Oh, Flora, sweetest Flora, goddess bright,
Impersonation of selectest things,
The soul and spirit of a thousand springs
Bodied in all their loveliness and light,
A delicate creation of the mind,
Fashioned in its divinest, daintiest mould,
In the bright age of gold,
Before the world was wholly lost and blind,
But saw and entertained with thankful heart
The gods as guests,-Oh Flora, goddess dear,
Immaculate, immortal as thou art,
Thou wert a maiden once, like any here,
And thou didst tend thy flowers with proper care,
And shield them from the sun and chilly air,
Wetting thy little sandals through and through,
As all flower-maidens must in morning dew,
Roving among the urns and mossy pots,
About the hedges and the garden plots,
Straightening and binding up the drooping stalks
That kissed thy sweeping garments in the walks,
Setting thy dibble deep and sowing seeds,
And careful-handed plucking out the weeds,
A simple flower-girl, and lowly born,
Till Zephyr bore thee to the heavens away;—
And thus it was,-flying one pleasant morn
Behind the golden chariot of the day,
Sighing amid the winged laughing Hours,
In love with something bright which haunted him,
Sleeping on beds of flowers in arbors dim,
Twined his invisible fingers in thy hair,
And, stooping, kissed thee with his odorous mouth And chased thee flying in thy garden shades, And wooed, as men are wont to woo the maids, And won at last, and then flew back to heaven, Pleading with Jove till his consent was given, And thou wert made immortal,-happy day !— The goddess of the flowers and Queen of May!
Oh Flora, sweetest Flora, hear us now,
Gathered to worship thee in shady bowers;
Accept the benediction and the vow
We offer thee that thou hast spared the flowers; The Spring has been a cold belated one,
Dark clouds and showers, and a little sun,
And in the nipping mornings, hoary frost;
We hoped, but feared the tender seeds were lost,
But, thanks to thee, at last they 'gan to grow,
Pushing their slender shoots above the ground
In cultured gardens trim, and some were found
Beside the edges of the banks of snow,
Like spring-thoughts in the heart of Winter old,
Or children laughing o'er a father's mould.
And now the sward is full and teems with more,
Earth never was so bounteous before;
Here are red roses, throwing back their hoods
Like willing maids, to greet the kissing wind;
And here are violets from sombre woods,
With tears of dew within their lids enshrined,
Lilies like little maids in bridal white,
Or in their burial garments if you will;
And here is that bold flower, the daffodil,
That peers i' th' front of March, and daisies bright,
The vestals of the morn, and crocuses,
Snow-drops, like specks of foam on stormy seas,
And yellow buttercups that gem the fields,
Like studs of richest gold on massive shields,
Anemones that sprang in golden years,
(The story goes, they were not seen before,)
Where young Adonis, tusked by the boar,
and Venus rained her tears-
(Look in their hearts a small ensanguined spot!)
And here is pansy and forget-me-not,
And trim Narcissus, vain and foolish elf,
Enamoured (would you think it?) of himself,
Rooted beside a crystal brook, his glass!
And drooping Hyacinthus, slain, alas !
By rudest Auster, blowing in the stead
Of Zephyrus, then in Flora's meshes bound,
Pitching with bright Apollo in his ground
He blew the discus back and struck him dead!
Pied wind-flowers, oxlips, and the jessamine,
The sleepy poppy and the eglantine,
Primroses, Dian's flowers that ope at night,
And here's that little sun, the marigold,
And fringed pinks, and water lilies, bright
As floating naiads in the river cold;
Carnations, gilliflowers, and savory rue,
And rosemary that loveth tears for dew,
And many nameless flowers and pleasant weeds.
That grow untended, in the marshy meads
Where flags shoot up and ragged grasses wave
Perennial, when autumn seeks her grave
Among the withered leaves; and breezes blow
A dirge, and winter weaves a shroud of snow.
Flowers! oh what loveliness there is in flowers!
What food for thought and fancy rich and new!
What shall we liken or compare them to?
Stars in this trodden firmament of ours;
Jewels and rare mosaics, dotting o'er
Creation's tessellated palace floor;
Or beauty's dials, marking with their leaves.
The pomp and flight of golden morns and eves;
Illuminate missals open on the meads,
Bending with rosaries of dewy beads;
Or characters inscribed on nature's scrolls,
Or sweet thoughts from the heart of mother earth;
Or wind-rocked cradles, where the bees in rolls
Of odorous leaves are wont to lie in mirth,
Full-hearted, murmuring the hours away
Like little children busy at their play;
Or cups and beakers of the butterflies,
Brimming with nectar; or a string of bells
Tolling unheard a requiem for the hours!
Or censers swinging incense to the skies;
Pavilions, tents, and towers,
The little fortresses of insect powers,
Winding their horns within; or magic cells,
Where little fairies dream the time away,
Night elfins slumbering all a summer's day;
Sweet nurslings thou art wont to feed with dew
From out thy urns, replenished in the blue.—
But this is idlesse all !-away! away!
White-handed maids, and scatter buds around,
And let the lutes awake and tabours sound,
And every heart its due devotion pay.
Once more we thank thee, Flora, and once more
Perform our rites, as we were used to do.
Oh bless us, smile upon us, fair and true,
And watch the flowers till summer's reign is o'er;
Preserve the seeds we sow in winter time
From burrowing moles, and blight, and icy rime,
And in their season cause the shoots to rise,
And make the dainty buds unseal their eyes,
And we will pluck the finest, and entwine
Chaplets, and lay them on thy rural shrine,
And sing our choral hymns, melodious, sweet,
And dance with nimble feet,
And worship thee as now, serenely gay
The goddess of the flowers and Queen of May !
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