• K* e s THE VOICE OF THE GARDEN THE VOICE OF THE GARDEN • COMPILED BY • LUCY LEFFINGWELL CABLE BIKLfi WITH A PREFACE BY GEORGE W. CABLE LONDON : JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY. MCMXII Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON &• Co. At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh PREFACE AMONG all the arts music alone can render to poetic verse such enhancing effect as can the art of gardening. Save only sculpture and architecture no artist's product brings such enhancement to the garden as does the book of the poet. To bring the book of verses underneath the bough, especially the blossoming bough, for the more perfect enjoyment of both, is so obviously right and rewarding that to declare it so seems out of tune with the doing of it. A merest hint of the alliance so sets the harmonies of the spirit into vibration that a justifying word is like a spoken praise of music in the midst — or, quite as bad, in advance — of its performance, and this fore- word would itself be without excuse did it not say something more. Hence this : That between garden and verse there is so close a kinship that the rules of art for either are adequate for the other. Poetic verse is the gardening of thought. Gardening is the versi- fication of nature's poetry. Of such an affinity are the two that a merging of their powers is one of those blessed cases in which one and one make vi PREFACE eleven. Blessed, because such multiplication of their influences upon us is something which our present-day life most genuinely needs. In our modern world, so hotly busy cooking its feast that it has no time nor heart to sit down to it, we find few moments, few nooks, wherein poetry may take effect on us. We need poetry. We need poetical perception ; not for softness, but for strength. On at least one side of the Atlantic there are readers of English verse, semi-occasional, far-behindhand readers, millions of us, who until lately have left the garden not out of our daily lives alone, but out of our characters. Our souls, like our comfortable houses, go unenclosed from the street, the highway, and are not gardened. There may be some like us across the seas, even in those mother isles where gardening is so beautiful. We need poetry, need to realise it round about us and in us ; need it as practically as the blood needs iron or salt ; and if verse can make the garden — garden make the verse — more alluring and assimil- able, and if the two, joining their spells, can find us those nooks in time and place wherein the resolution of life's prose into poetry is made easy for beginners or backsliders, then there is an alliance, a reciprocity, an entente worth while — worth while ! And such, I am allowed to say, is the purpose of this volume. There is no call here for explanatory comments 011 what follows ; no need to lay the tip of the pointer upon this or that, or even to say that there PREFACE vii are poems naturally belonging to such a collection, which, it is to be regretted, are not here ; that always has to happen. " I have the honour " — that is all. Yet one word more begs for place : That these poems might never have been gathered into one company had not its collector been brought up in a garden, a story-teller's garden, and grown up with it, a loving companion of its birds, its flowers, its bees and butterflies, its bordering and intersecting waters, the clouds in the blue above it, its liberty and all its disciplinary order and resultant loveliness. GEORGE W. CABLE. NORTHAMPTON, MASSACHUSETTS, July 1911. EDITOR'S NOTE THE editor wishes to make grateful acknowledgment of the courtesy shown her by Mr. Theodore Watts- Dunton, in his kind permission to include in this collection Mr. Swinburne's " A Forsaken Garden " ; cordial thanks are extended also to Mr. William Dean Howells, to Mr. Nathan Haskell Dole, to Mrs. Hinkson, to Mrs. Gurney, to Mrs. Payne Whitney, to Mr. Rossiter W. Raymond, and to Mr. Bliss Carman for the use of their own poems ; to Mrs. William Sharp for her kindness in permitting the use of "The White Peacock" and the passages from Rosa Mystica, by Fiona Macleod ; and to Mr. Lloyd Osbourne for the poems of Robert Louis Stevenson. To the following publishers, in England and America, the editor takes pleasure in acknowledg- ing her indebtedness : — Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company for permis- sion to use "The Old Garden," by Mrs. Deland ; "Tiger Lilies," by Mr. T. B. Aldrich ; "Spring Has Come," "The Golden Flower," and the pas- sages from The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table, by Oliver Wendell Holmes; "Botanist" and the x EDITOR'S NOTE " Humble-Bee," by Ralph Waldo Emerson; "Be- cause the Rose Must Fade," by Mr. Richard Watson Gilder; "Spring Songs," translated from the Hebrew by Miss Emma Lazarus ; " The Birds of Killingworth," by H. W. Longfellow; "The Lilac " and " In the Garden," by W. W. Story ; " The Rose " and " The Garden of Irem," by Bayard Taylor ; " Talking in Their Sleep," by Miss Edith M. Thomas ; " The Song the Oriole Sings," by Mr. Howells ; " My Garden " and " My Hollyhock," by Mrs. Thaxter ; " Garden," by J. G. Whittier ; " The Garden," by Alfred B. Street. Messrs. Little, Brown & Company for permission to use " All Things Wait Upon Thee," by Christina Rossetti ; " To a Weed " and " When Spring Has Come," by Miss Gertrude Hall ; " The Oriole's Secret," by Emily Dickinson. Messrs. Longmans, Green & Company for " Song" from Jason, by Mr. William Morris ; and three poems from With Sa'di in the Garden, by Edwin Arnold. Messrs. L. C. Page & Company for the use, in America, of " To an Iris," " Marigolds," " A More Ancient Mariner," and " Carnations in Winter," by Mr. Bliss Carman ; also to Mr. John Murray for the use of these poems in England. The Pilgrim Press for three passages from Star Papers, by Henry Ward Beecher. Messrs. Small, Maynard & Company for " In Dove Cottage Garden," by Mr. Philip H. Savage ; and " Brotherhood " and " God," by Father Tabb. EDITOR'S NOTE xi Messrs. Duffield & Company for confirming Mrs. Whitney's permission to include " Tranquillity " ; and Mrs. Sharp's to include " The White Peacock " and passages from Rosa Mystica, by Fiona Macleod ; also for passages from The Book of Tea, by Mr. Okakura-Kakuzo. Mr. William Heinemann for the use of the selec- tions from Fiona Macleod in England ; and for " The Iris," by Mr. Edmund Gosse. Messrs. Macmillan & Company for "My Garden" and "White Foxglove," by Mr. Thomas Edward Brown. Messrs. Chatto & Windus, in England, and Mr. David M'Kay, in America, for " Little White Lily," by Dr. George MacDonald. The Babbs-Merrill Company for " Old-Fashioned Roses," by Mr. James Whitcomb Riley. The Century Company for " The Sweet Red Rose," by Mrs. Dodge, through the kindness of Mr. Ellsworth. Messrs. Hodder & Stoughton for the use, in England, of passages from The Little White Bird, by Mr. Barrie ; and from Dr. Sevier, by Mr. Cable, through the kindness of Sir William Robertson Nicoll. Mr. Arthur F. Bird for the use, in England, of " Rose-Morals," by Sidney Lanier. CONTENTS THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS My Garden " The Lord God Planted a Gar- den" Thoughts in a Garden On the Delights of Gardens Thoughts on a Garden The Garden of Eden . God's Garden .... "A Garden So Well Watered Before Morn " Garden Delights A Garden Of Gardens The Bower of Adam and Eve The Seed Growing Secretly Varied Tastes in Gardens . Home Again ! A Prospect On Chinese Gardening The Bower of Bliss . Virgil's Garden .... An Italian Garden An Old-fashioned Garden . An Undefiled Paradise The Sun-Dial . T> E. Brown Dorothy Ourncy Andrew Marvell Joseph Addison Abraham Cowley The Bible . John Milton Archbishop Trench Sir Thomas Browne Andrew Marvell Francis Bacon . John Milton Henry Vaughan Alexander Pope . From the Chinese » » Joseph Addison . Edimmd Spenser Edward Fitzgerald Leigh Hunt J. C, S. Dorr . P. B. Shelley . Charles Lamb PAGE 3 3 4 7 7 11 11 13 14 14 15 17 18 19 20 20 21 22 24 26 29 30 32 XIV CONTENTS The King's Gardeners My Garden . A Kitchen Garden My Garden . Garden Plantations A Garden's Chief Grace Garden Contentment A Humorist in Gardening PAGE William Shakespeare . 33 Celia Thaxtcr . . 35 Joseph Addison . . 37 Leigh If unt . . 3S Joseph Addison . . 39 William Cowper . 40 J. 0. Whitticr . . 42 William Shakespeare . 43 Joseph A ddison . . 44 II WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS To Blossoms .... A Contemplation Upon Flowers . God Poets and Flowers The Silence of Flowers The Use of Flowers . The Power of Herbs . Chorus of the Flowers A Garland Flowers " Open Afresh Your Round of Starry Folds "... Garden Flowers .... Brotherhood .... OdeLV . The Rose The Moss-Rose .... Ophelia's Flowers The Fall of the Rose . The Rose The Rose The Dying Flower The Iris Robert Herrick . . 47 Henry King . . 48 /. B. Tabb . . 48 0. W. Holmes . . 49 H. W. Beecher . . 49 Mary Howitt . . 50 William Shakespeare . 51 Leigh Hunt . . 52 Michael Dray ton . 57 Okakura- Kakuzo . 59 John Keats . . 61 H. W. Beecher . . 62 /. B. Tabb . . G3 Anacrcon (Translation) (54 Bayard Taylor . . 66 Krummacher (Trans.) 67 William Shakespeare . 68 Oliver Hcrford . . 68 William Broivnc . 69 Torquato Tasso . . 69 P. Riickcrt . . 70 Edmund Oosse , . 73 CONTENTS xv PAGE Flowers Thomas Hood 74 White Foxglove .... T. E. Brown . 75 Tiger-Lilies .... T. B. Aldrich . 77 To a Weed Gertrude Hall . 78 " 'T\vas in the Bath, a Piece of Sa'di (Persian) , Trans. Perfumed Clay ". by N. H. Dole 79 " Herbularis " . ... Michael Drayton 79 Daffodil K. Tynan ffinkson . 80 To an Iris Bliss Carman 81 Song of the Rose Attr. to Sappho . 85 The Lilac W. W. Story . 86 A Leaf of Fern .... Robert Browning 87 Sir R. Fanthawe 88 Homely Sounds and Odours 0. W. Holmes . 88 The Funeral Rites of the Rose . Robert Her rick . 89 Marigolds Bliss Carman 90 The Language of Flowers . Prom, the Chinese 90 To Daffodils .... Robert Hcrrick . 91 The Flowers We Love Best 0. W. Holmes . 92 To Violets Robert Herrick . 93 Rose-Morals .... Sidney Lanier . 94 My Hollyhock .... Celia Thaxter 95 The Lotus-flower Heinrich Heine ( Trans. by J. Thomson) 97 Old-fashioned Roses . J. W. RUey 98 A Drop of Dew .... Andrew Marvell 99 The Sunflower .... Robert Browning 101 The Symbol of the Rose . Fiona Maclcod . 101 The Ivy Green .... Charles Dickens . 104 III THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS " When Spring Has Come " Each Flower in Its Season The Flower , , , Gertrude Hall Francis Bacon Georye Herbert 109 109 111 XVI CONTENTS A Chanted Calendar . Spring Songs .... A Welcome to Spring . Home-Thoughts from Abroad . Seed-Time Hymn Spring Has Come Nature's Endless Bloom The Garden .... Spring in Carolina " Because the Rose Must Fade " The Time of the Roses Early Summer in New Orleans . Summer-Sweet .... Life Amid the Grass . An Evening in My Garden . Midsummer Pomps A Song August Weather .... Gillyflowers .... In the Garden .... The Last Rose of Summer . To Autumn The Golden Flower . Song Carnations in Winter . Sonnet A Winter Garden PAGE Sydney Dobell . .112 Nachum (Hebrew) . 113 Nizami (Persian) . 11G Robert Browning . 118 JohnKeUe . .118 0. W. Holmes . .119 James Thomson . . 121 A, B. Street . .123 Henry Timrod . .125 R. W. Gilder . . 126 /. C. Mangan . . 128 G. W. Cable . . 131 K. Tynan Hinkson . 133 Charles Kingsley . 133 Author Unknmon . 134 Mattheio Arnold . 135 Conrad Wetzel . . 136 K. Tynan Hinkson . 137 William Shakespeare . 138 W. W. Story . .139 Thomas Moore . .141 William Blake . . 142 0. W. Holmes . . 143 Alfred Tennyson . 144 Bliss Carman . , 145 William Shakespeare . 146 Joseph Addison . . 146 IV THE SINGING OF BIRDS A Hymn of Praise . . . Sa'di (Persian) . " Overhead the Tree-tops Meet " Robert Brovming A Bird's Song . . . . K. Tynan Hinkson The Carol of a Bird . , . Lord Byron 151 151 152 153 CONTENTS xvn To a Nightingale The Birds of Killingworth . The Green Linnet The Blackbird . Blackbirds and Cherries . The Oriole's Secret The Song the Oriole Sings . The White Peacock . The Departure of the Swallow PAGE John Keats . . 153 H. W. Longfellow . 156 William. Wordsworth . 158 Alfred Tennyson . 159 Joseph Addison . 160 Emily Dickinson . 161 W. D. Howells . . 161 Fiona Macleod . .163 William Howitt . 165 THE LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS All Things Wait Upon Thee Ariel's Song A More Ancient Mariner . Ode XXXIV To a Butterfly . The Humble-Bee On the Grasshopper and the Cricket John Keats C. G. Rossctti . William Shakespeare Bliss Cart/tan Anacreon (Trans.) William Wordsworth R. W. Emerson . 169 169 170 173 174 175 177 VI THE LOVER IN THE GARDEN Tranquillity Song from " Maud " . The Flower's Name . " A Garden Enclosed " Stanza from Omar Khayyam Cherry-Ripe Song Without a Sound H. H. Whitney . . 181 Alfred Tennyson . 181 Robert Browning . 184 Sony of Solomon . 185 Trans, by Nathan H. Dole . . . 186 Thomas Campion . 186 Edwin Arnold . . 187 b xviii CONTENTS PAGE The Gardener . Old Ballad . . 188 Song William Morris . 190 Song Edwin Arnold . . 191 The Cypress Tree . . . Nizami (Persian), Tr. by Nathan H. Dole 193 Song Caiiwcns (Trans.) . 194 Sonnet William Shakespeare . 194 VII THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN Flower-loving Parents . . Joseph Breck . .199 Night and Day . . . . R. L. Stevenson . . 199 Forget-Me-Not .... Anonymous . . 2nl The Garden of Sleep . . . K. Grahame . . 2< >2 Fairies and Children . . . J. M. Barrie . . 203 The Child and the Suu-Dial . Charles Lamb . . 204 Nephon's Song .... George Darley . . 204 Hector in the Garden . . . E. B. Browning . 206 Autumn Fires . . . . R. L. Stevenson . . 208 The Garden . . . .Mary Howitt . . 209 Talking in Their Sleep . . E. M. Thomas . . 212 The Flowers . . . . R. L. Stevenson . .213 The Sweet, Red Rose . . . M. M. Dodge . . 214 Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-llu- Not Eugene Field . . 215 Little White Lily . . . George MacDonald . 216 The Gardener . .• R. L. Stevenson . .217 VIII OF THE DAYS GONE BY The Deserted Garden . . E. B. Browning . 221 A Forsaken Garden . . A. C. Swinburne . 225 XIX ] r>AGE " As Wandering, I Found " Thomas Campbell 228 Past and Present Thomas Hood . 