Rosemary.... Remembrance.
Reading edition
The Rosemary is so often mentioned by our early writers, both in prose, poetry, and our oldest dramas, that a long article, possessing great interest to such as love old-fashioned things, might be written upon it. The Rosemary was used both at their feasts and their funerals,—the christening-cup was stirred with it, and it was worn at their marriage ceremonies. Shakspeare has chosen it for the emblem of Remembrance, and who would attempt to change the meaning of a flower which his genius has hallowed, or disturb a leaf over which he has breathed his holy “superstition?”—in memory of him we use the latter word in all reverence. A few years ago it was customary, in many parts of England, to plant slips of Rosemary over the dead; nor has the practice yet fallen altogether into disuse—rural cemeteries will revive these ancient customs. Shakspeare chose the Rosemary as the emblem of affectionate remembrance, for its flowering in winter,—a very poetic and touching allusion. The sweet maniac, Ophelia, says,
There’s Rosemary, “That for remembrance, I pray you love, remember.” I loved thee, and must love thee still, In memory of the past Amid whate’er of earthly ill My future lot is cast! E’er in my boyhood’s sunny prime, When brightly from the urn of Time Life’s golden moments fell, Thou wert a peri to my eyes, Sent from Love’s own sweet paradise, In my young heart to dwell. New York Mirror.
Remember me, I pray; but not In Flora’s gay and blooming hour, When every brake hath found its note, And sunshine smiles in every flower; But when the falling leaf is sere, And withers sadly from the tree, And o’er the ruins of the year Cold autumn weeps,—remember me. Edward Everett.
The north wind howls; but, sheltered safe, and warm, Howl as it may, we feel secure from danger: The fire burns blue, “betokening a storm”— A brand falls down, “precursor of a stranger.” My thoughtful mind runs o’er the track of years, When, tongs in hand, at our old hearth I sat, And poked the embers, till my mother’s fears Broke in upon the usual social chat, “You’ll fire the chimney, son!” The sparks would fly, Like little lumps of lightning up the flue, And snap and crackle as they soared on high, As if they felt some pleasure in it too! That fire is out—that hearth is cold—and they Who felt its pleasant warmth have mostly passed away. MacKellar.