66 A small cascade, fresh swoln with rain, on seeing the daisies. Many note- Begone, thou fond, presumptuous elf," worthy tributes to this power of the Exclaimed a thundering voice; daisy might be quoted as Browning's "Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self in Italy, and Montgomery's in India Between me and my choice!" a power possessed in equal strength by no other blossom, and only approached by the primrose. Mackay's poem on the public reception accorded to the first primrose in Australia is excellent. How the lily divided the queenship of the garden with the rose I have already noted. The lily's height bespoke command, Thus threatened a poor briar rose. All through it is "the patient briar," and in its self-defence for presuming to grow on the waterfall, says: Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, With which I in my humble way, Would deck you many a winter's day, A happy eglantine. Between Herrick's death and Wordsworth's birth there is an interval of a century, and each was a master-gardener, so that taking two such authorities we make assurance doubly sure. Besides, Milton's "nature" is never very satisfactory. She seemed designed for Flora's hand, The sceptre of her power. And long before Cowper sang, the noble blossom had been known as the sceptre-flower of Juno, a greater goddess than Venus of the rose. Indeed, all time through, it has held almost In old-fashioned gardens a sweetbriar equal place with its rival. If one king hedge is to this day a frequent feature, instituted an Order of the Rose, another and it is worth noting that several poets, created the Order of the Lily, and each commencing with Chaucer, whose is set upon the battle-standard of na-hegge with sicamore was set and egtions. It is, like the rose, a saint's-day laterre," employ the plant as a fence flower, and Our Lady of the Lily is or screen. What is more odd, perhaps, one of the titles of the Virgin. And is the combination with the sweetbriar who does not know that in every coun- of the sycamore, a plant but seldom try the woman who is called "the lily " seen in hedges nowadays, and not at all must be passing beautiful? For every suitable for the purpose. Now the Fair Rosamond you shall find a Lily "sycamore" of England is really a Maid of Astolat. maple, and not the Sycamoros, and a smaller variety of maple is very comNext to these, in order of the honors monly used for hedges and for cutting conferred, come the primrose, the rose-out into arbors on account of its rapid mary, and the eglantine. Were it not growth, very twiggy nature, and close for a line in "Comus," where "the foliage: twisted eglantine" is encircled with "the sweetbriar and the vine," there would have been no noteworthy exception to the poets' agreement that the eglantine is the sweetbriar. Modest briar! odor shedding Down the lane to cottage doors; Might replenish from thy stores. part. In the "Hesperides" its use at How sweet thy modest, unaffected pride Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side! weddings My wooing's o'er: now my wedding's near, When gloves are giving, gilded be you there ; and its double use, whether at wedding Plucking the fairest with a rude delight; or funeral, — Grow for two ends, it matters not at all are briefly set forth; while the opening of Keats's address "To the Herb Rose mary," with characteristic delight in the melancholy, invites the flower to accompany the poet to his death, and himself carries to his own burial the sprigs which it was the custom for the mourners to carry. While the meek shepherd stops his simple song, To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight: O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring The welcome news of sweet returning Spring. And yet with all the gladness it brings, the "rathe primrose that forsaken dies " is eminently a sad flower. Herrick has them born weeping: Thus things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Sweet-scented flower! who art wont to Conceived with grief are, and with tears bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wint'ry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And as I twine the mournful wreath, And sweet the strain shall be, and long Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell Come, press my lips, and lie with me And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, To the primrose there is no end. As in nature, the sweet flower overspreads the poets' pages, careless of its company, always winsome, always welcome. Clare most delightfully in one short poem says nearly all there is to say: Welcome, pale primrose! Starting up be tween Dead matted leaves of ash and oak that strew The every lawn, the wood and spinney through, 'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green How