229 The Old Garden . Margaret Deland 230 IX SOME FAMOUS GARDENS Miraculous Plants X. B. Saintinc ( Trans. ) 237 The Hanging Gardens of Babylon Sir William Temple • 238 The Gardens of King Solomon . )) >; i> • 239 The Philosopher in the Garden . )! !> 11 • 239 The Garden of Alcinous !> )> )) 240 A Modern Hesperides » » » 241 The Imperial Gardens at Pekin . F. Attirct . 241 The Garden of Irem . Bayard Taylor . 243 Theophrastus in his Garden S. Felton . 246 The Gardens of Damascus . J. L. Porter 246 Pliny's " Hippodrome " Pliny (Trans.) . 247 The Gardens of Granada . Washington Irving . 249 The Garden of Marius Barnaby Gooye . 250 The Garden of the Taj-Mahal . Edwin Arnold . 251 The Gardens of Versailles . R. Burford 253 By the Royal Garden at Naples . R. W. Raymond 254 Josephine, Empress of the 255 The Garden of the Tuileries John Evelyn 256 The Gardens of the Generalife . Washington Irving 257 An Old English Garden Sir William Temple . 258 In Dove Cottage Garden . P. H. Savage 260 Oxford Gardens .... ff. W. Beecher . 262 The Upper Garden at Kensington Joseph Addison. 263 Pope's Garden at Twickenham . Alexander Pope . 264 Our Own Gardens William Shakespeare . 265 I THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS By a garden is meant mystically a place of spiritual repose, stillness, peace, refreshment, and delight. JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. If Paradise was planted the Third Day of Creation, as wiser Divinity cotu'ludeth, the Natinty thereof «•«.* too early for Horoncopu ; Gardens were before Gardeners, and but some hours after the Earth. SIB THOMAS BROWN K. IST CLOWN. Come, my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers; they hold up Adam's profession. SHAKESPEARE, Hamht. MY GARDEN A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot ! Rose plot, Fringed pool, Fern'd grot — The veriest school Of peace ; and yet the fool Contends that God is not — Not God ! in gardens ! when the eve is cool ? Nay, but I have a sign ; 'Tis very sure God walks in mine. THOMAS EDWARD BROWN. THE LORD GOD PLANTED A GARDEN THE Lord God planted a garden In the first white days of the world ; And set there an angel warden, In garments of light unfurled. So near to the peace of Heaven, That the hawk might nest with the wren; For there in the cool of the even God walked with the first of men. J THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS And I dream that these garden closes, With their shade and their sun-flecked sod, And their lilies and bowers of roses, Were laid by the hand of God. The kiss of the sun for pardon, The song of the birds for mirth — One is nearer God's heart in a garden Than anywhere else on earth. DOROTHY GURNEY. THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labours see Crown' d from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid ; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of repose ! Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear ? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men : Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow : Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude. THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name : Little, alas ! they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed ! Fair trees ! wheres'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passions' heat, Love hither makes his best retreat : The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race ; Apollo hunted Daphne so Only that she might laurel grow ; And Pan did after Syrinx speed Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wondrous life is this I lead ! Ripe apples drop about my head ; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach ; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness ; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find ; 6 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas ; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide ; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and combs its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy Garden-state While man there walk'd without a mate : After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet ! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there : Two paradises 'twere in one, To live in Paradise alone. How well the skilful gard'ner drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new ! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run : And, as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers ! ANDREW MARVELL. THOUGHTS ON A GARDEN 7 ON THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS (From " The Spectator") "You must know, sir, that I look upon the plea- sure which we take in a garden, as one of the most innocent delights in human life. A garden was the habitation of our first parents before the fall. It is naturally apt to fill the mind with calmness and tranquillity, and to lay all its turbulent passions at rest. It gives us a great insight into the contri- vance and wisdom of Providence, and suggests innu- merable subjects for meditation. I cannot but think the very complacency and satisfaction which a man takes in these works of nature, to be a laudable, if not a virtuous habit of mind." JOSEPH ADDISON. THOUGHTS ON A GARDEN (From a Letter to Evelyn) HAPPY art thou, whom God does bless With the full choice of thine own happiness ; And happier yet, because thou'rt blest With prudence how to choose the best. In books and gardens thou hast plac'd aright (Things which thou well dost understand, And both dost make with thy laborious hand) Thy noble innocent delight : And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again dost meet Both pleasures more refin'd and sweet, 8 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS The fairest garden in her looks, And in her mind the wisest books. Oh, who would change these soft, yet solid For i empty shows, and senseless noise ; And all which rank ambition breeds, Which seem such beauteous flowers, and are such poisonous weeds ? When Epicurus to the world had taught That pleasure was the chiefest good, (And was, perhaps, i' th' right, if rightly under- stood), His life he to his doctrine brought, And in a garden's shade that sovereign pleasure sought : Whoever a true epicure would be, May there find cheap and virtuous luxury. Vitellius' table, which did hold As many creatures as the ark of old, That fiscal table to which every day All countries did a constant tribute pay, Could nothing more delicious afford, Than nature's liberality Help'd with a little art and industry Allows the meanest gard'ner's board. The wanton taste no fish or fowl can choose, For which the grape or melon she would lose. Though all th' inhabitants of sea and air Be listed in the glutton's bill of fare, Yet still the fruits of earth we see Plac'd the third story high in all her luxury. THOUGHTS ON A GARDEN 9 Where does the wisdom and the power divine In a more bright and sweet reflection shine, — Where do we finer strokes and colours see Of the Creator's real poetry, Than when we with attention look Upon the third day's volume of the book ? If we could open and intend our eye, We all, like Moses, should espy, Ev'n in a bush, the radiant Deity. But we despise these his inferior ways (Though no less full of miracle and praise) : Upon the flowers of heaven we gaze ; The stars of earth no wonder in us raise, Though these perhaps do, more than they, The life of mankind sway. Although no part of mighty nature be More stor'd with beauty, power and mystery, Yet, to encourage human industry, God has so order'd, that no other part Such space and such dominion leaves for art. We nowhere art do so triumphant see, As when it grafts or buds the tree : In other things we count it to excel, . If it a docile scholar can appear To nature, and but imitate her well ; It over-rules and is her master here. It imitates her Maker's power divine, And changes her sometimes and sometimes does refine : 10 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS It does, like grace, the fallen tree restore, To its blest state of Paradise before. Who would not joy to see his conquering hand O'er all the vegetable world command ? And the wild giants of the wood receive What law he's pleas'd to give. He bids th' ill-natur'd crab produce The gentler apple's winy juice, The golden fruit that worthy is Of Galatea's purple kiss : He does the savage hawthorn teach To bear the medlar and the pear : He bids the rustic plum to rear A noble trunk, and be a peach. Even Daphne's coyness he doth mock, And weds the cherry to her stock. Though she refus'd Apollo's suit, Even she, that chaste and virgin tree," Now wonders at herself to see That she's a mother made, and blushes in her fruit. Methinks I see great Dioclesian walk In the Salonian garden's noble shade, Which by his own imperial hands was made ; I see him smile (methinks) as he does talk With th' ambassadors who come in vain T" entice him to a throne again. If I, my friends (said he), should to you show All the delights which in these gardens grow, 'Tis likelier much that you should with me stay, Than 'tis that you should carry me away. GOD'S GARDEN 11 And trust me not, my friends, if every day I walk not here with more delight Than ever, after the most happy fight, In triumph to the capitol I rode, To thank the gods, and to be thought, myself, almost a god. ABRAHAM COWLEY. THE GARDEN OF EDEN AND the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden ; and there he put the man whom he had formed. And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food ; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. And a river went out of Eden to water the garden ; and from thence it was parted, and /;;•- came into four heads. . . . And the Lord God took the man, and put him into the Garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it. GENESIS ii. 8—10, 15. GOD'S GARDEN (From " Paradise Lost ") BLISSFUL Paradise Of God the garden Avas, by him in the east Of Eden planted ; Eden stretched her line From Auran eastward to the roval towers Of great Seleueia, built by Grecian kings, Or Avhere the sons of Eden long before Dwelt in Telassar : in this pleasant soil His far more pleasant garden God ordained ; Out of the fertile ground he caused to grow All trees of noblest kind, for sight, smell, taste ; And all amid them stood the tree of Life, High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit Of vegetable gold ; and next to life, Our death, the tree of Knowledge, grew fast by, Knowledge of good, bought dear by knowing ill. Southward through Eden went a river large, Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill Passed underneath engulfed ; for God had thrown That mountain as his garden mould high raised Upon the rapid current, which, through veins Of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn, Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill W?fc7-ed the garden ; . . . Thus was this place, A happy rural seat of various view ; Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm, Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind, Hung amiable (Hesperian fables true, If true, here only), and of delicious taste : Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks Grazing the tender herb, were interposed, Or palmy hillock, or the flowery lap Of some irriguous valley spread her store, Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose. "A GARDEN SO WELL WATERED" 13 Another side, umbrageous grots and caves Of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps Luxuriant ; meanwhile murmuring waters fall Down the slope hills, dispersed, or in a lake, That to the fringed bank with myrtle crowned Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams. The birds their quire apply ; airs, vernal airs, Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune The trembling leaves, while universal Pan, Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, Led on the eternal Spring. JOHN MILTON. "A GARDEN SO WELL WATERED BEFORE MORN" A GARDEN so well watered before morn Is hotly up, that not the swart sun's blaze, Down beating with unmitigated rays, Nor arid winds from scorching places borne, Shall quite prevail to make it bare and shorn Of its green beauty — shall not quite prevail That all its morning freshness shall exhale, Till evening and the evening dews return — A blessing such as this our hearts might reap, The freshness of the garden they might share, Through the long day a heavenly freshness keep, If, knowing how the day and the day's glare Must beat upon them, we would largely steep And water them betimes with dews of prayer. RICHAKD CHKNEVIX, ARCHBISHOP TRENCH. 