The Snow-Drop Part 13

Ah! now I know; you linger here, Your father's lonely hours to cheer.

Death would not pluck the last fair flower, That bloomed in his connubial bower; He fondly loves his orphan boys, They half restore his withered joys.

Sweet rosebuds, springing from the tomb, Long round his hearthstone may you bloom, With smiles of love your father greet, And fill your mother's vacant seat.

THE CULTIVATION OF FLOWERS.

Where can we find a more healthy and delightful employment, than the cultivation of flowers? Though of less importance than those plants which are necessary for the support of animal life, yet, rightly considered, they yield a pleasant and instructive entertainment for the intellectual powers, and may justly be termed food for the mind.

"Nonsense" some of our readers exclaim, "Nonsense, to talk of feeding the immortal mind, with flowers! For one, I think people may find some more useful employment than that of persuading their fellow beings to spend the precious hours of this _short_ life upon these useless playthings."

But pause, my readers, and consider who gave this finishing touch to the face of nature. Who strewed the fields with flowers? Were they not brought into existence by the same All-wise Being who created the earth upon which we dwell, with its millions of intelligent beings, its vast oceans, its towering mountains, its flaming volcanoes and its majestic rivers with their awe inspiring cataracts; who created the sun, that great fountain of light and heat, and the centre of attraction for those vast globes which revolve around it, and then counterpoised with such precision the different forces which produce and continue their motion, that they continue to perform their appointed revolutions, without the least deviation from that orbit, in which they were placed at creation's dawn; who "made the stars also," that innumerable mult.i.tude of fixed stars, or suns with their attending planets which inhabit the boundless regions of s.p.a.ce; whose wonderful works are so numerous as to overwhelm the feeble mind of man, and to compel him to conclude at the commencement, by saying that they are infinite? And shall we be so impious as to hush the voice of reason, and disregard the words of holy writ enough to say, that even the little violet was made in vain? I should sooner believe that Washington, the father of our country, while the destiny of our nation was placed, as it were, in his hands, was in the habit of deserting his army while on the battle field, engaged in the most b.l.o.o.d.y conflict with a mortal foe, for the sole purpose of amusing himself with soap bubbles and firebrand ribbons.

"But," says one, "they were created for a scourge and a snare to fallen man; for while we are compelled to spend much of our time in destroying thorns and thistles from our premises, they are continually tempting the weaker part of our race to spend their strength and time upon that, which at best, can yield no profit." But against this a.s.sertion, the scriptures afford us ample proof, for we are there informed, that they were created before the fall, and p.r.o.nounced very good, while thorns and thistles were brought forth afterwards; for the Lord said, when p.r.o.nouncing the curse upon Adam, "Cursed be the ground for thy sake, thorns and thistles shall it bring forth unto thee," thus implying that they were not already in existence. And again, flowers are universally spoken of in scripture as blessings, or used as emblems of things valuable or pleasing, while thorns and thistles are always used to represent things hurtful, or afflictive. And if any part of nature's works retain their native purity and remain unchanged, save by the hand of death, is it not flowers? It is true, they neither supply us with food or clothing, and if they possess medical qualities, they might as well be contained in the plant without the appendage of a flower. Nor were they made for the fowls of the air, or the beasts of the field, for they totally disregard them; we never see the ox, the horse, or the sheep, stop to smell their fragrance or gaze upon their beauty. And many of those who are termed the lords of creation, consider them beneath the notice of intellectual beings, and yet they were made for some wise purpose. We will therefore admit the truth of an a.s.sertion made by a friend, who remarked that flowers were doubtless created for the sole purpose of gratifying the weak and childish minds of the female s.e.x. Be it so, let us thankfully receive the gift, and think ourselves honored by being thought worthy of the fairest and sweetest part of nature's productions; for which she has reserved her most grateful perfumes, her richest dyes, and the finest strokes of her pencil. Yes, we _will_ cultivate flowers, for we do not profess to be more scrupulous about the manner in which we spend our time than the Lord of the universe was, for he planted flowers in _his_ garden. The scriptures inform us that he planted every tree that was pleasant to the sight. And flowers certainly were pleasant, even to the pure eyes of our Savior; for while speaking of the lilies of the field, he says, "Even Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these." And the wisest of men, when searching the world over for comparisons worthy of his beloved, exclaims in the fullness of a heart overflowing with love and grat.i.tude, "He is the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley."

Sweet flowers, there is room enough for you in the female mind. We will take you to our bosoms and cherish you with that affectionate regard, which your lovely qualities deserve. We will admire your spotless purity and innocence. You were thought worthy of a place in the blissful bowers of Eden. And for aught we know, ye were the only part of nature's works which were created solely for the purpose of charming the mind and gratifying the senses of sinless beings. And may we make a profitable use of these lovely relics of paradise! May they continually remind us of the skill, wisdom and goodness of the great Architect of the universe!

