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The balmy vapour from their silver croppis[1],
Distilland wholesome sugar'd honey-droppis,
So that ilk burgeon, scion, herb, or flower,
Wox all embalmed of the fresh liquoure,
And bathed did in dulce humoures flete,
Whereof the beeis wrought their honey sweet.
Leaving the old Bards, I shall now introduce one of the loveliest flower scenes ever painted by poet's pen, and which has few rivals, even among the bright and beautiful creations of its author. It is a dream of Spring Flowers, by Percy Byshe Shelley.
I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way,
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
And gentle odours led my steps astray,
Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
But kissed it, and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets;
Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
Green cow-bind, and the moonlight-coloured May,
And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
- ↑ Croppis—heads.
