The Little Botanist

Not always written on the sky,
     Or in the clouds of stormy weather 
When blast and hurricane go by,
     Bowing the forest tops together,
Or calmer, in the sunny glen, — 
Or in the deeds of mighty men — 
Brave heroes who have dared to die 
For Truth, for Home, or Liberty, —
     God's living oracles have been; 
Nor grey-haired Bard, nor ancient Seer
     Alone are sent to spread before
     Our vision the immortal lore 
And Life, that one day shall appear; 
But 0, to him who knows the worth
     Of artless wisdom, undefiled 
By the deceitful guiles of Earth, 
How much of these is shadowed forth
     Even in a LITTLE CHILD.

Not far from where I dwelt a Boy, 
A Boy dwells now, whose soul of joy
     Awoke in me this thought; 
And drew me, by his heart's sunshine, 
In token of its light to mine, 
To fashion this memorial line.
     For joy within me wrought. 
I have no gaudy tale to tell 
Of what that simple child befell, 
To captive idle ears, or make 
The breathless heart of wonder quake;
     But if within his Soul is aught
     Of light, by this dim mirror caught, 
Which in another's Soul may wake 
One nobler impulse, for his sake 
I speak, and am rewarded well.

I saw him by his Father's gate, 
A ruddy boy of seven or eight, 
Who at a glance might seem, in sooth, 
Of manners artless and uncouth; 
But there was something in the working 
     Of his deep brow, and eye, so fraught 
     With the light shade of passing Thought, 
Which told what Soul within was lurking.

A merry lad he was that day, 
     Exulting in a new-found prize,
And by his side a lamb at play 
     Mimicked his sportive ecstasies
Fellow of both, in frolic glee 
     A petted dog ran sniffing there, 
     Coated with curls of soft brown hair 
     And breast as white as lilies are ;
Right blithe companions were the three!

     With joy the lamb leapt, and with joy
     Leapt the glad dog, and leapt the Boy 
With deeper joy, which could not wait
     To find an utterance on his tongue, 
As o'er the ditch, and through the gate,
     Merry as he might be he sprung. 
His features kindled with delight,
     And ‘neath a forehead high and bowed 
His soft blue eyes were beaming bright,
     Like sky-lakes 'neath a moonlit cloud. 
His heart was full and running o'er
     From laughing eye and curling lip, 
As with the darling flowers he bore — 
New flowers he had not seen before, —
     He seemed in joyous fellowship: 
And even amid his merriest dance 
There beamed such pity in his glance, 
That one could not refuse to bless 
The Boy for his sweet tenderness.

Whether his Thoughts knew words or no,
I know not now; if haply so, 
That laugh, and leap, and look of his, 
     Wedded to language which would tell 
     What they revealed to me so well,
Might flow into a song like this.

                                      I.
"Ha, ha! Ye thought ye had hid in the rocks
   Where the little marmots dwell, 
Or crept away from the eye, and shocks 
Of the storm, in the hedge, where the robber fox
   Hath fashioned his cavern well.

                                      II.
   "But vain the thought, for ye well may know
   I can catch the peep of your eyes; 
And since the sun has drunk up the snow, 
I've sought for ye high, and sought for ye low, 
   Till now ye are all my prize.

                                      III.
   "O beautiful flowers, had ye only sprung
   Where I wander every day, 
And here your buds and bells had swung 
In the gentle breeze, when the day was young,
   I would never have torn ye away.

                                      IV.
   "But you might long have filled the air 
   With scents, and a silver chime,
As the armed Bee came humming there, 
Repaying with music the sweets ye'd spare, 
   Through the sunny summer time.

                                      V.
   "I fear ye may wither and fade in the sun,
   As his noon-day beams appear, 
Yet then, as now, I will still love on, 
And though ye wither away each one,
   To me ye 'll be ever as dear.

                                      VI.
   “For you my heart, all over the hills
   Went out, in my dreaming hours, 
And where a fresh green betrayed the rills, 
Where the Pee-weets dip their little bills,
   It dwelt among the flowers.

                                      VII.
   "O the cool and joyous morning time;
   When the buds unlock their cells, 
How sweet is't then, o'er the hills to climb, 
And hunt the plants in their dewy prime,
   Where the spring from its moss-cup wells;

                                      VIII.
   "In glens where the earliest bird -notes rung, 
   Through the woody paths to tread,
Where the Spider's-web on the bush is hung, 
With beads of gold and diamond strung 
   On every glittering thread.

                                      IX.

   "Bright flowers! ye are mine, though I know it's a grief
   To your kind, that ye are gone; 
But I've bound ye up in a delicate sheaf. 
And kissed the dew from each velvet leaf,
   So do not droop forlorn.