14 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS GARDEN DELIGHTS (From " The Garden of Cyrus ") THE Turks who passed their Days in Gardens here, will have Gardens also hereafter ; and delighting in Flowers on Earth, must have Lilies and Roses in Heaven. In Garden Delights it is not easy to hold a Mediocrity ; that insinuating Pleasure is seldom without some Extremity. The Ancients venially de- lighted in flourishing Gardens : Many were Florists that knew not the true use of a Flower : And in Pliny's Days none had directly treated of that Subject. Some commendably affected Plantations of venomous Vegetables ; some confined their de- lights unto single Plants ; and Cato seemed to dote upon Cabbage : While the ingenious Delight of Tulipists, stands saluted with hard language, even by their own Professors. SIB THOMAS BROWNE. A GARDEN ( Written after the Civil Wars) SEE how the flowers, as at parade, Under their colours stand display'd : Each regiment in order grows, That of the tulip, pink, and rose. But when the vigilant patrol Of stars walks round about the pole, Their leaves, that to the stalks are-curl'd, Seem to their staves the ensigns' furl'd. OF GARDENS 15 Then in some flower's beloved hut Each bee, as sentinel, is shut, And sleeps so too ; but if once stirr'd, She runs you through, nor asks the word. O thou, that dear and happy Isle, The garden of the world erewhile, Thou Paradise of the four seas Which Heaven planted us to please, But, to exclude the world, did guard With wat'ry if not flaming sword ; What luckless apple did we taste To make us mortal and thee waste ! Unhappy ! shall we never more That sweet militia restore, When gardens only had their towers, And all the garrisons were flowers ; When roses only arms might bear, And men did rosy garlands wear ? ANDREW MARVELL. OF GARDENS GOD Almighty first planted a garden. And, indeed, it is the purest of human pleasures ; it is the greatest refreshment to the spirit of man, without which buildings and palaces are but gross handiworks. And a man shall ever see that when ages grow to civility and elegancy, men come to build stately, sooner than to garden finely, as if gardening were the greater perfection. . . . And because the breath of flowers is far sweeter 16 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS in the air (where it comes and goes like the warb- ling of music) than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that delight than to know what be the flowers and plants that do best perfume the air. Roses, damask and red, are fast flowers of their smells, so that you may walk by a whole row of them and find nothing of their sweetness, yea, though it be in a morning's dew. . . . That which above all others yields the sweetest smell in the air is the violet, especially the white double violet which comes twice a year — about the middle of April and about Bartholomew-tide. Next to that is the musk-rose, then the strawberry leaves dying, which yield a most excellent cordial smell ; then the flower of the vines, it is a little dust, like the dust of a bent, which grows upon the cluster in the first coming forth ; then sweet briar, then wallflowers, which are very delightful to be set under a parlour or lower chamber window ; then pinks and gilli- flower ; then the flowers of the lime-tree, then the honeysuckles, so they be somewhat afar off; of bean flowers I speak not, because they are field flowers. But those which perfume the air most delightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being trodden upon and crushed, are three, that is : burnet, wild thyme, and water mints. Therefore you are to set whole alleys of them to have the pleasure when you walk or tread. FRANCIS BACON (LORD VERULAM). THE BOWER OF ADAM AND EVE 17 THE BOVVER OF ADAM AND EVE (From " Paradise Lost ") THE roof Of thickest covert was inwoven shade, Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf: on either side Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub Fenced up the verdant wall ; each beauteous flower, Iris all hues, roses, and jessamine Reared high their flourished heads between, and wrought Mosaic ; underfoot the violet, Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay Broidered the ground, more coloured than with stone Of costliest emblem : other creature here, Beast, bird, insect, or worm, durst enter none Such was their awe of Man. In shadier bower More sacred and sequestered, though but feigned, Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor Nymph Nor Faunus haunted. Here, in close recess, With flowers, garlands, and sweet-smelling herbs, Espoused Eve decked first her nuptial bed, And Heavenly choirs the hymenean sung, What day the genial angel to our sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorned, More lovely than Pandora, whom the gods Endowed with all their gifts, and oh ! too like In sad event, when to the unwiser son Of Japhet brought by Hermes, she ensnared Mankind with her fair looks, to be avenged On him who had stole Jove's authentic fire. JOHN MILTON. B 18 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY DEAR, secret greenness ! nurst below ! Tempests and winds and winter-nights Vex not, that but One sees thee grow, That One made all these lesser lights. If those bright joys He singly sheds On thee, were all met in one crown, Both sun and stars would hide their heads ; And moons, though full, would get them down. Let glory be their bait whose minds Are all too high for a low cell : Though hawks can prey through storms and winds, The poor bee in her hive must dwell. Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, still To what most takes them is a drudge ; And they too oft take good for ill, And thriving vice for virtue judge. What needs a conscience calm and bright Within itself an outward test ? Who breaks his glass to take more light, Makes way for storms into his rest. Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch, Till the white-winged i*eapers come ! HENRY VAUGHAN. VARIED TASTES IN GARDENS 19 VARIED TASTES IN GARDENS (From a Letter from Pope to Lord Bathurst) THAT this Letter may be all of a piece, I'll fill the rest with an account of a consultation lately held in my neighbourhood about designing a princely garden. Several Critics were of several opinions : One declared he would not have too much Art in it ; for my notion (said he) of gardening is, that it is only sweeping nature : Another told them that Gravel walks were not of a good taste, for all the finest abroad were of loose sand : A third advis'd peremptorily there should not be one Lime-tree in the whole plantation : A fourth made the same exclusive clause extend to Horse-chestnuts, which he affirmed not to be trees, but weeds : Dutch Elms were condemned by a fifth ; and thus, about half the trees were proscribed, contrary to the Paradise of God's own planting, which is expressly said to be planted with all trees. There were some who could not bear Ever-greens, and called them Never- greens ; some, who were angry at them only when cut into shapes, and gave the modern Gardeners the name of Ever-green Taylors ; some, who had no dislike to Cones and Cubes, but would have them cut in Forest-trees ; and some who were in a passion against anything in shape, even against dipt hedges, which they call'd green walls. These (my Lord) are our Men of Taste, who pretend to prove it by tasting little or nothing. Sure such a Taste is like such a stomach, not a good one, but a weak one. 20 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS HOME AGAIN! (From the Chinese) HOMEWARDS I bend my steps. My fields, my gardens, are choked with weeds : should I not go ? . . . The place is a wilderness ; but there is the old pine-tree and my chrysanthemums. . . . And now, I take my pleasure in my garden. There is a gate, but it is rarely opened. I lean on my staff as I wander about or sit down to rest. I raise my head and contemplate the lovely scene. Clouds rise, unwilling, from the bottom of the hills : the weary bird seeks its nest again. Shadows vanish, but still I linger round my lonely pine. Home once more ! I'll have no friendships to dis- tract me hence. . . . What boots it to wear out the soul with anxious thoughts ? I want not wealth : I want not power : heaven is beyond my hopes. Then let me stroll through the bright hours as they pass, in my garden among my flowers. Thus will I work out my allotted space, content with appoint- ments of Fate, my spirit free from care. A PROSPECT (From the Chinese) PLEASANT is the garden ground, Where the sandal trees are found, With the paper mulberry. Underneath their branches lie ON CHINESE GARDENING 21 Withered leaves, when summer's passed, And the winter's come at last. In the stream that waters it You may note the fishes flit. Some upon the shallows sleep, Others hide within the deep. From the marsh pools on the plain, Hark ! The trumpet of the crane. Listen to her sonorous cry Echoing to the distant sky. Purple hills are seen afar, Where the grindstone quarries are ; And the lapidary's stone, In these mountains found alone. You must all allow, I ween, 'Tis a fair and pleasant scene. ON CHINESE GARDENING (From " The Spectator") WRITERS, who have given us an account of China, tell us the inhabitants of that country laugh at the plantations of our Europeans, which are laid out by the rule and line ; because they say, any one may place trees in equal rows and uniform figures. They choose rather to show a genius in works of this nature ; and therefore always conceal the art by which they direct themselves. They have a word it seems in their language, by which they express the particular beauty of a plantation that thus strikes the imagination at first sight, without discovering 22 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS what it is that has so agreeable an effect. Our British gardeners, on the contrary, instead of humor- ing nature, love to deviate from it as much as possible. Our trees rise in cones, globes, and pyramids. We see the marks of the scissors upon every plant and bush. I do not know whether I am singular in my opinion ; but for my own part, I would rather look upon a tree in all its luxuriancy and diffusion of boughs and branches, than when it is thus cut and trimmed into a mathematical figure ; and cannot but fancy, that an orchard in flower looks infinitely more delightful than all the little labyrinths of the most finished parterre. JOSEPH ADDISON. THE BOWER OF BLISS (From " The Faerie Qucene") THERE the most daintie paradise on ground Itselfe doth offer to his sober eye, In which all pleasures plenteously abownd, And none does others happinesse envye ; The painted flowres ; the trees upshooting hye ; The dales for shade ; the hills for breathing space ; The trembling groves ; the christall running by ; And, that which all faire workes doth most aggrace, The art, which all had wrought, appeared in no place. One would have thought (so cunningly the rude And scorned parts were mingled with the fine) That Nature had for wantonesse ensude Art, and that Art at Nature did repine ; THE BOWER OF BLISS 23 So striving each th' other to undermine, Each did the other's worke more beautify; So diff'ring both in willes agreed in fine : So all agreed, through sweet diversity, This garden to adorn with all variety. And in the midst of all a fountaine stood, Of richest substance that on earth might bee, So pure and shiny that the silver flood Through every channel] running one might see ; Most goodly it with curious ymageree Was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boyes, Of which some seemed with lively iollitee To fly about, playing their wanton toyes, Whilst others did themselves embay in liquid ioyes. And over all of purest gold was spred A trayle of y vie in his native hew ; For the rich metall was so coloured, That wight, who did not well avis'd it vew, Would surely deeme it to bee yvie trew : Low his lascivious armes adown did creepe, That, themselves dipping in the silver dew Their fleecy flowres they fearefully did steepe, Which drops of christall seemed for wantonesse to weep. Infinit streames continually did well Out of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see, The which into an ample laver fell, And shortly grew to so great quantitie, That like a little lake it seemed to bee4; 24 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight, That through the waves one might the bottom see, All pav'd beneath with jaspar shining bright, That seem'd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright. Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound Of all that mote delight a daintie eare, Such as attonce might not on living ground, Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere : Right hard it was for wight which did it heare, To read what manner musicke that mote bee ; For all that pleasing is to living eare, Was there consorted in one harmonee ; Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all agree : The ioyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade, Their notes unto the voice attempered sweet ; Th' angelicall soft trembling voyces made To th' instruments divine respondence meet ; The silver-sounding instruments did meet With the base murmure of the waters fall ; The waters fall, with difference discreet, Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ; The gentle warbling wind low answered to all. EDMUND SPENSER. VIRGIL'S GARDEN (From Georgic IV) BUT that, my destined voyage almost done, I think to slacken sail and shoreward run, VIRGIL'S GARDEN 25 I would enlarge on that peculiar care Which makes the Garden bloom, the Orchard bear, Pampers the Melon into girth, and blows Twice to one summer the Calabrian Rose : Nor many a shrub with flower and berries hung, Nor Myrtle of the seashore leave unsung. " For where the Tower of old Tarentum stands, And dark Galesus soaks the yellow sands," * I mind me of an old Corycian swain, Who from a plot of disregarded plain, That neither Corn, nor Vine, nor Olive grew, Yet such a store of garden-produce drew That made him rich in heart as Kings with all Their wealth, when he returned at even-fall, And from the conquest of the barren ground His table with unpurchased plenty crown'd. For him the Rose first open'd ; his, somehow, The first ripe Apple redden'd on the bough ; Nay, even when melancholy Winter still Congeal' d the glebe, and check'd the wandering rill, The sturdy veteran might abroad be seen, With some first slip of unexpected green, Upbraiding Nature with her tardy Spring, And those south winds so late upon the wing. He sow'd the seed ; and, under Sun and Shower, Up came the Leaf, and after it the Flower, From which no busier bees than his derived More, or more honey for their Master hived : Under his skilful hand no savage root But sure to thrive with its adopted shoot ; 1 Dryden. 