Where can we find a more transparent medium through which we may "look through nature up to nature's G.o.d," than a veil interwoven with flowers?

When fatigued in body, where can we find a more pleasant resting place than beneath the cool shade of an arbor, in the flower garden? When our spirits are depressed or our minds perplexed with distracting care, thither let us repair: it will prove a more effectual remedy than on hour spent in gossipping, or an evening in the ball room. It can but exert a healthful influence over the mind, to inhale such exquisite odors, and gaze upon such beautiful colors and delicate tints, combined with gracefulness and elegance of form. The art of man has long been striving to imitate them, but the simplest flower that blooms still eclipses their best performances. And yet the gorgeous canopy that decks the monarch's throne owes half its splendor to the imperfect miniature of the inhabitants of the flower garden.

And strange as it appears, how often do we see persons, who would blush were they seen contemplating the simple beauties of a delicate flower, pride themselves in embellishing their dwellings and equipage with its coa.r.s.ely wrought picture. But while they are pleasing themselves with the shadow, we will feast ourselves on the substance.

"I am weary of this lecture upon flowers," the stoical reader exclaims: If so, my friend, you are at liberty to retire to any place of entertainment which your better judgment may suggest; but I will lay aside my pen to walk among the flowers; and see if some of those silent, though eloquent preachers, will not furnish the mind with some new idea, which may serve as a foundation for another discourse.

MUSIC OF THE MIND.

What is music of the mind? Is it the soft harmonious strains of the little minstrel which often steals into some secret nook within the heart, and there tunes her silent harp to notes of sweetest melody?

Though we never hear her melting lays, yet persons in every station, from the king upon his throne to the beggar by the wayside, and the rude untutored savage roaming through his native forest, often experience that exquisite pleasure produced by her magic spell.

We are continually surrounded by scenes calculated to produce this music. The variegated scenery of different landscapes; the changing seasons of the year; Spring with her balmy air, soft refreshing showers, green fields, fragrant flowers, and merry cheerful birds; Summer, with her sultry days, her cool inviting shades, her waving fields, and delicious fruits; and Autumn, with his rich golden harvest, bright pensive dreamy days, and clear moonlight evenings, have power to rouse the minstrel from her slumbers; and even rude old Winter, clothed in clouds and storms and drifting snows, can with his icy fingers sweep her silent harp strings and wake their wildest melody.

We retire beneath the sacred shade of some ancient forest, and look upon nature as she stands forth arrayed in all the charms of her primeval beauty; where art has never plucked her native bloom, and tinged her cheek with carmine. We there gaze upon the tall old trees, which have for centuries been towering higher and higher, till they seem ambitious to wave their lofty tops among the very clouds of heaven. We quench our thirst with the sparkling waters of the pure spring, which bubbles up cool and clear from its crystal fountain, washing the roots of the trees, and trickling over the ground in bright streams, like threads of molten silver, till they unite in one of those beautiful streamlets which lend such enchantment to the woodland bowers; here, murmuring melodiously among smooth rocks and bright pebbles, while the dimpling eddies upon its surface reflect the rays of laughing sunshine which quiver through the leafy canopy above; there, dashing over a projecting rock forming a little cascade, and then flowing smoothly along, bearing upon its tranquil bosom the fair images of the flowers which spring up along its banks, upon the sloping hill-side and in every shady nook and dell, smiling in strange beauty among the stern features of the woodland scene. Sweet flowers, so fair and fragile, that they flourish only when sheltered from the rude blast and pelting storm by some friendly shade, and so modest and retiring in their habits, that they shun the open field, where they must encounter the scrutinizing gaze of the noonday sun, and choose this sweet seclusion for their home.

We stand upon the sh.o.r.es of the ocean, while the sun emerges from its bed, lifting his broad shining disk above the blue waters, and tinging the sparkling waves with every hue that decks the rainbow's form. We gaze with rapture upon the scene, till, dazzled by its brilliancy, we turn our eyes upon the white sails, gliding over the bosom of the deep, like some n.o.ble bird winging its way through the air, or watch the swelling waves, as they roll in grand procession towards us, and break in thunder on the sh.o.r.e. We sit in a calm summer evening and watch the shadows as they lengthen o'er the ground, till they lose themselves in the deep rich green of the vales from winch the sun has disappeared, to gild the tops of the forest trees and far off hills with more than noonday splendor. The balmy zephyrs hold their breath, nor dare to whisper in the softest tone, while the little forest birds, in sweetly pensive strains, are chanting forth their evening hymn of praise and homage to the sun, who, now all bright with parting smiles, sinks down behind the western hills, tinging the clouds at first with light faint orange streaks, which soon turn to crimson, and touched again by sunset's magic wand, they glow in purple of the richest dyes, then slowly fade to grey, while twilight draws around us her dewy curtains and shuts the scene from our admiring gaze.

