# Scenes and Hymns of Life, with Other Religious Poems/The Day of Flowers

THE DAY OF FLOWERS.
A MOTHER'S WALK WITH HER CHILD.
One spirit—His Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows, Rules universal nature.—Not a flower But shews some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain, Of his unrivalled pencil. He inspires Their 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 hours
Woos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents From thickets where the lonely stock-dove broods. Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joy Float in with each soft current of the air; And we will hear their summons; we will give One 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 heart The vernal extasy of childhood back:— Come to the woods, my boy!
What! wouldst thou lead already to the path Along the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truth Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child, Is a glad singing stream, heard or unheard, Singing its melody of happiness Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace To that sweet chime.—With what a sparkling life It fills the shadowy dingle! now the wing
Of some low skimming swallow shakes bright spray Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave; Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep, The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings Of mazy insects o'er the shallow tide Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light From burnished films! And mark yon silvery line Of gossamer, so tremulously hung Across the narrow current, from the tuft Of 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 vein Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness, For ever deepening. O, forget him not,
Dear child! that airy gladness which thou feel'st Wafting thee after bird and butterfly, As 'twere a breeze within thee, is not less His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours, Than this rich outward sunshine, mantling all The leaves, and grass, and mossy tinted stones With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step, My merry wanderer! let us rest a while By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung From alder boughs and osiers o'er its breast, The soft red of the flowering willow-herb So vividly is pictured. Seems it not E'en melting to a more transparent glow In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams! And, through all ages, human hearts have loved Their music, still accordant with each mood Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown Into vain worship, which hath left its trace On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still Beneath dim olive boughs, by many a fount
Of Italy and Greece. But we will take Our lesson e'en from erring hearts, which blessed The 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 dowered the soul with immortality, Gave also these delights, to cheer on earth Its fleeting passage; therefore let us greet Each 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 bend Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers Around the ruined mansion. Thou, my boy, Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee
Will wear no shadow of subduing thought— No colouring from the past. This way our path Winds through the hazels;—mark how brightly shoots The 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, O thine! Of all the brightest and the happiest here, My blessed child! my gift of God! that mak'st My heart o'erflow with summer! Hast thou twined Thy wreath so soon! yet will we loiter not, Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeously Round the brown twisted roots of yon scathed oak The heath-flower spread its purple. We must leave The copse, and through yon broken avenue, Shadowed by drooping walnut foliage, reach The ruin's glade.
And, lo! before us, fair, Yet desolate, amidst the golden day, It stands, that house of silence! wedded now To verdant nature by the o'ermantling growth Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman's hands Once loved to train. How the rich wall-flower scent From every niche and mossy cornice floats, Embalming its decay! The bee alone Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine, Watching some homeward footstep. See! unbound From the old fretted stone-work, what thick wreaths Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down, Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and load The air with mournful fragrance, for it speaks Of life gone hence; and the faint southern breath Of myrtle leaves from yon forsaken porch, Startles the soul with sweetness! Yet rich knots Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown Through all the sunny hollow, spread around
A flush of youth and joy, free nature's joy, Undimmed 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 seems The frail gumcistus o'er the turf to snow Its 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 around Their many tinged mosaic, midst dark grass, Bedded like jewels. He hath bounded on, Wild with delight!—the crimson on his cheek Purer and richer e'en than that which lies In this deep-hearted rose-cup!—Bright moss rose! Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree! Once thou wert cherished! and, by human love, Through many a summer duly visited
For thy bloom-offerings, which, o'er festal board, And youthful brow, and e'en the shaded couch Of long secluded sickness, may have shed A joy, now lost. Yet shall there still be joy, Where God hath poured forth beauty, and the voice Of human love shall still be heard in praise Over his glorious gifts!—O Father, Lord! The All Beneficent! I bless thy name, That thou hast mantled the green earth with flowers, Linking our hearts to nature! By the love Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first Into 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 whisperings And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude, The spirit wakes to worship, and is made Thy 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'st The lilies of the field with placid smile Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse Through his worn soul a more unworldly life, With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left His purer nature, with its fine desires, Uncared for in this universe of thine! The glowing rose attests it, the beloved Of poet hearts, touched by their fervent dreams With spiritual light, and made a source Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age Thou lend'st the vernal bliss:—the old man's eye Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul Remembers youth and love, and hopefully Turns unto thee, who call'st earth's buried germs From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up To put on glory, to be girt with power,
And filled with immortality. Receive Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons. And, most of all, their heavenward influences, O Thou that gav'st us flowers! Return, my boy, With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return! See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touched And glorified the ruin! glow-worm light Will twinkle on the dew-drops, e'er we reach Our home again. Come, with thy last sweet prayer At thy bless'd mother's knee, to-night shall thanks Unto our Father in his Heaven arise, For all the gladness, all the beauty shed O'er one rich day of flowers!