26 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS No sapling, but transplanted, sure to grow, Sizable standards set in every row ; Some for their annual crop of fruit, and some For longer service in the years to come ; While his young Plane already welcome made The guest who came to drink beneath the shade. But, by the stern conditions of my song Compell'd to leave where I would linger long, To other bards the Garden I resign Who with more leisure step shall follow mine. Translated by EDWARD FITZGERALD. AN ITALIAN GARDEN (From " The Story of JRimini ") A NOBLE range it was, of many a rood, Walled round with trees and ending in a wood : Indeed, the whole was leafy, and it had A winding stream about it, clear and glad, That danced from shade to shade, and on its way Seemed smiling with delight to feel the day. There was the pouting rose, both red and white, The flamy heart's-ease, flushed with purple light, Blush-hiding strawberry, sunny-coloured box, Hyacinth, handsome with his clustering locks, The lady lily, looking guilty down, Pure lavender, to lay in bridal-gown, The daisy, lovely on both sides, — in short, All the sweet cups to which the bees resort ; With plots of grass, and perfumed walks between, Of sweetbriar, honeysuckle, and jessamine, AN ITALIAN GARDEN 27 With orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit, And look as if they shade a golden fruit ; And 'midst the flowers, turf'd round beneath a shade Of circling pines, a babbling fountain played. And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright Which through the darksome tops glimmered with showering light. So now you walked beside an odorous bed Of gorgeous hues, purple, and gold, and red ; And now turned off' into a leafy walk, Close and continuous, fit for lovers' talk ; And now pursued the stream, and as you trod Onward and onward o'er the velvet sod, Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet, And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet ; And then, perhaps, you entered upon shades, Pillowed with dells and uplands 'twixt the glades, Through which the distant palace, now and then, Looked lordly forth with many-windowed ken, — A land of trees, which, reaching round about, In shady blessing stretched their old arms out ; With spots of sunny opening, and with nooks To lie and read in, sloping into brooks, Where at her drink you startled the slim deer. Retreating lightly with a lovely fear. And all about, the birds kept leafy house, And sung and darted in and out the boughs ; And all about a lovely sky of blue Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laughed through ; And here and there, in every part, were seats, Some in the open walks, some in retreats 28 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS With bowering leaves o'erhead, to which the eye Looked up half sweetly and half awfully, — Places of nestling green, for poets made, Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade, The rugged trunks, to inward-peeping sight, Thronged in dark pillars up the gold-green light. But 'twixt the wood and flowery walks, half-way, And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay, A spot that struck you like enchanted ground : It was a shallow dell, set in a mound Of sloping shrubs, that mounted by degrees — The birch and poplar mixed with heavier trees ; Down by whose roots descending darkly still (You saw it not, but heard), there gushed a rill, Whose low sweet talking seemed as if it said Something eternal to that happy shade. The ground within was lawn, with plots of flowers Heaped towards the centre, and with citron bowers ; And in the midst of all, clustered with bay And myrtle, and just gleaming to the day, Lurk'd a pavilion, — a delicious sight, — Small, marble, well-proportion'd, mellowy white, With yellow vine-leaves sprinkled, — but no more, — And a young orange either side the door. The door was to the wood, forward and square ; The rest was domed at top, and circular ; And through the dome the only light came in Tinged, as it entered, with the vine-leaves thin. LEIGH HUNT. AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN 29 AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN1 AN old-fashioned garden ? Yes, my dear, No doubt it is. I was thinking here Only to-day, as I sat in the sun, How fair was the scene I looked upon ; Yet wondered still, with a vague surpi-ise, How it might look to other eyes. So quiet it is, so cool and still, In the green retreat of the shady hill! And you scarce can tell as you look within, Where the garden ends, and the woods begin. But here, where we stand, what a blaze of light, What a wealth of colour, makes glad the sight ! Red roses burn in the morning glow ; White roses proffer their cups of snow ; In scarlet and crimson and cloth-of-gold The zinnias flaunt, and the marigold ; And stately and tall the lilies stand, Like vestal virgins, on either hand. Here gay sweet peas, like butterflies, Flutter and dance under summer skies ; Blue violets here in the shade are set, With a border of fragrant mignonette ; And here are pansies and columbine, And the burning stars of the cypress vine. 1 From Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr ; copyright, 1879, 1885, 1892, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 30 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS Stately hollyhocks, row on row, Golden sunflowers all aglow, Scarlet poppies and larkspurs blue, Asters of every shade and hue ; And over the wall like a trail of fire The red nasturtium climbs higher and higher. JULIA C. R. DORR. AN UNDEFILED PARADISE (Prom " The Sensitive Plant ") THE snowdrop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. Then the pied windflowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness ; And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green ; And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, It was felt like an odour within the sense ; AN UNDEFILED PARADISE 31 And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ; And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup, Till the fiery star, which is its eye, Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky ; And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; And all rare blossoms from every clime Grew in that garden in perfect prime. And on the stream whose inconstant bosom Was prank t under boughs of embowering blossom, With golden and green light, slanting through Their heaven of many a tangled hue, Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, And starry river-buds glimmered by, And around them the soft stream did glide and dance With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. And the sinuous paths of lawn and moss, Which led through the garden along and across, Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees, 32 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells As fair as the fabulous asphodels, And floAvrets which drooping as day drooped too Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue, To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew. And from this undefiled Paradise The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet Can first lull, and at last must awaken it), When Heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them, As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ; For each one was interpenetrated With the light and the odour its neighbour shed, Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. PEBCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. THE SUN-DIAL (From " The Old Benchers of the Inner Temple ") WHAT a dead thing is a clock, with its ponderous embowelments of lead and brass, its pert or solemn dulness of communication, compared witli the simple altar-like structure, and silent heart language of the old dial ! It stood as the garden god of Christian gardens. Why is it almost everywhere vanished ? THE KING'S GARDENERS 33 If its business use be superseded by more elaborate inventions, its moral uses, its beauty, might have pleaded for its continuance. It spoke of moderate labours, of pleasures not protracted after sunset, of temperance, and good hours. It was the primitive clock, the horologe of the first world. Adam could scarce have missed it in Paradise. It was the measure appropriate for sweet plants and flowers to spring by, for the birds to apportion their silver warblings by. CHABLES LAMB. THE KING'S GARDENERS (Prom "King Richard II") Queen. But stay, here comes the gardeners : Let's step into the shadow of these trees. Enter a GARDENER and two SERVANTS. My wretchedness unto a row of pins, They'll talk of state ; for every one doth so Against a change : woe is forerun with woe. [QuEEN and LADIES retire. Gard. Go bind thou up yon dangling apricocks, Which, like unruly children, make their sire Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight : Give some supportance to the bending twigs. Go thou, and like an executioner, Cut off the heads of too-fast-growing sprays, That look too lofty in our commonwealth. All must be even in our government. 34 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS You thus employ'd, I will go root away The noisome weeds, that without profit suck The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers. 1st Serv. Why should we, in the compass of a pale, Keep law, and form, and due proportion, Showing, as in a model, our firm estate ? When our sea-walled garden, the whole land, Is full of weeds ; her fairest flowers chok'd up, Her fruit-trees all unprun'd, her hedges ruin'd, Her knots disorder'd, and her wholesome herbs Swarming with caterpillars ? Gard. Hold thy peace : He that hath suffered this disorder'd spring, Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf : The weeds, that his broad-spreading leaves did shelter, That seem'd in eating him to hold him up, Are pluck'd up, root and all, by Bolingbroke ; I mean, the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green. 1st Serv. What, are they dead? Gard. They are ; and Bolingbroke Hath seiz'd the wasteful king. Oh ! what pity is it, That he hath not so trimm'd and dress'd his land As we this garden ! We at time of year Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees ; Lest, being over-proud with sap and blood, With too much riches it confound itself: Had he done so to great and growing men, They might have liv'd to bear, and he to taste Their fruits of duty. All superfluous branches We lop away, that bearing boughs may live ; MY GARDEN 35 Had he done so, himself had borne the crown, Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. MY GARDEN IT blossomed by the summer sea, A tiny space of tangled bloom Wherein so many flowers found room, • A miracle it seemed to be ! Up from the ground, alert and bright, The pansies laughed in gold and jet, Purple and pied, and mignonette Breathed like a spirit of delight Flaming the rich nasturtiums ran Along the fence, and marigolds " Opened afresh their starry folds " In beauty as the day began ; While ranks of scarlet poppies gay Waved when the soft south wind did blow, Superb in sunshine, to and fro, Like soldiers proud in brave array. And tall blue larkspur waved its spikes Against the sea's deep violet, That every breeze makes deeper yet With splendid azure where it strikes ; 36 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS And rosy-pale sweet-peas climbed up, And phloxes spread their colours fine, Pink, white, and purple, red as wine, And fire burned in the eschscholtzia's cup. More dear to me than words can tell Was every cup and spray and leaf ; Too perfect for a life so brief Seemed every star and bud and bell. And many a maiden, fairer yet, Came smiling to my garden gay, Whose graceful head I decked alway With pansy and with mignonette. Such slender shapes of girlhood young Haunted that little blooming space, Each with a moi'e delightful face Than any flower that ever sprung ! O shadowy shapes of youthful bloom ! How fair the sweet procession glides Down memory's swift and silent tides, Till lost in doubtful mists of gloom ! Year after year new flowers unfold, Year after year fresh maidens fair, Scenting their perfume on the air, Follow and find their red and gold. And while for them the poppies' blaze I gather, brightening into mine The eyes of vanished beauty shine, That gladdened long-lost summer days. A KITCHEN GARDEN 37 Where are they all who wide have ranged ? Where are the flowers of other years ? What ear the wistful question hears ? Ah ! some are dead and all are changed. And still the constant earth renews Her treasured splendour ; still unfold Petals of purple and of gold Beneath the sunshine and the dews. But for her human children dear Whom she has folded to her breast, No beauty wakes them from their rest, Nor change they with the changing year. CELIA THAXTEE. A KITCHEN GARDEN (Prom " The Spectator ") I HAVE always thought a kitchen garden a more pleasant sight than the finest orangery, or an arti- ficial greenhouse. I love to see everything in its perfection, and am more pleased to survey my rows of colworts and cabbages, with a thousand nameless pot-herbs, springing up in their full fragrancy and verdure, than to see the tender plants of foreign countries kept alive by artificial heats, or withering in an air and soil that are not adapted to them. I must not omit that there is a fountain rising in the upper part of my garden, which forms a little wandering rill, and administers to the pleasure as 38 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS well as to the plenty of the place. I have so con- ducted it, that it visits most of my plantations ; and have taken particular care to let it run in the same manner as it would do in an open field, so that it generally passes through banks of violets and prim- roses, plats of willow, or other plants, that seem to be of its own producing. JOSEPH ADDISON. MY GARDEN (From "A House and Grounds") MY grounds should not be large ; I like to go To Nature for a range, and prospect too, And cannot fancy she'll comprise for me, Even in a park, her all-sufficiency. Besides, my thoughts fly far ; and when at rest, Love, not a watch-tower, but a lulling nest. But all the ground I had should keep a look Of Nature still, have birds' nests and a brook ; One spot for flowers, the rest all turf and trees ; For Fd not grow my own bad lettuces. Fd build a walk, however, against rain, Long, peradventure, as my whole domain, And so be sure of generous exercise, The youth of age, and med'cine of the wise. And this reminds me, that behind some screen About my grounds, Fd have a bowling-green ; Such as in wits' and merry women's days Suckling preferred before his walk of bays. GARDEN PLANTATIONS 39 You may still see them, dead as haunts of fairies, By the old seats of Killigrews and Careys, Where all, alas, is banished from the ring, Wits and black eyes, the skittles and the king ! LEIGH HUNT. GARDEN PLANTATIONS (From " The Spectator") WE have before observed, that there is generally in nature something more grand and august than what we meet with in the curiosities of art. When, therefore, we see this imitated in any measure, it gives us a nobler and more exalted kind of pleasure than what we receive from the nicer and more accurate productions of art. On this account our English gardens are not so entertaining to the fancy as those in France! and Italy, where we see a