much thy presence beautifies the ground! brought forth. girls who rejoice in its coming, and | Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend prize it above all the posies of the Like an unbidden guest. So welcome as a friend Whose zeal outrides his promise. changing year. As a matter of fact, But curiously marred by the poet sayinstead of being delicate and short-ing: lived, it is a very robust and sturdy little native with quite as long a blooming-time as most of the blossoms of the wild garden, and a thoroughly British aversion to being "wrapped in shrouds by inclement skies or any other agency. There is, however, one assailant against which the poor primrose tries in vain to flower, and that is the greenfinch. This bird has discovered, and, I believe, has taught the fact to others of the feathered race (the gardener's dread), that the young seeds of the primrose are a dainty mouthful, and it bites the flower through just at the top of the stalk, where the green calix springs. It cats no more, only that one fatal beakful, and leaves the blossom on the ground. The cowslip is saved no doubt by its longer stem, but I have known spots where the primroses covered the ground as closely as ivy, and budded abundantly, and yet not a flower could be found for picking after sunrise, while the blossom heads strewed the ground, each calix pinched through by the beak of the greenfinch and its companions at breakfast. It is curious perhaps that none of the poets noticed the prevailing "idea" of the primrose in legend-its mystic power of treasure-finding as one of the sesames of story. Why this most infelicitous line? It is a pity that the poets singing of this flower should have forgotten that tradition says the snowdrop was the first flower that bloomed outside Eden. It was created out of the falling snowflakes by an angel on purpose to stop Eve's heart from breaking in her great misery. Who does not know Herrick's address to the "Daffadils: " Fair daffadils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; Until the hasting day But to the evensong; What inspired the sweet singer with the fancy that "daffadils " are of such fleeting beauty? They last upon the stalk longer than many flowers, and when cut last longer still; but the fancy was fixed, for elsewhere, in his "Divination," he says: When a daffadil I see, Hanging down his head towards me, quean; women are For the rest of the flowers that can boast of special dedications, this article cannot suffice. The tulip is taken to task for its gaudiness, is called a " and young warned by Cavalier poets to take warning by the rapid fading of the "painted" flower. There is nothing worth quoting in these allusions, but in some volumes, scarcely perhaps so well known as they should be, I find two poems, one by "Langhorne," and one by "Mr. B—y," on the tulip, and 1 Pearch's Poems. Stay where ye will, or go, each is a finished piece of good work. | The only one of the series with a pretIn the one the tulip scoffs at the myr-tily phrased conceit is to the carnation: tle; in the other, at the lily of the valley. In both the flaunting "quean" is reproved by third parties (a zephyr and a bee), and in both the sun is the cause of the proud maid's undoing : With more than usual lustre bright, And shone with more than summer force. The vigorous warmth, with joy confest, And so forth. The other poem runs thus: Fierce on the flower the scorching beams The curling leaves the breast disclosed; And evening came with dews so cold, The wanton beauty ceased to blow, And sought her bending leaves to fold. Those leaves, alas! no more will close; Relaxed, exhausted, sickening, pale; They left her to a parent's woes, And fled before the rising gale. None of the other "poems" need more than passing notice. Herrick has whimsical versicles on the origin of various flowers. Thus, the wall-flower was a virgin who, hasting too fast to meet her lover, fell over the garden wall and broke her neck; the marigolds were old maids who turned yellow from jealousy, and though they died, never changed color; pansies (or heart'sease), words on which he is very fond of playing: Frolic virgins once these were, And their loss in blooming years, And leave no scent behind ye; I'm sure to find ye there. But the list, if I were to make it complete, would be almost as long as a list of the flowers of a garden. Do you remember in Leigh Hunt's "Feast of the Poets," how, when the company is assembled, by some charm or other, as each took his chair There burst a most beautiful wreath in his hair. I can't tell 'em all, but the groundwork was bay, And Campbell, in his, had some oak-leaves and may: And forget-me-not Rogers; and Moore had a vine, And Shelley besides most magnificent pine Had the plant which they least touch, Humanity knows ; And