Godey's Lady's Book, Vol. XLII., May 1851

Excerpt

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

BY JNO. B. DUFFEY.
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As, wandering forth at rosy dawn,
When sparkling dew-drops deck the lawn,
From glen and glade, and river-side,
We bring young flowers—the morning's pride.

And, bound in wreaths, or posies sweet,
With flowers our favored ones we greet;
For flowers a silent language own,
That makes our maiden wishes known.

A language that by love was wrought,
And by fond love to mortals taught;
A language, too, that lovers know,
Where, watched by love, sweet flowers may blow.

A language richer, purer far
Than all the tongue-born dialects are;
And, as the flowers, devoid of art,
It is the language of the heart.

Thoughts that would perish all untold
Live on the tongues that flowers enfold:
Thus will the Tulip's crimson shell
The love of stammering youth unveil.

And happy will that trembler be,
If she, with cheek of modesty,
Shall give his soft avowal room,
And twine it with the Myrtle's bloom.

But, should her heart feel not his glow,
The mottled Pink may answer "No;"
Yet Friendship, in an Ivy wreath,
A balm upon the wound will breathe.

The Morning-glory's dewy bell
In mystic tones of hope may tell—
Tell of a struggle in the breast,
Where, warring, love 'gainst love is pressed.

The Heartsease, flower of purple hue,
Seeks an affection ever true;
And, in the Bay-leaf's still reply,
Speaketh a love will never die.

The little Daisy grows for her
Who heedeth not the flatterer;
And spotless Lilies love the breast
Where child-like Innocence is pressed.

Young Beauty's symbol is the Rose
Whose blushing petals half unclose;
And in the snowy Violet
Sweet Modesty her home hath set.

And thus of feeling, every shade
May be through voiceless flowers conveyed;
And all the fond endearments known
To deep-felt love, thus greet love's own.
Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by W. E. Tucker
Printed by H. Quig.BY WM. ALEXANDER.

Ah!is he blind, who erst, untiringly,
Searched wildwood, prairie, meadow, rock, and wold,
For you, sweet songsters, clad in yellow gold?
When comes spring's carnival, enchantingly
Sing ye to him, with sorrow in your song;
For that his sightless orbs now roll in vain,
No more to view your rainbow-tints again—
Love-lays in gratitude to him belong,
From matin Lark, loud herald of the day—
From Philomel, coy chorister of night:
Listens he yet, ye birds, with dear delight,
In rapture musing on your plumage gay,
Hoping to soar, when life's short day is done,
On eagle-pinions up to yonder central sun.

SPRING.—A BALLAD

BY MARY SPENSER PEASE.
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Spring, with its glad influences
Stealing up from bosky dell,
Once more quickens Nature's heart-pulse
With its sunny, witching spell.

Each new morn the boughs hang thicker
With the leaves of Nature's book;
Each new eve adds a new chapter
To the life of bird and brook.

Each new morn the world is greener;
Age forgets its shriveled years
In the warmth and life upspringing
Out from Winter's chill and tears.

Each new morn the song grows sweeter—
Song of loving bee and bird;
Each new eve, from youth and maiden,
Softer cadences are heard....