large extent of ground covered over with an agreeable mixture of garden and forest, which represent every- where an artificial rudeness, much more charming than that neatness and elegance which we meet with in those of our own country. It might indeed be of ill consequence to the public, as well as un- profitable to private persons, to alienate so much ground from pasturage and the plough in many parts of a country that is so well peopled and culti- vated to a far greater advantage. But why may not a whole estate be thrown into a kind of garden by frequent plantations, that may turn as much to the profit as the pleasure of the owner ? A marsh 40 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS overgrown with willows, or a mountain shaded with oaks, are not only more beautiful, but more beneficial, than when they lie bare and unadorned. Fields of corn make a pleasant prospect ; and if the walks were a little taken care of that lie between them, if the natural embroidery of the meadows were helped and improved by some small additions of art, and the several rows of hedges set off by trees and flowers that the soil was capable of receiving, a man might make a pretty landscape of his own possessions. JOSEPH ADDISON. A GARDEN'S CHIEF GRACE (From " The Task ") To deck the shapely knoll, That softly swell'd and gayly dress'd appears A flow'ry island, from the dark green lawn Emerging, must be deem'd a labour due To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. Here also grateful mixture of well-match'd And sorted hues (each giving each relief, And by contrasted beauty shining more) Is needful. Strength may wield the pond'rous spade, May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home ; But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought, the creature of a polish'd mind. A GARDEN'S CHIEF GRACE 41 He, therefore, who would see his flow'rs dispos'd Sightly and in just order, ere he gives The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds, Forecasts the future whole ; that, when the scene Shall break into its preconceiv'd display, Each for itself, and all as with one voice Conspiring, may attest his bright design. Nor even then, dismissing as performed His pleasant work, may he suppose it clone. Few self-supported flow'rs endure the wind Uninjur'd, but expect the upholding aid Of the smooth-shaven prop, and neatly tied, Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, For int'rest sake, the living to the dead. Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffus'd And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair, Like virtue, thriving most where little seen : Some more aspiring catch the neighbour shrub With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch, Else unadorn'd, with many a gay festoon And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well The strength they borrow with the grace they lend. All hate the rank society of weeds, Noisome, and ever greedy to exhaust Th' impov'rish'd earth ; an overbearing race, That, like the multitude made faction mad, Disturb good order, and degrade true worth. WILLIAM COWPEE. 42 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS GARDEN O PAINTER of the fruits and flowers, We own Thy wise design, Whereby these human hands of ours May share the work of Thine ! Apart from Thee we plant in vain The root and sow the seed ; Thy early and Thy later rain, Thy sun and dew we need. Our toil is sweet with thankfulness, Our burden is our boon ; The curse of Earth's gray morning is The blessing of its noon. Why search the wide world everywhere For Eden's unknown ground ? That garden of the primal pair May nevermore be found. But, blest by Thee, our patient toil May right the ancient wrong, And give to every clime and soil The beauty lost so long. Our homestead flowers and fruited trees May Eden's orchards shame ; We taste the tempting sweets of these Like Eve, without her blame. CONTENTMENT 43 And, North and South and East and West, The pride of every zone, The fairest, rarest, and the best May all be made our own. Its earliest shrines the young world sought In hill-groves and in bowers, The fittest offerings thither brought Were Thy own fruits and flowers. And still with reverent hands we cull Thy gifts each year renewed ; The good is always beautiful, The beautiful is good. JOHN GREENLEAP WHITTIER. CONTENTMENT (From " King Henry VI") LORD, who would live turmoiled in the court, And may enjoy such quiet walks as these ? This small inheritance, my father left me, Contenteth me, and is worth a monarchy. I seek not to wax great by other's waning ; Or gather wealth, I care not with what envy ; Sufticeth, that I have maintains my state, And sends the poor well pleased from my gate. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 44 THE DELIGHTS OF GARDENS A HUMORIST IN GARDENING (From, "The Spectator ") I AM one, you must know, who am looked upon as an humorist in gardening. I have several acres about my house, which I call my garden, and which a skilful gardener would not know what to call. It is a confusion of kitchen and parterre, orchard and flower garden, which lie so mixed and interwoven with one another, that if a foreigner who had seen nothing of our country should be conveyed into my garden at his first landing, he would look upon it as a natural wildness, and one of the uncultivated parts of our country. My flowers grow up in several parts of the garden in the greatest luxuriancy and profusion. I am so far from being fond of any par- ticular one, by reason of its rarity, that if I meet with any one in a field which pleases me, I give it a place in my garden. By this means, when a stranger walks with me, he is surprised to see several large spots of ground covered with ten thousand different colours, and has often singled out flowers that he might have met with under a common hedge, in a field, or in a meadow, as some of the greatest beauties of the place. The only method I observe in this particular, is to range in the same quarter the products of the same season, that they may make their appearance together, and compose a picture of the greatest variety. JOSEPH ADDISON. II WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS Flowers through their beautie, rarietie of colour, and exquisite forme, doe bring to a liberal! and gentlemanly mind, the remembrance of honestie, comelinesse, and all kindy of virtues. GEBAEDE. / saw God in His glory passing near me, and bowed my head in worship. (on the unfolding of a blossom). The immortality of flowers must enrich our own, and we certainly should resent a redemption that excluded them. EMILY DICKINSON'S Letters. TO BLOSSOMS FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast ? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What ! were ye born to be An hour or half s delight, And so to bid good-night ? 'Twas pity Nature brought you forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave : And after they have shown their pride Like you awhile, they glide Into the grave. ROBERT HERRICK, 4? 48 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS A CONTEMPLATION UPON FLOWERS BRAVE flowers — that I could gallant it like you, And be as little vain ! You come abroad, and make a harmless show, And to your beds of earth again. You are not proud : you know your birth : For your embroider'd garments are from earth. You do obey your months and times, but I Would have it ever Spring : My fate would know no Winter, never die, Nor think of such a thing. O that I could my bed of earth but view And smile, and look as cheerfully as you ! O teach me to see Death and not to fear, But rather to take truce ! How often have I seen you at a bier, And there look fresh and spruce ! You fragrant flowers ! then teach me, that my breath Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death. HENEY KING (Bishop of Chichester). GOD I SEE Thee in the distant blue ; But in the Violet's dell of dew, Behold, I breathe and touch Thee too. JOHN B. TABS. THE SILENCE OF FLOWERS 49 POETS AND FLOWERS (From " The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table ") Do you ever wonder why poets talk so much about flowers ? Did you ever hear of a poet who did not talk about them ? Don't you think a poem, which, for the sake of being original, should leave them out, would be like those verses where the letter a or e is omitted ? No, — they will bloom over and over again in poems as in the summer fields, to the end of time, always old and always new. Why should we be more tired of repeating ourselves than the spring be tired of blossoms or the night of stars ? Loo1-, at Nature. She never wearies of saying over her floral paternoster. In the crevices of Cyclopean walls, — in the dust where men lie, dust also, — on the mounds that bury huge cities, the wreck of Nineveh and the Babel-heap, — still that same sweet prayer and benediction. The Amen ! of Nature is always a flower. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THE SILENCE OF FLOWERS (Prom " Star Papers ") WHEN we hear melodious sounds, — the wind among trees, the noise of a brook falling down into a deep leaf-covered cavity ; birds' notes, especially at night ; children's voices as you ride into a village at dusk, far from your long absent home, and quite home- D 50 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS sick ; or a flute heard from out of a forest, a silver sound rising up among silver-lit leaves, into the moon-lighted air ; or the low conversation of persons whom you love, that sit at the fire in the room where you are convalescing, — when we think of these things, we are apt to imagine that nothing is perfect that has not the gift of sound. But we change our mind when we dwell lovingly among flowers ; for, they are always silent. Sound is never associated with them. They speak to you, but it is as the eye speaks, by vibrations of light and not of air. HENRY WARD BEECHEB. THE USE OF FLOWERS GOD might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all. We might have had enough — enough For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine, and for toil, And yet have had no flowers. The ore within the mountain mine Require th none to grow ; Nor doth it need the lotus flower To make the river flow. THE POWER OF HERBS 51 The clouds might give abundant rain ; The nightly dews might fall. And the herb that keepeth life in man Might yet have drunk them all. Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow light, All fashioned with supremest grace, Upspringing day and night : — Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness Where 110 man passes by ? Our outward life requires them not — Then wherefore had they birth ? To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth ; To comfort man — to whisper hope, Whene'er his faith is dim ; For whoso careth for the flowers Will much more care for him. MARY HOWITT. THE POWER OF HERBS (From " Romeo and Juliet ") THE earth, that's nature's mother, is her tomb ; What is her burying grave, that is her womb : And from her womb, children of divers kinds We sucking on her natural bosom find ; 52 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS Many for many virtues excellent, None but for some, and yet all different. O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities. For nought so vile that on the earth doth live, But to the earth some special good doth give ; Nor aught so good, but, strain'd from that fair use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse : Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied ; And vice sometime's by action dignified. Within the infant rind of this small flower Poison hath residence, and med'cine power : For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. Two such opposed foes encamp them still In man as well as herbs, grace, and rude will ; And where the worser is predominant, Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. WILLIAM SHAKESPEABE. CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS We are the sweet Flowers, Born of sunny showers, Think whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith ; Utterance mute and bright Of some unknown delight, We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath : All who see us love us ; We befit all places ; Unto sorrow we give smiles; and unto graces, graces. CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS 53 Mark our ways, how noiseless All, and sweetly voiceless, Though the March winds pipe to make our passage clear ; Not a whisper tells Where our small seed dwells, Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear. We thread the earth in silence, In silence build our bowers ; And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh atop, sweet Flowers. The dear, lumpish baby, Humming with the May bee, Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through the grass ; The honey-dropping moon, On a night in June, Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bride- groom pass. Age, the withered clinger, On us mutely gazes, And wraps the thought of his last bed in his child- hood's daisies. See, and scorn all duller Taste, how Heaven loves colour ; How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green ; What sweet thoughts she thinks Of violets and pinks, And a thousand flashing hues made solely to be seen; 54 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS See her whitest lilies Chill the silver showers, And what a red mouth has her rose, the woman of the Flowers. Uselessness divinest, Of a use the finest, Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use ; Travellers, weary-eyed, Bless us, far and wide ; Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we give sudden truce ; Not a poor town-window Loves its sickliest planting, But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylon's whole vaunting. Sage are yet the uses Mixed with our sweet juices, Whether man or May-fly profits of the balm ; As fair fingers healed Knights from the olden field, We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm. E'en the terror, poison, Hath its plea for blooming ; Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming. And, oh ! our sweet soul-taker, That thief, the honey-maker, What a house hath he, by the thymy glen ! CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS 55 In his talking rooms How the feasting fumes, Till his gold cups overflow to the mouths of men ! The butterflies come aping Those fine thieves of ours, And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers. See those tops, how beauteous ! What fair service duteous Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine ? Elfin court 'twould seem, And taught, perchance, that dream Which the old Greek mountain dreamt upon nights divine. To expound such wonder Human speech avails not, Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not. Think of all these treasures, Matchless works and pleasures, Every one a marvel, more than thought can say ; Then think in what bright showers We thicken fields and bowers, And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May; Think of the mossy forests By the bee-birds haunted, And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as en- chanted. 