaudy reign.—

The judges sat, each sep’rate claim was heard, While some for _rule_, and some for _praises_, sought; And some had been disgrac’d, and some preferr’d, As in the goddess’ mind their various pleadings wrought

But her lov’d consort, gently whisp’ring, said: “What means my Queen, on these to cast her sight, Who have but pride or lust of sway display’d, Nor brought their real worth or virtues to the light?”

[8] Bell Flower, Corn Violet, or Venus’s Looking-Glass.

[9] Clytie, or the Sun-Flower.

How many absent now, more fair than these, With greater fragrance in lone valleys blow? Or, if the garden’s flow’ry tribe more please, Where do the Rose and lovely Vi’let glow?

The Lily where, and all that num’rous host, Who claim true praise to innate virtue due; Or do they _merit least_ who _loudest boast_, And with false glare impose upon the view?

For sure, of all who feel my genial gale, Or to the sun their fragrant breasts unfold, The best and sweetest that on earth prevail, Yet do I not in this fair court behold.

He said; and FLORA, rising from her throne, Bade present search for ev’ry one be made: Who, though their off’rings on her altar shone, Their modest haste had from the court convey’d.

Strait they return’d:—The lovely blushing Rose, The Lily ever chaste and ever fair, The Vi’let sweet with purple tints that glows, And Myrtle green, that scents the ambient air:

With many more, grateful to sight and smell, By bounteous heav’n with matchless charms endu’d; That in the fragrant meads or gardens dwell, Or which wild wastes from human eyes seclude.

These by their Genii now in modest guise, Excus’d from pleading ’midst the mingled throng. Claim’d but the tribute all allow’d their prize, Nor sought their own just praises to prolong.

Yet, these once seen, abash’d their rivals stand; And would have fled, but FLORA this deny’d; Who, rising graceful, with her out-stretch’d hand, Thus briefly to th’ assembled pow’rs apply’d:

“Genii of gardens, meads, and sylvan scenes, Attendant still in FLORA’S vernal train, Say what this ardent, fond contention means, Why strive you thus for pow’r, and strive in vain?

Are you not all beneath our sceptre blest; Say, do not all confess our gentle sway? Then seek not one to triumph o’er the rest, But each in peaceful order still obey.

So _all_ the glories of my reign shall share, So _all_ be still in poets songs renown’d, So shall my ZEPHYR still with gentlest air, Wave o’er your beds, with bloom eternal crown’d.

And _you_, who not for pow’r, but beauty’s charms, For gaudy tints, still fiercely would contend; What envious fire such gentle bosoms warms? And where, alas! must the mad contest end?

Each has her charms, and each peculiar worth, To all in various portions duly giv’n, By secret Nature working at its birth, The lavish bounty of indulgent Heav’n.

Each has her charms:—but view the blushing Rose, Behold the beauties of the Lily fair; Few boast of equal excellence to those, Yet with their modest merit none compare.

These, therefore, we prefer; and though no Queen Besides Ourselves we will to hold the reign; Yet, for their true desart conspicuous seen, We rank them foremost on the flow’ry plain.

Hear, and obey; and if aught else abide, To raise dispute among your orders bright; Still by true merit let the cause be try’d, And specious _shew_ yield to more solid _right_.”

She spoke;—the Seasons, and the winged Hours, Confirm’d her voice; then breath’d a rich perfume, Which ZEPHYR scatter’d wide o’er all the flow’rs, And deck’d their leaves with more than mortal bloom.

Then, his lov’d consort straining in his arms, With gentlest touch salutes her swelling breast; Who strait shone forth in more refulgent charms, As JUNO when by vernal JOVE caress’d.

And sudden joining in a mazy dance, The airy phantoms of the scene appear’d; Some to the sprightly timbrel did advance, While some their clear harmonious voices rear’d.

But One among the rest, who view’d me stand Intent, and gazing on the prospect near, Came forth, and gently touch’d my trembling hand, And bade me mark his words, and nothing fear:

“And seest thou not (said he) these vary’d flow’rs, Contending still for beauty or for sway? Such are the contests which employ man’s hours, In life’s short, busy, transitory day.

For what is gaudy beauty’s short-liv’d bloom, The pomp of pow’r, of riches, or of pride; Soon bury’d in the undistinguish’d tomb, Which all their boasted pomp at once must hide?

VIRTUE alone survives, immortal maid! Her truly amaranthine flow’r shall blow, When all the rest are wrapt in dusky shade, And laid in dark and dusty ruins low.

