The Sweet Flag—Acorus Calamus.... Grace.

One autumn eve I sat alone Beside my study fire; I’d written long, and eyes and head And fingers ’gan to tire. I rose to shut my desk, and go— Quite weary—half asleep— A book fell open as I moved; E’en sleepy eyes must peep; And, pictured on its page, I saw The portrait of a friend, Whose smiling face bade my dull thoughts To happy memories wend. It was the tall, sweet-scented Flag, Lay pictured there so true, I could have deemed some fairy hand The faithful image drew. The falchion-leaves, all long and sharp; The stem, like a tall leaf too, Except where, halfway up its side, A cone-shaped flower-spike grew, Like a lady’s finger, taper, long, From end to end arrayed In close scale-armour, that was all Of starry flowers made. If you could fancy fairy folk Would mimic works of ours, You’d think their dainty fingers here Had wrought mosaic flowers. The tiny petals, neatly formed, With geometric skill, Are each one so exactly shaped, Its proper place to fill. And stamens, like fine golden dust, Spangle the flowerets green; Aught more compact and beautiful, Mine eyes have never seen! How well I know when first I met The Sweet Flag’s graceful form; ’Twas on a glowing summer’s day, Mid hearts as bright and warm. Mid hearts as warm as sunny gleams, And eyes as kind and bright, And spirits that, like sunshine too, Are cheering, loved, and light. We gathered there the Acorus From Claremont’s quiet lake; And home with me, full many a mile, I did the pale flower take. ’Twas new to me, but yet is not So very scarce and rare, As many a river knoweth well; None better than the Yare! For by its banks abundantly The fragrant tall leaves grow; Singing with reedy rustling voice, Whene’er soft breezes blow. The Mayor of Norwich holds in June His annual feast and show; And to the grand cathedral church Processions with him go. And then the gray and solemn aisles, And all the ancient floor, Are with the aromatic leaves Bestrewèd thickly o’er. In by-gone days the costly fumes Of incense here were shed; But sweeter far the fragrant gush That greets each passing tread. In the sordid streets are bowers built, Of these same reeds as well, Plaited and wrought like basket-work, All full of spicy smell. And many a queer and quaint device Are round about them made, Of the gold and red ranunculus, In varied shape and shade. Oh! many a young and guileless heart Is blithe as blithe can be, To walk through Norwich streets that morn, The decked out bowers to see. In far gone times, ere folks had grown So mighty nice and clever— When carpets were unheard-of things, And druggets dreamed of never— When wide bare floors of good hard mud Or stone, not over even, Were all that unto knightly strides, Or dames’ light steps, were given— When common rushes strewed the halls Where royal banquets were— How precious must these reeds have been Beside the banks of Yare! I can fancy high and dainty dames Sending stout serving-men To gather store of these sweet Flags, From river, pool, and fen. Perhaps to strew a lady’s bower, Perhaps the castle hall, Where warlike lords and knights should meet At stately festival. How often in the chapel too, The fresh-thrown reeds might lie; While the tears and smiles of a bridal band Went softly passing by! And they were there when sorrow deep Wept the untimely doom Of young, and bright, and beautiful, Borne to the ancestral tomb. In sooth it is an ancient thing, This new-found friend of mine, And many a scene of joy and wo Hath it known in days lang syne. I love it for them all right well, But yet I love it more For the fairy scene that lay around Its home on that lakeless shore: Beside the bank the stately trees Waved gently to and fro, And flitting specks of sunlight fell The leafy branches thro’, And danced among the tall keen reeds, And on the water fell, Where the merry fish were glancing swift; And the water snake, as well, Came, gliding in a graceful curl All silently and still, Like a lord in his own dominions there, Swimming about at will. Now toward the margin where we stood We saw him steering on,— Then under groups of lily leaves The happy thing was gone. And wild-fowl, water-rats, and all, Lived in that little lake; Oh, what a pleasant picture now My thoughts of it awake! Its margent of smooth lawny turf Was mossy, soft, and deep, Where the shadows broad of the beech and oak Seemed quietly to sleep. The rhododendrons, purple yet With many a massive wreath, Had seedling plants, a countless host, Crowding the turf beneath. I dearly love small relics brought From spots where I have been, That seem to certify the facts Of memory’s pictured scene; But seeds and roots of flowers are The pleasantest of all;— I’ve Broom-seeds from a heathy glen, And ferns from an old stone wall. Of wall-flower slips and roots I’ve got So many, that I’m fain, Dear as they are to me, to turn Many adrift again. My ivy-plant from Tintern’s braved Four winters’ stormy weather; I’ve scraps, too, from proud Kenilworth, And here they grow together. The feathery seeds of clematis In Goodrich I have caught; Hartstongue from Ragland’s lofty keep, With maiden-hair, I brought. And so at Claremont, where the crowd Of rhododendrons grew, My whims were humoured, and I now Am rearing one or two. And e’en those little things can bring Before me, passing well, The very nook where the scented leaves Of the graceful calamus dwell. Louisa A. Twamley.