56 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS Trees themselves are ours ; Fruits are born of flowers ; Peach and roughest nut were blossoms in the Spring ; The lusty bee knows well The news, and comes pell-mell, And dances in the bloomy thicks with darksome antheming. Beneath the very burthen Of planet-pressing ocean We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a thought for meek devotion. Tears of Phoebus — missings Of Cytherea's kissings, Have in us been found, and wise men find them still ; Drooping grace unfurls Still Hyacinthus* curls, And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill ; Thy red lip, Adonis, Still is wet with morning ; And the step that bled for thee the rosy briar adorning. Oh ! true things are fables, Fit for sagest tables, And the flowers are true things, yet no fables they ; Fables were not more Bright, nor loved of yore — Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old pathway ; A GARLAND 57 Grossest hand can test us ; Fools may prize us never ; Yet we rise, and rise, and rise, marvels sweet for ever. Who shall say that flowers Dress not heaven's own bowers ? Who its love without them can fancy — or sweet floor ? Who shall even dare To say we sprang not there, And came not down, that Love might bring one piece of heaven the more ? Oh ! pray believe that angels From those blue dominions Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their golden pinions. LEIGH HUNT. A GARLAND (From " The Muses Elytium ") HERE damask Roses, white and red, Out of my lap first take I, Which still shall run along the thread, My chiefest flower this make I ; Amongst these Roses in a row, Next place I pinks in plenty, These double daisies then for show, And will not this be dainty ? The pretty posy then I'll tye Like stones some chain enchasing ; And next to them, their near ally, The purple violet placing. The curious, choice clove July-flower, Whose kind hight the carnation, For sweetness of most sovereign power, Shall help my breath to fashion. Whose sundry colours, of one kind, First from one root derived, Them in their several suits I'll bind, My garland so contrived. A course of cowslips then I'll stick, And here and there (tho' sparely) The pleasant primrose down I'll prick, Like pearls, which will show rarely : Then with these maiygolds I'll make My garland somew*hat swelling, These honeysuckles then I'll take, Whose sweets shall help their smelling. The lily and the flower-de-lis For colour much contenting, For that I them do highly prize They are but poor in scenting. The daffodil most dainty is To match with these in meetness ; The columbine compar'd to this, All much alike for sweetness ; These in their natures only are Fit to emboss the border ; Therefore I'll take especial care To place them in their order : FLOWERS 59 Sweet-williams, compions, sops in wine, One by another neatly ; Thus have I made this wreath of mine And finished it featly. MICHAEL DRAYTON. FLOWERS (From " The Book of Tea ") IN the trembling grey of a spring dawn, when the birds were whispering in mysterious cadence among the trees, have you not felt that they were talking to their mates about the flowers ? Surely with mankind the appreciation of flowers must have been coeval with the. poetry of love. Where better than in a flower, sweet in its unconsciousness, fragrant because of its silence, can we imagine the unfolding of a virgin soul ? The primeval man in offering the first garland to his maiden thereby transcended the brute. He became human in thus rising above the crude necessities of nature. He entered the realm of art when he perceived the subtle use of the useless. In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends. We eat, drink, sing, dance, and flirt with them. We wed and christen with flowers. We dare not die without them. We have worshipped with the lily, we have meditated with the lotus, we have charged in battle array with the rose and the chrysanthemum. We have even attempted to speak in the language of flowers. How could we live 60 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS without them ? It frightens one to conceive of a world bereft of their presence. What solace do they not bring to the bedside of the sick, what a light of bliss to the darkness of weary spirits ! Their serene tenderness restores to us our waning confidence in the universe even as the intent gaze of a beautiful child recalls our lost hopes. When we are laid low in the dust it is they who linger in sorrow over our graves. . . . Flower stories are endless. In the sixteenth century the morning- glory was as yet a rare plant with us. Rikiu had an entire garden planted with it, which he cultivated with assiduous care. The fame of his convolvuli reached the ear of the Taiko, and he expressed a desire to see them, in consequence of which Rikiu invited him to a morning tea at his house. On the appointed day Taiko walked through the garden, but nowhere could he see any vestige of the convolvulus. The ground had been levelled and strewn with fine pebbles and sand. W7ith sullen anger the despot entered the tea-room, but a sight waited him there which com- pletely restored his humour. On the tokonoma, in a rare bronze of Sung workmanship, lay a single morning-glory — the queen of the whole garden ! In such instances we see the full significance of the Flower Sacrifice. Perhaps the flowers appreciate the full significance of it. They are not cowards, like men. Some flowers glory in death — certainly the Japanese cherry blossoms do, as they freely surrender themselves to the winds. Any one who has stood before the fragrant avalanche at Yoshino "OPEN YOUR STARRY FOLDS" 61 or Arashiyama must have realised this. For a moment they hover like bejewelled clouds and dance above the crystal streams ; then, as they sail away on the laughing waters, they seem to say : " Fare- well, O Spring ! We are on to Eternity." OKAKURA-KAKUZO. "OPEN AFRESH YOUR ROUND OF STARRY FOLDS" OPEN afresh your round of starry folds, Ye ardent marigolds ! Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, For great Apollo bids That in these days your praises should be sung On many harps, which he has lately strung ; And when again your dewiness he kisses, Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : So haply when I rove in some far vale, His mighty voice may come upon the gale. Here are sweet-peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings. Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low-hung branches : little space they stop, But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek ; Then off at once, as in a wanton freak : Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings, Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. 62 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS What next ? a tuft of evening primroses, O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that 'tis ever startled by the leap Of buds into ripe flowers ; or by the flitting Of divers moths, that aye their rest are quitting ; Or by the moon lifting her silver rim Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim Coming into the blue with all her light. JOHN KEATS. GARDEN FLOWERS (From " Star Papers ") As for marigolds, poppies, hollyhocks, and valorous sunflowers, we shall never have a garden without them, both for their own sake, and for the sake of old-fashioned folks, who used to love them. Morn- ing-glories— or, to call them by their city name, the convolvulus — need no praising. The vine, the leaf, the exquisite vase-formed flower, the delicate and various colours, will secure it from neglect while taste remains. Grape blossoms and mignonette do not appeal to the eye ; and if they were selfish, no man would care for them. Yet because they pour their life out in fragrance they are always loved, and, like homely people with noble hearts, they seem beautiful by association. Nothing that pro- duces constant pleasure in us can fail to seem beautiful. We do not need to speak for that universal favourite — the rose ! As a flower is the BROTHERHOOD 63 finest stroke of creation, so the rose is the happiest hit among flowers ! Yet, in the feast of ever-bloom- ing roses, and of double roses, we are in danger of being perverted from a love of simplicity, as mani- fested in the wild, single rose. When a man can look upon the simple, wild rose and feel no pleasure, his taste has been corrupted. HENBY WAED BEECHEB. BROTHERHOOD KNEW not the Sun, sweet Violet, The while he gleaned the snow, That thou in darkness sepulchred, Wast slumbering below ? Or spun a splendour of surprise Around him to behold thee rise ? Saw not the Star, sweet Violet, What time a drop of dew Let fall his image from the sky Into thy deeper blue ? Nor waxed he tremulous and dim When rival Dawn supplanted him ? And dreamest thou, sweet Violet, That I, the vanished Star, The Dewdrop, and the morning Sun, Thy closest kinsmen are — So near that, waking or asleep, We each and all thine image keep ? JOHN B. TABB. 64 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS ODE LV WHILE we invoke the wreathed spring, Resplendent rose ! to thee we'll sing ; Resplendent rose, the flower of flowers, Whose breath perfumes Olympus' bowers ; Whose virgin blush of chastened dye Enchants so much our mortal eye. When pleasure's bloomy season glows, The Graces love to twine the rose ; The rose is warm Dione's bliss, And flushes like Dione's kiss ! Oft has the poet's magic tongue The rose's fair luxuriance sung ; And long the Muses, heavenly maids, Have reared it in their tuneful shades. When, at the early glance of morn, It sleeps upon the glittering thorn, 'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence, To cull the timid floweret thence, And wipe with tender hand away The tear that on its blushes lay ! 'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems, Yet dropping with Aurora's gems, And fresh inhale the spicy sighs That from the weeping buds arise. When revel reigns, when mirth is high, And Bacchus beams in every eye, Our rosy fillets scent exhale, And fill with balm the fainting gale ! Oh ! there is nought in nature bright, Where roses do not shed their light ! ODE LV 65 When morning paints the orient skies, Her fingers burn with roseate dyes ; The nymphs display the rose's charms, It mantles o'er their graceful arms ; Through Cytherea's form it glows, And mingles with the living snows. The rose distils a healing balm, The beating pulse of pain to calm ; Preserves the cold inurned clay, And mocks the vestige of decay. And when at length, in pale decline, Its florid beauties fade and pine, Sweet as in youth its balmy breath Diffuses odour e'en in death ! Oh ! whence could such a plant have sprung ? Attend — for thus the tale is sung : When, humid, from the silvery stream, Effusing beauty's warmest beam, Venus appeared, in flushing hues, Mellowed by ocean's briny dews ; When in the starry courts above, The pregnant brain of mighty Jove Disclosed the nymph of azure glance, The nymph who shakes the martial lance ! Then, then, in strange eventful hour, The earth produced an infant flower, Which sprung, with blushing tinctures drest, And wantoned o'er its parent's breast. The gods beheld this brilliant birth, And hailed the Rose, the boon of earth ! With nectar drops, a ruby tide, The sweetly orient buds they dyed, E 66 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS And bade them bloom, the flowers divine Of him who sheds the teeming vine ; And bade them on the spangled thorn Expand their bosoms to the morn. ANACREON. (MOOBK'S translation.) THE ROSE (From. " Hassan Ben Khaled ") " THEN took the generous host A basket piled with roses. Every guest Cried, ' Give me roses ! ' and he thus addressed His words to all : 'He who exalts them most In song, he only shall the roses wear.' Then sang a guest : ' The rose's cheeks are fair ; It crowns the purple bowl, and no one knows If the rose colours it, or it the rose.' And sang another : ' Crimson is its hue, And on its breast the morning's crystal dew Is changed to rubies ! ' Then a third replied : ' It blushes in the sun's enamoured sight, As a young virgin on her wedding-night, When from her face the bridegroom lifts the veil. When all had sung their songs, I, Hassan, tried. ' The rose,' I sang, ' is either red or pale, Like maidens whom the flame of passion burns, And love or jealousy controls, by turns. Its buds are lips preparing for a kiss ; Its open flowers are like the blush of bliss THE MOSS ROSE 67 On lovers' cheeks ; the thorns its armour are, And in its centre shines a golden star, As on a favourite's cheek a sequin glows ; — And thus the garden's favourite is the rose.' The master from his open basket shook The roses on my head." BAYARD TAYLOR. THE MOSS ROSE (Translation) THE angel of the flowers, one day, Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay — That spirit to whose charge 'tis given To bathe young buds in dews of heaven. Awaking from his light repose, The angel whispered to the rose : " O fondest object of my care, Still fairest found, where all are fair ; For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee." " Then," said the rose, with deepened glow, " On me another grace bestow." The spirit paused, in silent thought — What grace was there that flower had not ? 