THE STORY OF A FLOWER.

Auckland Star, Volume V, Issue 1492, 21 November 1874, Page 5 (Supplement)

THE STORY OF A FLOWER.

By John Blackmaw.

On leaving dear old England for these warm New Zealand shores, Her meadows groen and forasta wide, her rivers and her moors ;.. ■ .",£ y I passed one day with nature in the nappy summer time, , . And heard the simple story which I ye turned into a rhyme. I saw a fine old mansion in the moonlight, dim and pale, Among the elms that cast their twilight shadows clown the vale ; And there I heard the story of a rare and lovely ilower, . Which lovers tell beneath those elms in love s ambrosial bower. Once in that spacious mansion lived a man of wealth and pride, Whose heart had" ne'er been softened in afflictions surging tide ; Whose golden means were ample, yet whose spirit yearned for more, Whilst round his thousand acres pined the many who were poor. His pleasant mansion, all alone, mid oaks and linden trees, All seeoaed to hint of riches, beauty, splendour, health and ease ; Whilst scenes around, all smiling, mossy lane and sylvan grove, Might well hare pleased a Gainsborough and won a Cowper's love. There sweetbriar grew in sweetness o'er the nigh!inhale's retreat, And o'er the lawn bloomed daisies white, whose very name is sweet, And roses decked the hedges by the silent village way ; Where Robin Bed-breast perched and san g his pretty evening lay. The owner of that mansion sought no lonely widow's cot; He fed his dogs, but never chesred the orphan's hapless lot. And when he died, and his remains passed from his oaken door, None praised his deeds—all looked unmoved, as though he had been poor. The autumn ere he died led on to winter cold and drear, And leaves by winds were blown along the pathway of the year ; Yet summer blessed the mansion, no dark sorrow entered there : At least not those of wiuter which the lowly have to bear. The fields were blank and cheerless, and tbe ) snow lay on the hills, The snowdrops opened early, and bright flowers with golden frills ; When the earl put forth his mandate from his crimson couch of rest, That none should take a cutting from the plant which he possessed. Now comes the true love story which I gathered in the vale, Which forms the love-fraught burden of my unpretending tale. The gardener loved a maiden — loved a modest cottage girl, — And love will not be fettered by the mandate of an earl. Fair Jenny, with her parents, lived anear the village mill, Hard by a row of poplars, by a clear and Bhinlng rill, Where cresses grew 'neath bushes, and where linnets oft would sing Among the white thorn blossoms 'mid the melodies of spring. Young Jenny was not proud like soma young ladies that I know, Who miss the path of duty for the outer path of show? And oft the honest gardener crossed the meadow and the mere To pass cne,hour with Jenny, whom he loved so very dear. One evening in the twilight, ere the night begaa t» lowar, Blithe Eobia stole a twiglet from the plant withia kis power, And from fhe green-house passed along beneath the lilac boughs Towards -the lane's green turning, where the lovers breathed their vows. I've called the gardener honest, but to steal that sprig was wrong, As all will oewn who listen to this history in song; But Robin, like most lovers, thought in love's enchanting heur The heart may breathe of secrets even through a purloined flower. "Ah, Jenny, love," sighed JRobin, "I have brought my love a prize : IVa stolen ifc from the greenhouse," and he looked Into her eyes ; " And I would have you cherish it, and may its future prove How true to Jenny is my heart—how faithful Robin's love 1" She placed it near the window, but a month had scarcely fled Ere something strangely whispered, See, thy stolen flower is dead. Waste no time in idle watching, oft the heart itself deceives, And love may change and wear the hue of sere and yellow leaves. Poor Jenny's heart then quickly throbbed with fancies none may know, And little shadows came and went, as shadows come and go. " Is Robin's flowret dead," she sighed, "and will his love, too, die ?" Such doubts would often come to her, and yet she knew not why. Weekq passed, and sweetly blushed the flower, by Nature's hand imbued, With deepening tints, 'mid circling leaves, which darkling doubts subdued. The earl's flower died and withered, while the maiden's, strong and hale, Lives and blooms in many a garden in that peaceful English vale 1