Nightshade, or Bitter-sweet.

171

Pope.

Truth needs no flowers of speech.

When fiction rises pleasing to the eye,
Men will believe, because they love the lie;
But truth herself, if clouded with a frown,
Must have some solemn proofs to pass her down.

All truth is precious, if not all divine,

Churchill.

And what dilates the powers must needs refine.

Cowper.

Verily there is nothing so false, that a sparkle of truth

is not in it.

Tupper.

This above all, to thine own self be true;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Shakspeare.

What is truth?—a staff rejected.

Wordsworth.

It is a weary and a bitter task

Back from the lip the burning word to keep,

And to shut out heaven's air with falsehood's mask,
And in the dark urn of the soul to heap

Indignant feelings—making e'en of thought
A buried treasure.

Mrs. Hemans.

THE SWEET FLAG-ACORUS CALAMUS.... Grace.

One autumn eve I sat alone

Beside my study fire;

I'd written long, and eyes and head
And fingers 'gan to tire.

I rose to shut my desk, and go—
Quite weary—half asleep—
A book fell open as I moved;

E'en sleepy eyes must peep;

And, pictured on its page, I saw
The portrait of a friend,

Whose smiling face bade my dull thoughts
To happy memories wend.

It was the tall, sweet-scented Flag,
Lay pictured there so true,

I could have deemed some fairy hand
The faithful image drew.

The falchion-leaves, all long and sharp;
The stem, like a tall leaf too,
Except where, halfway up its side,
A cone-shaped flower-spike grew,

Like a lady's finger, taper, long,
From end to end arrayed

In close scale-armour, that was all
Of starry flowers made.

If you could fancy fairy folk
Would mimic works of ours,
You'd think their dainty fingers here
Had wrought mosaic flowers.

The tiny petals, neatly formed,
With geometric skill,

Are each one so exactly shaped,
Its proper place to fill.

And stamens, like fine golden dust, Spangle the flowerets green; Aught more compact and beautiful, Mine eyes have never seen!

How well I know when first I met
The Sweet Flag's graceful form;
'Twas on a glowing summer's day,
Mid hearts as bright and warm.

Mid hearts as warm as sunny gleams,
And eyes as kind and bright,
And spirits that, like sunshine too,
Are cheering, loved, and light.

We gathered there the Acorus
From Claremont's quiet lake;
And home with me, full many a mile,
I did the pale flower take.

'Twas new to me, but yet is not
So very scarce and rare,
As many a river knoweth well;
None better than the Yare!

For by its banks abundantly
The fragrant tall leaves grow;
Singing with reedy rustling voice,
Whene'er soft breezes blow.

The Mayor of Norwich holds in June
His annual feast and show;
And to the grand cathedral church
Processions with him go.

And then the gray and solemn aisles,
And all the ancient floor,
Are with the aromatic leaves
Bestrewed thickly o'er.

In by-gone days the costly fumes
Of incense here were shed;
But sweeter far the fragrant gush
That greets each passing tread.

In the sordid streets are bowers built,
Of these same reeds as well,
Plaited and wrought like basket-work,
All full of spicy smell.

And many a queer and quaint device Are round about them made,

Of the gold and red ranunculus,

In varied shape and shade.

Oh! many a young and guileless heart
Is blithe as blithe can be,

To walk through Norwich streets that morn,
The decked out bowers to see.

In far gone times, ere folks had grown
So mighty nice and clever—
When carpets were unheard-of things,
And druggets dreamed of never—

When wide bare floors of good hard mud
Or stone, not over even,

Were all that unto knightly strides,

Or dames' light steps, were given—

When common rushes strewed the halls
Where royal banquets were—
How precious must these reeds have been
Beside the banks of Yare!

I can fancy high and dainty dames
Sending stout serving-men

To gather store of these sweet Flags,
From river, pool, and fen.

Perhaps to strew a lady's bower,

Perhaps the castle hall,

Where warlike lords and knights should meet At stately festival.