'Twas but a moment — o'er the rose A veil of moss the angel throws, And, robed in nature's simplest weed, Could there a flower that rose exceed ? KRUMMACHEB. 68 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS OPHELIA'S FLOWERS (Pram " Hamlet ") Ophelia. There's rosemary, that's for remem- brance ; Pray you, love, remember : And there is pansies, that's for thoughts. Laertes. A document in madness ; thoughts and remembrance fitted. Ophelia. There's fennel for you, and columbines : — there's rue for you ; and here's some for me : — we may call it, herb of grace o' Sundays : — you may wear your rue with a difference. — There's a daisy : — I would give you some violets ; but they withered all, when my father died. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. THE FALL OF THE ROSE1 WHAT the First Bee sang, who knows When he tempted the First Rose ? Some such tale the Flowers believe, As the Serpent told to Eve. Only this the Roses know : Petals once as white as snow To a burning crimson grew, As her Loveliness she knew. Then it was a leaf she took Out of Eve's own fashion-book ; 1 From Overheard in a Garden; copyright, 1900, by Oliver Herford ; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. THE ROSE 69 And from Eden's mosses wove An apron chaste. In vain she strove, For in that veil of emerald lace The Moss Rose found an added grace. OLIVER HERFORD. THE ROSE A ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North, Grew in a little garden all alone ; A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, Nor fairer garden yet was never known : The maidens danced about it morn and noon, The learned bards of it their ditties made ; The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon Water'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade. But well-a-day ! — the gardener careless grew ; The maids and fairies both were kept away, And in a drought the caterpillars threw Themselves upon the bud and every spray. God shield the stock ! If heaven send no supplies, The fairest blossom of the garden dies. WILLIAM BROWNE. THE ROSE An ! see, deep-blushing in her green recess, The bashful virgin Rose, that half revealing, And half within herself, herself concealing, Is lovelier for her hidden loveliness. 70 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS Lo ! soon her glorious beauty she discovers : Soon droops ; — and sheds her leaves of faded hue ; Can this be she, — the flower, erewhile that drew The heart of thousand maids, of thousand longing lovers ? So fleeteth in the fleeting of a day, Of mortal life the green leaf and the flower, And not, though Spring return to every bower, Buds forth again soft leaf or blossom gay. Gather the Rose ! beneath the beauteous morning Of this bright day that soon will over-cast ; O gather the sweet Rose, that yet doth last ! TOHQUATO TASSO. THE DYING FLOWER " DROOP not, poor flower ! There's hope for thee The spring again will breathe and burn, And glory robe the kingly tree, Whose life is in the sun's return ; And once again its buds will chime Their peal of joy from viewless bells, Though all the long dark winter-time They mourned within their dreary cells." " Alas, no kingly tree am I, No marvel of a thousand years : I cannot dream a winter by, And wake with song when spring appears ! THE DYING FLOWER 71 At best, my life is kin to death ; My little all of being flows From summer's kiss, from summer's breath, And sleeps in summer's grave of snows." " Yet, grieve not ! Summer may depart, And beauty seek a brighter home : But thou that bearest in thy heart The germ of many a life to come, Mayst lightly reck of autumn's storms ; Whate'er thy individual doom, Thine essence, blent with other forms, Will still shine out in radiant bloom." " Yes : moons will wane ; and bluer skies Breathe blessing forth for flower and tree. I know that while the unit dies, The myriad live immortally ; But shall my soul survive in them ? Shall I be all I was before ? Vain dream ! I wither, soul and stem : I die, and know my place no more. " The sun may lavish life on them ; His light, in summer morns and eves, May colour every dewy gem That sparkles on their tender leaves ; But this will not avail the dead : The glory of his wondrous face Who now rains lustre on my head, Can only mock my burial-place. 72 WITH HERBS AN7D FLOWERS " And woe to me, fond foolish one, To tempt an all-consuming ray ! To think a flower could love a sun, Nor feel her soul dissolve away ! 0 could I be what once I was, How should I shun his fatal beam ! Wrapt in myself, my life should pass But as a still, dark, painless dream. " But vainly in my bitterness 1 speak the language of despair : In life, in death, I still must bless The sun, the light, the cradling air. Mine early love to them I gave, And now that young bright orb on high Illumines but a wider grave, For them I breathe my final sigh. " How often soared my soul aloft In balmy bliss too deep to speak, When Zephyr came, and kissed with soft, Sweet incense-breath my blushing cheek, When beauteous bees and butterflies Flew round me in the summer beam, Or when some virgin's glorious eyes Bent o'er me like a dazzling dream ! "Ah, yes! I know myself a birth Of that all-wise Almighty Love Which made the flower to bloom on earth, And sun and stars to burn above ; THE IRIS 73 And if, like them, I fade and fail, If I but share the common doom, Let no lament of mine bewail My dark descent to Hades' gloom. " Farewell, thou lamp of this green globe ! Thy light is on my dying face, Thy glory tints my faded robe, And clasps me in a death-embrace. Farewell, thou balsam-dropping spring ! Farewell, ye skies that beam and weep ! Unhoping, and unmurmuring, I bow my head and sink to sleep." FBIBDRICH RUCKERT. (Translated by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.) THE IRIS FRAIL iris, from whose fragile sheath, In lilac and in primrose hue, The beaked bud just pushes through To greet the blackbirds and the blue, What news from hollow worlds beneath ? In strata of the kindling sod What murmur reached you of the spring ? What proof of warmth and weft and wing Broke through your blank imagining, And thrilled your core with hopes of God ? 74 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS Wak'd to a rapture unaware, Your rootlet, iris, stirr'd with faith ; You caught the voice of Him who saith : " Spring is the vapour of my breath, And sap the sound of answered prayer." EDMUND GOSSE. FLOWERS I WILL not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun ; The tulip is a courtly queen, WThom, therefore, I will shun ; The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun ; — But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every one. The pea is but a wanton witch, In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand ; The wolfsbane I should dread ; Nor will I dreary rosemarye, That always mourns the dead ; — But I will woo the dainty rose, With cheeks of tender red. The lily is all in white, like a saint, A nd so is no mate for me ; And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, She is of such low degree ; WHITE FOXGLOVE 75 Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, And the broom's betrothed to the bee ; — But I will plight with dainty rose, For fairest of all is she. THOMAS HOOD. WHITE FOXGLOVE WHITE foxglove, by an angle in the wall, Secluded, tall, No vulgar bees Consult you, wondering If such a dainty thing Can give them ease. Yet what was that ? Sudden a breeze From the far moorland sighed, And you replied, Quiv'ring a moment with a thrill Sweet, but ineffable. Was it a kiss that sought you from the bowers Of happier flowers, And did not heed Accessible loveliness, And with a quaint distress Hinted the need, And paused and trembled for its deed, And so you trembled, too, No roseate hue Revealing how the alarmed sense Blushed quick — intense ? 76 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS Ah me ! Such kisses are for roses in the prime, For braid of lime, For full-blown blooms, For ardent breaths outpoured Obvious, or treasure stored In honied rooms Of rare delight, in which the looms Of nature still conspire To sate desire. Not such are you beside the wall, Cloistered and virginal. 'Twas your wild purple sisters there that passed Unseen, and cast The spell. They hold The vantage of the heights, And in you they have rights, And they are bold : They know not ever to be cold Or coy, but they would play With you alway. Wherefore their little sprites a-wing Make onslaught from the ling. So spake I to the foxglove in my mood, But was not understood. Rather she shrank, and in a tenfold whiteness Condemned what must have seemed to her my light- ness. THOMAS EDWARD BROWN. TIGER LILIES 77 TIGER-LILIES I LIKE not lady-slippers, Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms, Nor yet the flaky roses, Red, or white as snow ; I like the chaliced lilies, The heavy Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our garden grow ! For they are tall and slender ; Their mouths are dashed with carmine, And when the wind sweeps by them, On their emerald stalks They bend so proud and graceful, — They are Circassian women, The favourites of the Sultan, Adown our garden walks ! And when the rain is falling, I sit beside the window And watch them glow and glisten, — How they burn and glow ! O for the burning lilies, The tender Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our garden grow ! THOMAS BAILEY ALDIUCH, 78 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS TO A WEED You bold thing ! thrusting 'neath the very nose Of her fastidious majesty, the rose, Even in the best ordained garden bed, Unauthorised, your smiling little head ! The gardener, mind ! will come in his big boots, And drag you up by your rebellious roots, And cast you forth to shrivel in the sun, Your daring quelled, your little weed's life done. And when the noon cools, and the sun drops low, He'll come again with his big wheelbarrow, And trundle you — I don't know clearly where, But off, outside the dew, the light, the air. Meantime — ah, yes ! the air is very blue, And gold the light, and diamond the dew, — You laugh and courtesy in your worthless way, And you are gay, ah, so exceeding gay ! You argue in your manner of a weed, You did not make yourself grow from a seed, You fancy you've .a claim to standing-room, You dream yourself a right to breathe and bloom. The sun loves you, you think, just as the rose, He never scorned you for a weed, — he knows ! The green-gold flies rest on you and are glad, Jt's only cross old gardeners find you bad, "HERBULARIS" 79 You know, you weed, I quite agree with you, I am a weed myself, and I laugh too, — Both, just as long as we can shun his eye, Let's sniff at the old gardener trudging by ! GERTRUDE HALL. "'TWAS IN THE BATH, A PIECE OF PERFUMED CLAY" 'TWAS in the bath, a piece of perfumed clay Came from my loved one's hands to mine, one day. " Art thou then musk or ambergris ? " I said, " That by thy scent my soul is ravished ? " " Not so," it answered, " worthless earth was I, But long I kept the rose's company ; Thus near, its perfect fragrance to me came, Else I'm but earth, the worthless and the same." SA'DI : " The Oulistdn." (Translated by NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.) "HERBULARIS" A CHAPLET then of Herbs I'll make Than which though yours be braver, Yet this of mine I'll undertake Shall not be short of savour : With Basil then I will begin, Whose scent is wondrous pleasing ; This Eglantine I'll next put in, The sense with sweetness seizing | 80 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS Then in my Lavender I lay, Muscado put among it, With here and there a leaf of Bay, Which still shall run along it. Germander, Marjoram and Thyme, Which used are for strewing : With Hyssop as an herb most prime Here in my wreath bestowing ; Then Balm and Mint help to make up My chaplet, and for trial Costmary that so likes the Cup, And next it Pennyroyal. Then Burnet shall bear up with this, Whose leaf I greatly fancy ; Some Camomile doth not amiss With Savoury and some Tansy. Then here and there I'll put a sprig Of Rosemary into it, Thus not too Little nor too Big, 'Tis done if I can do it. MICHAEL DBAYTOX. DAFFODIL WHO passes down the wintry street ? Hey, ho, daffodil ! A sudden flame of gold and sweet. With sword of emerald girt so meet, And golden gay from head to feet, TO AN IRIS 81 How are you here this wintry day ? Hey, ho, daffodil ! Your radiant fellows yet delay. No windflower dances scarlet gay, Nor crocus-flame lights up the way. What land of cloth o' gold and green, Hey, ho, daffodil ! Cloth o' gold with the green between, Was that you left but yestere'en To light a gloomy world and mean ? King trumpeter to Flora queen, Hey, ho, daffodil ! Blow, and the golden jousts begin. KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. TO AN IRIS THOU art a golden Iris Under a purple wall, Whereon the burning sunlight And greening shadows fall. What Summer night's enchantment Took up the garden mould, And with the falling star-dust Refined it to such gold ? What wonder of white magic Bidding thy soul aspire, Filled that luxurious body With languor and with fire ? 82 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS Wert thou not once a beauty In Persia or Japan, For whom, by toiling seaway Or dusty caravan, Of old some lordly lover Brought countless treasure home Of gems and silk and attar, To pleasure thee therefrom ? Pale amber from the Baltic, Soft rugs of Indian ply, Stuffs from the looms of Bagdad Stained with the Tyrian dye. Were thy hands bright with henna, Thy lashes black with kohl, Thy voice like silver water Out of an earthen bowl ? Or was thy only tent-cloth The blue Astartean night, Thy soul to beauty given, Thy body to delight ? Wert thou not well desired, And was not life a boon, When Tanis held in Sidon Her Mysteries of the Moon ? There in her groves of ilex The nightingales made ring With the mad lyric chorus Of youth and love and Spring, TO AN IRIS 83 Wert thou not glad to worship With some blond Paphian boy, Illumined by new knowledge And intimate with joy ? And did not the Allmother Smile in the hushed dim light, Hearing thy stifled laughter Disturb her holy rite ? Ah, well thou must have served her In wise and gracious ways, With more than vestal fervour, A loved one all thy days ! And dost thou, then, revisit Our borders at her will, Child of the sultry rapture, Waif of the Orient still ? Because thy love was fearless And fond and strong and free, Art thou not her last witness To our apostasy ? Just at the height of summer, The joy-days of the year, She bids, for our reproval, Thy radiance appear. Oh, Iris, let thy spirit Enkindle our gross clay, Bring back the lost earth-passion For beauty to our day ! 