Laurel. Bay. 
329 
It has been observed that Chaucer alludes to the genuine 
Parnassian laurel, and not to the usurper of the title, since he 
speaks of its delicious odour. 
Eliza Cook, in her symbolic poem of “ The Wreaths,” speaks 
of both: 
“ Whom do we crown with the laurel-leaf? 
The hero-god, the soldier chief; 
But we dream of the crushing cannon-wheel, 
Of the flying shot and the reeking steel, 
Of the crimson plain where warm blood smokes. 
Where clangour deafens and sulphur chokes; 
Oh, who can love the laurel wreath, 
Pluck’d from the gory field of death ? 
# % * * * * 
“ But there’s a green and fragrant leaf 
Betokens nor revelry, blood, nor grief; 
’T is the purest amaranth springing below. 
And rests on the calmest, noblest brow. 
It is not the right of the monarch or lord, 
Nor purchased by gold, nor won by the sword; 
For the lowliest temples gather a ray 
Of quenchless light from the palm of bay. 
“ Oh, beautiful bay! I worship thee— 
I homage thy wreath—I cherish thy tree; 
And of all the chaplets Fame may deal, 
’T is only to this one I would kneel. 
For as Indian fly to the banian branch, 
When tempests lower and thunders launch, 
So the spirit may turn from crowds and strife, 
And seek from the bay-wreath joy and life.” 
This popular poetess has also a thoroughly emblematical 
poem to her favourite bay-tree in her last collection of poems. 