Hear, and attend!—improve the moral strain, So may’st thou sail safe through life’s dang’rous sea; So from these scenes thou wisdom may’st attain, And FLORA prove MINERVA’S self to thee.”

He ceas’d; and well I mark’d the prudent lore, And much revolv’d his saying in my mind; Bent all the mystic moral to explore, By this romantic, splendid scene design’d.

But, the full concert swelling on my ear, The bands of Sleep dissolv’d, away he flies; At once the train of phantoms disappear, And on my waking sight the vision dies.

No longer now near FLORA’S bow’r I stood, But view’d with op’ning eyes the rising day; Then down the Valley fair my path pursu’d, And homeward took my solitary way.

The HOLLYHOCK and the LILY of the VALE.

’Twas early morn, Sol’s radiant beams Illum’d the landscape round. The dew-drops glitter’d on the day, And gem-like deck’d the ground.

Within the garden’s cultur’d walks A Hollyhock there grew; And there the Lily of the Vale Kept humble distance due.

Elate with pride, the gaudy flow’r Expands its swelling breast; And, joying in the vernal scene, The LILY thus address’d:

“What dost thou here, mean paltry thing, “Go blow in yonder field; “Nor thus disgrace fair FLORA’S tribes, “That heav’nly beauties yield.

“Go, with thy faint and sickly hue; “Some chearless vale adorn; “But here intrude not on our reign, “Nor drink the dew of morn.

“Whilst I with heighten’d colours glow, “In Summer’s liv’ry gay; “Imbibe the softest tints of light, “And glitter on the day.

“Me yonder golden sun shall warm, “At morn and noon-tide hour; “And me his ev’ning beams attend, “Like his own fav’rite flow’r.

“Nor yonder Rose, nor Bacchus’ Plant, “Which twining near me grows, “Can boast more excellence than me, “Or brighter dyes disclose.

“Hence thou! nor this fair spot profane, “Where fairer flow’rets blow; “Return again to shades obscure, “And there neglected grow.”

The LILY heard, with decent grace, That scorn’d the boaster’s pride; Then from her lone, unenvy’d bed She thus in brief reply’d;

“From vaunting loud what fame is gain’d, “To raise the boaster’s name; “Or might not yonder blushing Rose “Exert a fairer claim?

“And many a flow’r that round thee blows, “In the bright garb of Spring; “Or, rich in elegant perfumes, “That scent the Zephyr’s wing.

“The vine, with purple clusters deck’d, “Shall soon rich sweets bestow; “Whilst thou, a barren flow’r at best, “Art only made for show.

“For ME;—what Nature form’d, I am; “I envy not thy pride; “Nor seek to raise a greater boast, “By Providence deny’d.

“Yet in some dark and dang’rous hour, “When tempests rude assail; “Ev’n thou may’st wish the humbler state “Of LILY OF THE VALE.”

Safe from her humble spot she said, And view’d the changing sky; From op’ning clouds the thunders break, The livid lightnings fly.

Full on the garden’s lofty wall, The flow’rs exalted place, The fires æthereal swiftly fall, And rend its solid base.

And now the boaster’s trust and pride Assur’d her overthrow; Her glories buried in the dust, By one destructive blow.

The LILY view’d the ruin’d flow’r, And strait this Moral drew; _Beauty and Pride are idly vain,_ _But Praise is Merit’s due_.

_Daughters of Albion, timely wise,_ _Attend the moral tale;_ _And imitate with prudent care_ THE LILY OF THE VALE.

“From warmer climates early borne, “Where beams the god of light; “How gaily blooms yon lofty plant, “In native colours bright!

“The root, the plant, the leaf, the flow’r, “Alike our wonder raise; “And all confess the fragrant stock, “Renown’d in ancient days.

“Some say, but one revolving age “Beholds thy beauties spread; “And rear aloft to genial suns “Its highly blooming head.

“But thou, like Merit, kindly nurs’d, “An early spring wilt know; “While, check’d by rigid, frowning skies, “Thy gems forget to glow.

“Emblem of Genius rarely known, “And still more rarely giv’n; “To reap the good itself imparts, “And share the gifts of Heav’n.

“Say, glorious stranger, rear’d erewhile “In distant, sunny lands; “Can either India more bestow, “Than Albion’s isle commands?

“In western and in southern climes “Too long hast thou been plac’d; “And India’s sands, and Afric’s wilds, “Thy beauteous presence grac’d.

