The Bramble Flower 1419 A very rapture of white; Harriet McEwen Kimball [1834 THE BRAMBLE FLOWER THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, So, put thou forth thy small white rose; Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow For dull the eye, the heart is dull, How rich thy branchy stem, How soft thy voice when woods are still, While silent showers are falling slow, A sweet air lifts the little bough, Lone whispering through the bush! But thou, wild bramble, back dost bring, The fresh green days of life's fair Spring, Scorned bramble of the brake, once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, In freedom and in joy. Ebenezer Elliott [1781-1849] THE BRIER My brier that smelledst sweet, Ran through thy quiet veins; But wouldst be left alone, Alone thou leavest me, and naught of thine remains. What! hath no poet's lyre O'er thee, sweet-breathing brier, Hung fondly, ill or well? And yet, methinks, with thee A poet's sympathy, Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, might dwell. Hard usage both must bear, Few bosoms cherish you; Ere you are sweet; but, freed From life, you then are prized; thus prized are poets too. Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864] THE BROOM FLOWER OH the Broom, the yellow Broom, I know the realms where people say The Small Celandine I know where ladies live enchained But ne'er was flower so fair as this, And all about my mother's door Shine out its glittering bushes, Take all the rest; but give me this, I love it, for it loves the Broom- Well call the rose the queen of flowers, Of lilies like to marble cups, And the golden rod of Aaron: I care not how these flowers may be Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it. Mary Howitt [1799-1888] THE SMALL CELANDINE THERE is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain; And, the first moment that the sun may shine, Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again! When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, Or blasts the green field and the trees distressed, Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest. But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice, "The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue." To be a Prodigal's Favorite-then, worse truth, O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth TO THE SMALL CELANDINE PANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout! To the Small Celandine I'm as great as them, I trow, Since the day I found thee out. Little Flower!—I'll make a stir, Like a sage astronomer. Modest, yet withal an Elf Since we needs must first have met, Ere a leaf is on a bush, Has a thought about her nest, Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none. Poets, vain men in their mood! Travel with the multitude: Never heed them; I aver That they all are wanton wooers; Who stirs little out of doors, Comfort have thou of thy merit, Careless of thy neighborhood, But 'tis good enough for thee. 1423 |