                                      X.
   "I’ll bury your roots in a beautiful vase,
   And water you every day. 
Then will ye not look with a joyful face, 
Whenever I come to your resting place,
   My bonny flowers and gay!"

   Then crowed the lad for very joy,
     And leapt o'er stone-heap grey, and log
   The lamb ran frisking with the Boy, 
     Ran frisking with them both, the dog.

   He was a Boy who well might be
     His 'father's hope, his mother's pride,' 
   Though given oft to such rude glee, 
   Yet a most thoughtful lad was he, —

Even in his very infancy 
Viewing with high Philosophy,
     Whatever might betide. 
The heavy tomes of bard or sage, 
That baffled oft maturer age, 
He bent above with eager thirst, 
And there his infant wonder nurst; 
For with like ease he would devour 
The hidden lore of book, or flower; 
But chiefly 'twas his joy to be
     Amid the old and silent wood,
     Communing with its solitude,
       And making it sweet company: 
And many a long and weary jaunt,
     With dog and lamb, the child would take; 
No fear his simple heart to daunt,
     As, threading woodland path and brake, 
He paused at every blooming plant
     To greet it for its beauty's sake. 
No living thing would do him harm,
     He had a heart so full of love; 
The snake would check his evil charm, 
And round the hazel stems entwine 
His lithe form, in a spiral line, —
     While on the ashen bough above,
     The hawk sat quiet as the dove; 
For nought could do a cruel deed,
Which came within his gentle heed:
And every little bird which flew,
     Would sing to him with right good will, 
For well the merry warblers knew
     The Boy had not a thought of ill.

His home was on the woodland marge, 
     Retired from Labor's busy din,
Fit place to make his bosom large, 
     By nursing of the heart within.
There soulless traffic had not thrust 
     Green Nature from her regal throne, 
     Torn from her breast the bosky zone,
And trod her children in the dust;
The birds had not been taught to know,
In every man, a wanton foe ;
And though the nimble rabbit flew,
If, wandering, ye came in view,
You'd see him at a moment's turn
Nibbling his clover in the fern.
There trod the Boy untrodden ways,
Save where the kine went forth to graze,
Or silly sheep, in sinuous file,
Through pastures tracked. their grassy aisle
Beside him, innocent as he, 
     Companions of his every mood,
The dog and lamb would ever be, 
     In sunny field, and shady wood.

I've seen him on a summer's day,
When all his fellows were at play, —
Or close immured in District School
To acquire stupidity by rule, —
Go out alone with thoughtful mien,
Far off beneath the leafy screen, —
While all the feathered Bards of June
Poured many a song in cheeriest tune.
Until the dizzy air would swim
Inebriate with their bridal hymn,
As Beauty's Spirit, young and warm,
Was wed to her enamored Form;
And there, long past the morning hour.
He 'd wander on from flower to flower,
With the slow step which comes of thought,
     And the calm joy reflection brings,— 
Like some immortal Bard who sought
     Communion with the Soul of Things; 
Half-seemed it that his musings rare 
Played visibly around him there, 
As over his serene high brow 
Light quivered through the quivering bough.

He loved all Nature, and a thrill
     Of joy would fire his infant blood,
As in the vale, or on the hill,
     He read the life of leaf and bud :
And to each shrub and plant assigned 
Its place beside its brother kind; 
And many a humble plant he sought,
     Nor scorned the humblest, for the Boy 
Had learned of Nature, who had nought
     But was to him a very joy.
 There was no flower, of field or grove, 
But loved to bloom for him to love; 
And they would almost seem to give
     New fragrance at his passing by, 
Glad in the quiet light to live,
     Of his love-beaming eye.

They were the earliest friends he knew — 
     Those bright-eyed children of the wood; 
He cherished them with heart as true
     As now, even in his babyhood. 
How cunningly he would peep out, 
     Himself a rose-bud, from his bed, 
     Among the flowers which garlanded 
His cradle round about; 
They seemed his little sisters then — 
Fair sisters, who with woven arms 
Came lovingly, in all their charms, 
To kiss him o'er and o'er again; 
And every kiss of every flower 
     Would lend its perfume to his heart,
And in their sweet breath, hour by hour.
     Would sweet affections start; 
For lovely things have ever power
     A kindred loveliness to impart. 
So grew his care for pleasant plants
     Still stronger, with his daily growth. 
Till he could tread their native haunts,
     And then he would go out, not loth 
To wander far alone, and roam 
Among them in their dewy home: 
And he would muse among the fields
     Upon the many things he found; 
With what sweet will the young grass yields 
Its fragrance, though by careless heels
     Crushed, trodden to the ground; 
How even the smallest drop of dew 
When to its God, the Fire-orb, true,
Gives back a spark of heavenly flame — 
A light betraying whence it came; 
How blushingly the modest Rose
     Receives the warm kiss of the sun; 
Or with what sweet dependence grows 
The ‘gold-thread,' where the streamlet flows, 
Clinging around the alders there, 
And waving in the stirring air, 
Like a bright mesh of flaming hair,
     Once Berenice's own ;
Or bowing by the quiet rill —
     His mirrored form before him, — 
Learn how his soul, serene and still,
     May catch the glory brooding o'er him; 
And when the winds the surface rend
     And bid the subtle shapes depart, 
See how the blasts of passion send
     Heaven's beauty from the troubled heart.