“Deign then, O sov’reign plant, thy balm, “On this our land bestow; “And give thy flow’rs in all their grace “And lustre here to blow.”—

The Guardian Sylph, that watch’d the flow’r, Confess’d before me stood; And shook his bright and sunny locks, And thus my suit withstood:

“Cease, cease, he cry’d, such boons to ask, “As scarce deserve a name; “While Albion, favour’d from above, “Can greater blessings claim.

“Still, still, their gems and spicy store, “Let either India boast; “And Afric vaunt the precious sands, “That glitter on her coast.

“Not these, nor all the hidden wealth, “That earth or sea possess; “Can match those richer gifts of heav’n, “Which fair Britannia bless.

“Peace, Freedom, Wealth from farthest shores, “By golden commerce brought; “All these are hers, and ev’ry good, “By happiest nations sought.

“Nor _this_ alone; here Genius blooms, “A _Flow’r_ excelling _mine_. “Nor asks a whole revolving age, “In glories to refine.

“Here too the Fair, with beauty bright, “The hearts of heroes warm; “Those _human blossoms_ genial blow, “And put forth ev’ry charm.

“Cease then, _nor envy other climes_ “_Their beauties thinly strewn_; “_But learn with decent pride to prize_ “_The blessings of your own_.”

The ROSE and the HORNET.

Deep in a lone sequester’d vale, Where many’ a streamlet flows; And nurs’d by many’ a gentle gale, Soft bloom’d a damask Rose.

The Summer’s suns, the Zephyrs bland, All own’d her peerless queen; The honey’d Bee, Spring’s sweetest child, Oft’ sought her breast serene.

Her beauties op’ning on the day, With ev’ry grace were crown’d; Imbib’d the golden solar beam, And deck’d the desart ground.

Daughter of Nature, still she blow’d, Where human face ne’er shone; And spread her blossoms to the view But of the Sun alone.

Pride of the East, a brighter glow, Beyond our garden’s bloom, Bade her with heighten’d beauty blush, And scatter rich perfume.

Her rudely rushing through the air An angry HORNET ’spy’d; Vow’d to enjoy the heav’nly flow’r, In all her blooming pride.

Bold son of heat, with rudest haste, His course he strait address’d; To rifle all her charms in spite, And riot on her breast.

He search’d each leaf, each blossom wounds With rude unhallow’d rage; Yet nothing could his search explore, His passion to assuage.

The beauteous flow’r, though wildly rent, No sweetness would afford; But hurt by many a vengeful thorn, His rashness he deplor’d.

At length, thus baffled and deceiv’d, Enrag’d, he silence broke; And now of ev’ry hope bereft, He thus insulting spoke;

“Vain gaudy flow’r, they term thy breast “Engaging, bright, and fair; “Who seek thy bosom, ne’er shall find “Or joy or sweetness there.

“The Bee indeed, thy fav’rite, still “Says, Honey springs from thee; “Yet nought but trouble, care, and pain, “Hast thou bestow’d on me.

“Then boast no more thy beauteous form “That still excites desire; “Since _Thorns_ alone thou canst bestow, “To quench a lover’s fire.”

Then thus the Rose,—“Intruder vile! “Who thus would’st force employ; “Though arm’d with pow’r; know ’tis not thine “To taste substantial joy.

“The Bee, who sips each sweet that glows “In lawn or shady bow’r, “Tastes all the honey as he flies, “But never wounds the flow’r.

“Whilst thou, both impious and unwise, “Of all our tribes the scorn: “For ev’ry violated sweet “Shalt always meet a thorn.”

FABLE IV. The SENSITIVE PLANT.

Rare plant, or flow’r, or nymph-like tree, With human sense endu’d; Why dost thou shrink beneath the touch, And bear but to be _view’d_?

Say does some Hamadryad chuse In that green stem to live? And to her highly favour’d shrine This strong sensation give?

Well for thy sake their ancient oaks The wood-nymphs might forsake; And in thy purer bosom with Their lov’d abodes to make.

Yet why indignant from each hand Alike dost thou retire? Does ev’ry touch, replete with ill, Alike thy hate inspire?

Too cautious nymph! well might’st thou deign To some thy breast unfold; Sure those would _worship_ at the _touch_, Who _love_ when they _behold_.

Shrunk in herself, with modest grace The Plant thus fair reply’d, “Whate’er my source, my maiden state “But ill agrees with pride[10].

[10] This flower is encompassed with thorns, and its root is said to have a poisonous quality.

“In purity alone I joy; “I seek no other fame, “But that which from chaste wishes grows, “And suits a virgin’s name.