I often ask myself what will become of Rydal Mount after our
day. Will the old walls and steps remain in front of the house and
about the grounds, or will they be swept away with all the
beautiful mosses and ferns and wild geraniums and other flowers
which their rude construction suffered and encouraged to grow
among them?--This little wild flower--"Poor Robin"--is here
constantly courting my attention, and exciting what may be called
a domestic interest with the varying aspects of its stalks and
leaves and flowers. Strangely do the tastes of men differ
according to their employment and habits of life. "What a nice
well would that be," said a labouring man to me one day, "if all
that rubbish was cleared off." The "rubbish" was some of the most
beautiful mosses and lichens and ferns and other wild growths that
could possibly be seen. Defend us from the tyranny of trimness and
neatness showing itself in this way! Chatterton says of freedom--
"Upon her head wild weeds were spread;" and depend upon it if "the
marvellous boy" had undertaken to give Flora a garland, he would
have preferred what we are apt to call weeds to garden-flowers.
True taste has an eye for both. Weeds have been called flowers out
of place. I fear the place most people would assign to them is too
limited. Let them come near to our abodes, as surely they may
without impropriety or disorder.
NOW when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And humbler growths as moved with one desire
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content
With a hard bed and scanty nourishment,
Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking power
To rival summer's brightest scarlet flower;
And flowers they well might seem to passers-by
If looked at only with a careless eye;
Flowers--or a richer produce (did it suit
The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit.
But while a thousand pleasures come unsought,
Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought?
Is the string touched in prelude to a lay
Of pretty fancies that would round him play
When all the world acknowledged elfin sway?
Or does it suit our humour to commend
Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend,
Whose practice teaches, spite of names to show
Bright colours whether they deceive or no?--
Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will
With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill
Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill;
Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now,
Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow:
Yet more, we wish that men by men despised,
And such as lift their foreheads overprized,
Should sometimes think, where'er they chance to spy
This child of Nature's own humility,
What recompence is kept in store or left
For all that seem neglected or bereft;
With what nice care equivalents are given,
How just, how bountiful, the hand of Heaven.
Title: The small wild Geranium known by that name.