We walk abroad in the calm stillness of a moonlight evening, when night, cheered by the presence of her fair queen, withholds her dusky pall and contents herself by drawing a thin silvery veil over the fair-face of nature, which only serves to cast a shade of pensive beauty upon her lovely features. The rocks, the fields, the lakes and streams, the distant hills and mountains, whose lofty peaks are crowned with the white fleecy clouds which skirt the horizon, appear far more lovely when viewed by the pure dreamy light now stealing around us, than when displayed to our sight by the clear light of day. The trees and shrubs lie pictured on the dewy earth, their fair images reposing in motionless beauty, save when the cool breath of evening plays among the verdant branches, disturbing their shadowy outlines. No sound breaks upon the stillness of the scene, except the gentle murmur of the winding stream or the roar of some far off waterfall, softened and subdued by distance, till it mingles in harmony with the clear shrill notes of the whippowils, who never close their waking eyes, but serenade the moon till morning light, while every object upon which we turn our eyes reminds us of the fancy sketch of some fairy land.

We gaze upon the grand array, when Aurora Borealis plays her antic freaks, fights her mimic battles, waves her flaming banner along the northern skies. We look out upon the blue expanse above, when the bright and beautiful stars, with their sparkling eyes, are looking from their distant homes upon our little earth like angels commissioned to watch over its slumbering inhabitants, till the clear light of day arouses them to life and consciousness. In view of objects and scenes like these, a pleasing sensation steals over the mind, till no language can express the emotions which struggle for vent within our bosoms and the full heart flutters like an imprisoned bird against the walls of its cage.

This is what we call music of the mind. Yet when no love to the Creator mingles with our contemplations, it is music of an inferior order. But when an individual is brought to realize and "believe with all his heart" that the author of all the scenes of beauty, grandeur and sublimity, which nature presents to the eye, has condescended to drop the sceptre from his hand, lay by his dazzling crown and leave his throne of glory, while he descended to our earth, and gave his life to ransom guilty rebels against his righteous government, pouring out his blood on Calvary till the fountain is sufficient to cleanse the foulest stains of sin, even from the most polluted soul; then it is that his mind is filled with music, and that too, which is as much superior to any ever experienced by an unregenerate soul, as the full blaze of the noonday sun is to the faint light which glimmers from the burning taper.

For every fibre of the heart, now touched by the finger of G.o.d, wakes in harmony, and vibrates with the richest music of which earth or heaven can boast. It is the very same which animates the spirits of just men made perfect, and none but blood washed sinners can ever learn the song.

No music, borne from Eden's bowers, On heaven's own balmy wings, No song, that angels ever sang.

Could roach these lofty strings;

For Gabriel with his golden harp, Tuned by the heavenly dove, Could never touch the thrilling notes Of G.o.d's redeeming love.

APPENDIX.

The Pastoral was published in one of the papers of the day. As it gave rise to a little mirth, we insert it with the poems annexed.

PRAISES OF RURAL LIFE.

Though city ladies treat with scorn The humble farmer's wife, And call his daughters rude and coa.r.s.e, I'll live a country life.

I'd rather spin, and weave, and knit, And wholesome meals prepare, Than, dressed in silk, with servants throng'd, Lounge in my cushioned chair.

I love to see my chickens grow, My turkies, ducks, and geese; I love to tend my flowering plants, And make the new milk cheese.

I love to wash, I love to sew, All needful work I like to do; I like to keep my kitchen neat, And humble parlor, too.

And when the grateful task is done, And pleasure claims a share, With some dear friend I'll walk abroad And take the balmy air.

Not through the dusty, crowded streets, Amid the bustling throng, But in some pleasant cool retreat, We'll hear the woodland song.

Or trace the winding silver stream, And linger on its banks, While all the birds in concert sweet, Present their evening thanks.

We'll seek the ancient forest shade, And see its branches wave, Which have, perchance, a requiem sang Above the red man's grave.

We'll breathe the pure untainted air, Fresh from the verdant hills; And pluck wild blossoms from their beds Beside the laughing rills.

I love the country in the spring, With all its waving trees; When songs of joy from every grove Are wafted on the breeze.

The smiling pastures robed in green, How beautiful, and gay; With bleating flocks, and lowing herds, And little lambs at play.

I love midst rural scenes to dwell, In summer's pleasant hours; And pluck her sweet delicious fruits, And smell her fragrant flowers.

I love to see the growing corn, And fields of waving grain; I love the sunshine, and the shade.

And gentle showers of rain.

I love to see the glitt'ring dew, Like pendant diamonds, hung On ev'ry plant, and flower, and tree, Their glossy leaves among.