I cannot, however, refrain from giving a
passage from Shakespeare, even though it should appear trite,
which illustrates the emblematical meaning often conveyed in
these floral tributes, and at the same time possesses that magic
of language and appositeness of imagery for which he stands
pre-eminent.
With fairest flowers,
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor
The azured harebell like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander,
Outsweetened not thy breath.
There is certainly something more affecting in these prompt and
spontaneous offerings of Nature than in the most costly monuments
of art; the hand strews the flower while the heart is warm, and
the tear falls on the grave as affection is binding the osier
round the sod; but pathos expires under the slow labor of the
chisel, and is chilled among the cold conceits of sculptured
marble.
It is greatly to be regretted that a custom so truly elegant and
touching has disappeared from general use, and exists only in the
most remote and insignificant villages. But it seems as if
poetical custom always shuns the walks of cultivated society.
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