The Day of Flowers: A Mother’s Walk with Her Child

“One spirit--HisWho wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows.Rules universal nature. Not a flowerBut shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain,Of his unrivall’d pencil. He inspiresTheir balmy odours, and imparts their hues.And bathes their eyes with nectar.Happy who walks with him!” Cowper.

Come to the woods, my boy!Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth,My happy child! The spirit of bright hoursWoos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents,From thickets, where the lonely stock-dove broods,Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joyFloat in with each soft current of the air;--And we will hear their summons; we will giveOne day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts,And thou shalt revel midst free nature’s wealth,And for thy mother twine wild wreaths; while she,From thy delight, wins to her own fond heartThe vernal ecstasy of childhood back.Come to the woods, my boy!

What! wouldst thou lead already to the pathAlong the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truthMeet playmate for a child, a blessed child,Is a glad, singing stream, heard or unheard,Singing its melody of happinessAmidst the reeds, and bounding in free graceTo that sweet chime. With what a sparkling lifeIt fills the shadowy dingle!--now the wingOf some low-skimming swallow shakes bright sprayForth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave;Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep,The trout springs upward, with a showery gleamAnd plashing sound of waters. What swift ringsOf mazy insects o’er the shallow tideSeem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of lightFrom burnish’d films! And mark yon silvery lineOf gossamer, so tremulously hungAcross the narrow current, from the tuftOf hazels to the hoary poplar’s bough!See, in the air’s transparence, how it waves,Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale,Yet breaking not--a bridge for fairy shapes,How delicate, how wondrous!Yes, my boy!Well may we make the stream’s bright, winding veinOur woodland guide, for He who made the streamMade it a clue to haunts of loveliness,For ever deepening. Oh, forget him not,Dear child! That airy gladness which thou feel’stWafting thee after bird and butterfly,As ’twere a breeze within thee, is not lessHis gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours,Than this rich, outward sunshine, mantling allThe leaves, and grass, and mossy-tinted stonesWith summer glory. Stay thy bounding step,My merry wanderer!--let us rest a whileBy this clear pool, where, in the shadow flungFrom alder boughs and osiers o’er its breast,The soft red of the flowering willow-herbSo vividly is pictured. Seems it notE’en melting to a more transparent glowIn that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams!And, through all ages, human hearts have lovedTheir music, still accordant with each moodOf sadness or of joy. And love hath grownInto vain worship, which hath left its traceOn sculptured urn and altar, gleaming stillBeneath dim olive-boughs, by many a fountOf Italy and Greece. But we will takeOur lesson e’en from erring hearts, which bless’dThe river-deities or fountain-nymphs,For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade,And the sweet water’s tune. The One supreme,The all-sustaining, ever-present God,Who dower’d the soul with immortality,Gave also these delights, to cheer on earthIts fleeting passage; therefore let us greetEach wandering flower-scent as a boon from Him,Each bird-note, quivering midst light summer leaves,And every rich celestial tint unnamed,Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and eve,Kindle and melt away!And now, in love,In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bendOur footsteps onward to the dell of flowersAround the ruin’d mansion. Thou, my boy!Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lornBut lovely spot, whose loveliness for theeWill wear no shadow of subduing thought--No colouring from the past. This way our pathWinds through the hazels. Mark how brightly shootsThe dragon-fly along the sunbeam’s line,Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of life,The life of song, and breezes, and free wings,Is all the murmuring shade! and thine, oh thine!Of all the brightest and the happiest here,My blessed child! my gift of God! that makestMy heart o’erflow with summer!Hast thou twinedThy wreath so soon! yet will we loiter not,Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeouslyRound the brown, twisted roots of yon scathed oakThe heath-flower spread its purple. We must leaveThe copse, and through yon broken avenue,Shadow’d by drooping walnut-foliage, reachThe ruin’s glade.And lo! before us, fairYet desolate, amidst the golden day,It stands, that house of silence! wedded nowTo verdant Nature by the o’ermantling growthOf leaf and tendril, which fond woman’s handsOnce loved to train. How the rich wallflower-scentFrom every niche and mossy cornice floats,Embalming its decay! The bee aloneIs murmuring from its casement, whence no moreShall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine,Watching some homeward footstep. See! unboundFrom the old fretted stone-work, what thick wreathsOf jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down,Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and loadThe air with mournful fragrance--for it speaksOf life gone hence; and the faint, southern breathOf myrtle-leaves, from yon forsaken porch,Startles the soul with sweetness! Yet rich knotsOf garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sownThrough all the sunny hollow, spread aroundA flush of youth and joy, free nature’s joy,Undimm’d by human change. How kindly here,With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent!And, under arches of wild eglantine,Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seemsThe frail gum-cistus o’er the turf to snowIts pearly flower-leaves down! Go, happy boy!Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets;Whilst I, beside this fallen dial-stone,Under the tall moss-rose tree, long unpruned,Rest where thick clustering pansies weave aroundTheir many-tinged mosaic, midst dark grassBedded like jewels.He hath bounded on,Wild with delight!--the crimson on his cheekPurer and richer e’en than that which liesIn this deep-hearted rose-cup! Bright moss-rose!Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree!Once thou wert cherish’d! and, by human love,Through many a summer duly visitedFor thy bloom-offerings, which o’er festal board,And youthful brow, and e’en the shaded couchOf long-secluded sickness, may have shedA joy, now lost.Yet shall there still be joy,Where God hath pour’d forth beauty, and the voiceOf human love shall still be heard in praiseOver his glorious gifts! O Father! Lord!The All-beneficent! I bless thy name,That thou hast mantled the green earth with flow’rs,Linking our hearts to nature! By the loveOf their wild blossoms, our young footsteps firstInto her deep recesses are beguiled--Her minster-cells--dark glen and forest bower,Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee,Amidst the low, religious whisperingsAnd shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude,The spirit wakes to worship, and is madeThy living temple. By the breath of flowers,Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares,Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain-streams,That sing of thee! back to free childhood’s heart,Fresh with the dews of tenderness! Thou bidd’stThe lilies of the field with placid smileReprove man’s feverish strivings, and infuseThrough his worn soul a more unworldly life,With their soft, holy breath. Thou hast not leftHis purer nature, with its fine desires,Uncared for in this universe of thine!The glowing rose attests it, the belovedOf poet-hearts, touch’d by their fervent dreamsWith spiritual light, and made a sourceOf heaven-ascending thoughts. E’en to faint ageThou lend’st the vernal bliss: the old man’s eyeFalls on the kindling blossoms, and his soulRemembers youth and love, and hopefullyTurns unto thee, who call’st earth’s buried germsFrom dust to splendour; as the mortal seedShall, at thy summons, from the grave spring upTo put on glory, to be girt with power,And fill’d with immortality. ReceiveThanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons,And, most of all, their heavenward influences,O Thou that gavest us flowers!Return, my boy!--With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return!See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch’dAnd glorified the ruin!--glow-worm lightWill twinkle on the dewdrops, ere we reachOur home again. Come! with thy last sweet prayerAt thy bless’d mother’s knee, to-night shall thanksUnto our Father in his heaven arise,For all the gladness, all the beauty shedO’er one rich day of flowers.