But more he mused on leaf and herb
     And knowledge from their features wrought, 
Far off where nothing might disturb
     The quiet current of his thought. 
He felt the moral of the spring,
     Unconscious of it as the birds, 
And glad as they his heart would sing,
     Though it should never flow in words. 
Each little flower wreathed a Soul
     Which fed the spirit of its lover, 
And softly from its petals stole
     Into the blue eyes bending over: 
Slight grace, and prideless heroism,
     The Anemone his Nature lent, 
As up from ruin's blank abysm
     She led the young Year's armament: 
The violets from their own blue eyes
     Sent strength and courage to be lowly —
Content to bathe in heavenly dyes
     Tho’ weeds outsoar'd them heav'n-ward wholly: 
Ears up, lips parted, form erect.
     Straining to catch the faintest lay
     Of Zephyr for the dying May,
     The wild-pinks stood, and by their mien 
Bade him, with sudden impulse checked, 
List breathless, as he did expect
     Some whisper from the Great Unseen! 
The lily with its odorous breath,
     Pure, floating over rank decay, 
Like a white spirit o'er the death 
And sin-slime of our world, who hath
     Her Angel-whiteness kept for aye — 
Told him the tale it uttereth 
To all whose hearts hear what it saith,
     Sweet lore that might not pass away, 
Teaching how foulest deeps may bring 
Into sweet life, the fairest thing. 
And all the flowers that meet the kiss
     Of summer winds, or summer sun, 
Made wise his open heart, for this,
     That he did love them every one. 
He loved their form and varied hue, 
But not as men have loved a bride — 
Whose passion, like a feeble lamp, 
Is quenched in every passing damp,
To her, in beauty, seeming true;
But when the first flush is withdrawn,
And youth and buoyancy are gone,
     Then coldly casting her aside,— 
But though his flowers shrunk away 
And withered with a pale decay, 
His earnest heart would love them still,
     Aye, deeper than before, 
As if a portion of their ill
     Its gentle nature bore; 
For as their primal loveliness 
Of form and hue grew less and less, — 
As to a brother in distress, —
     He clung to them the more, 
And wept when he at last must part 
With what so well had cheered his heart.

There was no plant beneath his tread
     That he would pass unheeding by, 
He knew the names of all, and read 
     Their features with unerring eye; 
For Science shed into his mind 
The beauty ,of her light refined, 
And it was given back so fair, 
It seemed a radiant nature there.

There may be many a youthful peer
Of his, to love and beauty dear,
But other such I have not seen, 
So buoyant-hearted, yet serene, 
A child in tender years so green,
     Yet ripe in pleasant lore; 
Full many a taller youth I ween, 
Would bear his lamp of knowledge dim 
Beside the clearer light of him,
     Though oft replenished o'er and o'er.

Full well I deem, to see him now,
     That glory, in some after day
     His search for wisdom to repay, 
Will bind the laurel on his brow, 
And high upon the enduring scroll 
His name among the wise enroll. 
Yet Boy! though Fame award thee nought,
     And though thy morning star should fail
     Before thy sun has pierced its veil, 
Yet, for the lessons thou hast taught 
Of pure love that despiseth naught, 
And of the power and joy of thought, 
We cannot deem thy race as one 
Which left a noble deed undone! 
Such love as thine no fame shall need, 
It is its own surpassing meed, 
Though summoned now, whatever pain
     To us thy going Home might cost,
Thy presence has not been in vain,
     Or thy example lost. 
There is no soul, which walks aright
     And lives in Nature's simple truth, 
Though in the weeds of Penury dight,
     And eke the form of earliest youth, 
But hath its mission to fulfil
     In life, or deed of holy birth, 
Which works unseen the Eternal Will, 
As work the dew-drops on the hill 
From heaven gliding soft and still,
     To bless and purify the earth.