Keats's had forest-tree, basil, and rose; And Southey's some buds of the tall Eastern palm; And Coleridge mandragoras mingled with balm ; And Wordsworth, with all which the fieldwalk endears, The blossom that counts by its hundreds of years. In addition to these, Lytton's with his favorite jasmine and violets, Mackay's briony and bluebells, Burns and his daisies in ivy, Leigh Hunt's eglantine and poppies, Cunningham with his narcissus; while among the wreaths should surely have been the blossoms of the celandine and water-lily, may, cornflower, and lilac, and many others whom the poets individually addressed. It will be seen that I make no pretence of exploiting the Poets' Garden. I am merely a passer-by on the common road, and through the gates, and here and there where the hedge lets me see over or see through, get a peep at the pleasure-grounds within. The subject is an immense one, as beautiful as it is wide-spreading, but in these | passed away, and Visby, the ghost of few pages I have merely recorded some first impressions received in passing. PHIL ROBINSON. From Temple Bar. THE EYE OF THE BALTIC. its former self, lies half concealed behind its ancient walls, a medieval, wellnigh forgotten relic. Yet the Visby of to-day merits more attention than it obtains from visitors to Sweden and the Baltic. Its once fabulous wealth has departed from it. The housewives no longer, as in the old tradition, use golden spindles, nor do the hogs eat from silver troughs; while of the eighteen churches of which the town once boasted, seventeen lie in irretrievable ruin, wrecked, it would seem, rather by the ruthlessness of man than by the ravages of time. Still Visby, even in ruins we may say, indeed, because of its ruins and the associations that cling to them-is full of interest. Its early prosperity was largely due to the convenient position of Gotland in the Baltic, midway between the Swedish and Russian coasts. Until the new routes by Genoa and Venice and by the Cape of Good Hope were established, most of the commerce with the East passed through Russia, and Visby as a place of call became so prominent as to gain the name Queen of the Baltic, or the Eye of the Baltic. Old chroniclers assert that even Solomon in all his glory was poorer in gold and silver and precious stones than was this small city. THERE are places where the traveller is inclined to echo the words of Madame de Staël, "Voyager, c'est un triste plaisir." Visby in Gotland is such a place. Its silent, grass-grown streets, and the blackened ruins of its once stately churches, suggest a mournful retrospect. We recall the days when, conspicuous among the towns of the Hanseatic League, the busy city despatched its ships to every European port, and welcomed traders from all parts of the commercial world. Visby must have afforded a most picturesque scene during the thirteenth century—the zenith of its prosperity. A strange medley of different nationalities then congregated in the narrow streets and found shelter in the quaint, staircase-gabled houses, enriched with stained glass windows, carved doors, and frescoed walls. glories long since departed. Truly a strange medley, which included Russians, Germans, Dutch, and English, men from the far East and Scandinavian neighbors, cloistered monks and Visby was one of the first to be enburly friars, nuns and sisters of differ- rolled among the Hanse towns, and ent religious orders, with here and took a leading part in the famous there a pilgrim in travel-stained cape, League. Its maritime code has served trimmed with shells from the shores of as a model for most of the European Palestine. And elbowing their way navigation laws. From the first the through this throng were also royster-"eye" of the Baltic was mainly diing knights, who had, like Chaucer's rected to business. Its prosperity hero, "foughten for oure feith," attended by smart pages bearing bows and swords. The citizens themselves we may picture clad in tight doublets and breeches, short capes of Dutch cloth, and caps trimmed with fur, with long knives hanging from their leathern belts. When to the tongues of many nations was added the clang of the bells of eighteen churches tolling out for mass and prayer, the city must have been a very Babel. The motley crowd, with its busy din, has long since received royal recognition when Henry III. allowed the merchants of Gotland the privilege of free trade as regarded purchase and traffic in England. The enterprise of the traders enabled them to secure a double profit. They betook themselves, with other representatives of the League, to London, and established, close to Thames Street, a house called the Steelyard, which flourished for upwards of three centuries. Meanwhile the population increased rapidly in Visby, and the variety of religions |