84 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS To-night, when down the marshes The lilac half-lights fade, And on the rosy shore-line No earthly spell is laid, I would be thy new lover, With the dark life renewed By our great mother Tanis And thy solicitude. Feel slowly change this vesture Of mortal flesh and bone, Transformed by her soft witch-work To one more like thine own. Become but as the rain-wind (Who am but dust indeed), To slake thy velvet ardour And sooth thy darling need. To dream and waken with thee Under the night's blue sail, As the wild odours freshen, Till the white stars grow pale. BLISS CARMAN. SONG OF THE ROSE 85 SONG OF THE ROSE (From "Achilles Tatius") IF Zeus chose us a king of the flowers in his mirth, He would call to the rose, and would royally crown it ; For the rose, ho, the rose ! is the grace of the earth, Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it; For the rose, ho, the rose ! is the eye of the flowers, Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves fair, Is the lightning of beauty that strikes through the bowers On pale lovers who sit in the glow unaware. Ho, the rose breathes of love ! ho, the rose lifts the cup To the red lips of Cypris invoked for a guest ! Ho, the rose, having curled its sweet leaves for the world, Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up, As they laugh to the wind as it laughs from the west ! Attributed to SAPPHO. (Translated by E. B. BROWNING.) 86 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS THE LILAC THE lilac-bush is in blossom, It hath the balmy smell Of that dear delicious summer, Of love's first miracle. I feel, as I breathe its fragrance, The old enchanting pain, The sweet insatiate longing, Thrill through my heart and brain. Oh youth ! youth ! youth ! where are you ? I call, but you come no more ! I weep, but afar you mock me ! And you laugh when I implore ! Yet you hide within the lilac, With an odour you shoot me through, And a whiff of the old you fling me That is better than all the new. How proudly we struggled to leave you, When you implored us to stay ! How bitterly grieve to regain you When once you have fled away. Too late, too late, we love you, And long for your laugh of surprise, And we only truly can see you With manhood's tears in our eyes. You flung your arms around me And pelted me with flowers ; You clung to me as we wandered Among those lilac bowers. A LEAF OF FERN 87 You kissed me, half laughing, half crying, Beseeching me to remain, But impatient I shook you from me — And you never will come again. Your lilacs are ever blooming In happy gardens of play, But they love you not who have you, And fain would they flee away. They long for the fields of freedom Where the fruit of ambition grows, And for manhood's heights, that are lifted Against a sky of rose. WILLIAM WETMORB STORY. A LEAF OF FERN (From " Cfiristmas-Ece and Easter-Day ") I STOOPED and picked a leaf of fern, And recollected I might learn From books, how many myriad sorts Of fern exist, to trust reports, Each as distinct and beautiful As this, the very first I cull. Think, from the first leaf to the last ! Conceive, then, earth's resources ! Vast Exhaustless beauty, endless change Of wonder ! ROBERT BROWNING. 88 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS A ROSE BLOWN in the morning, thou shall fade ere noon. What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee ? Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, And passing proud a little colour makes thee. If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane ; For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves, The sentence of thy early death contain. Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn ; And many Herods lie in wait each hour To murder thee as soon as thou art born — Nay, force thy bud to blow — their tyrant breath Anticipating life, to hasten death ! SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE. HOMELY SOUNDS AND ODOURS (From " The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table ") I DON'T believe any of you happen to have just the same passion for the blue hyacinth which I have, — very certainly not for the crushed lilac-leaf-buds ; many of you do not know how sweet they are. You love the smell of the sweet-fern and the bay- berry-leaves, I don't doubt ; but I hardly think that the last bewitches you with young memories as it does me. For the same reason I come back FUNERAL RITES OF THE ROSE 89 to damask roses, after having raised a good many of the rarer varieties. I like to go to operas and concerts, but there are queer little old homely sounds, that are better than music to me. How- ever, I suppose it's foolish to tell such things. OLIVEE WENDELL HOLMES. THE FUNERAL RITES OF THE ROSE THE rose was sick and smiling died ; And, being to be sanctified, About the bed there sighing stood The sweet and flowery sisterhood : Some hung the head, while some did bring, To wash her, water from the spring ; Some laid her forth, while others wept, But all a solemn fast there kept : The holy sisters, some among, The sacred dirge and trental x sung. But ah ! what sweets smelt everywhere, As Heaven had spent all perfumes there. At last, when prayers for the dead And rites were all accomplished, They, weeping, spread a lawny loom, And closed her up as in a tomb. ROBERT HEBRICK. 1 Trental : services for the dead, of thirty masses. 90 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS MARIGOLDS THE marigolds are nodding ; I wonder what they know. Go, listen very gently ; You may persuade them so. Go, be their little brother, As humble as the grass, And lean upon the hill-wind, And watch the shadows pass. Put off the pride of knowledge, Put by the fear of pain ; You may be counted worthy To live with them again. Be Darwin in your patience, Be Chaucer in your love ; They may relent and tell you What they are thinking of. BLISS CABMAN. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS (From the Chinese) LOVERS of flowering plants and shrubs we have had by scores, but T'ao Yiiau-ming alone devoted him- self to the chrysanthemum. Since the opening TO DAFFODILS 91 days of the Tang dynasty, it has been fashionable to admire the peony ; but my favourite is the water- lily. How stainless it rises from its slimy bed ! How modestly it reposes on the clear pool — an emblem of purity and truth ! Symmetrically per- fect, its subtle perfume is wafted far and wide ; while there it rests in spotless state, something to be regarded reverently from a distance, and not to be profaned by familiar approach. In my opinion, the chrysanthemum is the flower of retirement and culture ; the peony, the flower of rank and wealth ; the water-lily, the Lady of Virtue sans pareille. Alas ! few have loved the chrysanthemum since T'ao Yiian-ming ; and none now love the water-lily like myself; whereas the peony is a general favourite with all mankind. TO DAFFODILS FAIR daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon ; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay Until the hasting day Has run But to the evensong ; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. 92 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything. We die As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. ROBERT HERBICK. THE FLOWERS WE LOVE BEST (From " The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table") 1 LOVE the damask rose best of all. The flowers our mothers and sisters used to love and cherish, those which grow beneath our eaves and by our doorstep, are the ones we always love best. If the Houy- hnhnms should ever catch me, and, finding me parti- cularly vicious and unmanageable, send a man-tamer to Rareyfy me, I'll tell you what drugs he would have to take and how he would have to use them. Imagine yourself reading a number of the Houyhnhnm Gazette, giving an account of such an experiment. " Man-taming Extraordinary " The soft-hoofed semi-quadruped recently cap- tured was subjected to the art of our distinguished man-tamer in presence of a numerous assembly. TO VIOLETS 93 The animal was led in by two stout ponies, closely confined by straps to prevent his sudden and dangerous trick of shoulder-hitting and foot-strik- ing. His countenance expressed the utmost degree of ferocity and cunning. " The operator took a handful of budding lilac- leaves, and crushing them slightly between his hoofs, so as to bring out their peculiar fragrance, fastened them to the end of a long pole and held them towards the creature. Its expression changed in an instant, — it drew in their fragrance eagerly, and attempted to seize them with its soft split hoofs. Having thus quieted his suspicious subject, the operator proceeded to tie a blue hyacinth to the end of the pole and held it out towards the wild animal. The effect was magical. Its eyes filled as if with raindrops, and its lips trembled as it pressed them to the flower. After this it was perfectly quiet, and brought a measure of corn to the man- tamer, without showing the least disposition to strike with the feet or hit from the shoulder." OLIVEB WENDELL HOLMES. TO VIOLETS WELCOME, maids of honour ! You do bring In the spring, And wait upon her. 94 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS She has virgins many, Fresh and fair ; Yet you are More sweet than any. You're the maiden posies, And so graced To be placed 'Fore damask roses. Yet, though thus respected, By-and-by Ye do lie, Poor girls, neglected. ROBERT HERRICK. ROSE-MORALS 1 I.— RED WOULD that my songs might be What roses make by day and night — Distilments of my clod of misery Into delight. Soul, could' st thou bare thy breast As yon red rose, and dare the day, All clean, and large, and calm with velvet rest ? Say yea — say yea ! 1 From Poems of Sidney Lanier ; copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier ; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. MY HOLLYHOCK 95 Ah, dear my Rose, good-bye ; The wind is up ; so ; drift away. That songs from me as leaves from thee may fly, I strive, I pray. II. — WHITE Soul, get thee to the heart Of yonder tuberose : hide thee there — There breathe the meditations of thine art Suffused with prayer. Of spirit grave yet light, How fervent fragrances uprise Pure-born from these most rich and yet most white Virginities ! Mulched with unsavoury death, Grow, Soul ! unto such white estate, That virginal, prayerful art shall be thy breath, Thy work, thy fate. SIDNEY LANIEH. MY HOLLYHOCK AH me, my scarlet hollyhock, Whose stately head the breezes i'ock, How sad, that in one night of frost Thy radiant beauty shall be lost, And all thy glory overthrown Ere half thy ruby buds have blown ! 96 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS All day across ray window low Thy flowery stalk waves to and fro Against a background of blue sea. On the south wind, to visit thee, Come airy shapes in sumptuous dyes, — Rich golden, black-edged butterflies, And humming-birds in emerald coats, With flecks of fire upon their throats, That in the sunshine whir and glance, And probe the flowers with slender lance ; And many a drunken, drowsy bee, Singing his song hilariously. About the garden fluttering yet, In amber plumage freaked with jet, The goldfinches charm all the air With sweet, sad crying everywhere. To the dry sunflower stalks they cling, And on the ripened disks they swing ; With delicate delight they feed On the rich store of milky seed. Autumn goes loitering through the land, A torch of fire within her hand. Soft sleeps the bloomy haze that broods O'er distant hills and mellowing woods ; Rustle the cornfields far and near, And nuts are ripe, and pastures sere, And lovely odours haunt the breeze, Borne o'er the sea and through the trees. Belated beauty, lingering still So near the edge of winter's chill, THE LOTUS-FLOWER 97 The deadly daggers of the cold Approach thee, and the year grows old. Is it because I love thee so Thou waitest, waving to and fro Thy flowery spike, to gladden me, Against the background of blue sea ? I wonder — hast thou not some sense, Some measure of intelligence Responding to my joy in thee ? Almost I dream that it may be, Such subtleties are Nature's, hid Her most well-trodden paths amid ; Such sympathies along her nerves ; Such sweetness in her fine reserves. Howe'er it be, I thank the powers That gave me such enchanted hours This late October, watching thee Wave thy bright flowers against the sea. CELIA THAXTKB. THE LOTUS-FLOWER THE Lotus-flower doth languish Beneath the sun's fierce light ; With drooping head she waiteth All dreamily for night. The Moon is her ti-ue lover, He wakes her with his glance : To him she unveils gladly Her gentle countenance. G 98 She blooms and glows and brightens, Intent on him above ; Exhaling, weeping, trembling With ever-yearning love. HEINRICH HEINE. (Translated by JAMES THOMSON.) OLD-FASHIONED ROSES THEY ain't no style about 'em, And they're sorto' pale and faded, Yit the doorway here, without 'em, Would be lonesomer, and shaded With a good 'eal blacker shadder Than the morning-glories makes, And the sunshine would look sadder For their good old-fashion' sakes. I like 'em 'cause they kindo' — Sorto' make a feller like 'em ! And I tell you, when I find a Bunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em, It allus sets me thinkin' O' the ones 'at used to grow And peek in thro' the chinkin' O' the cabin, don't you know ! And then I think o' Mother, And how she ust to love 'em — When they wuzn't any other, 'Less she found 'em up above 'em ! A DROP OF DEW 99 And her eyes, afore she shut 'em, Whispered with a smile and said We must pick a bunch and putt 'em In her hand when she wuz dead. But, as I wuz a-sayin', They ain't no style about 'em Very gaudy er displaying But I wouldn't be without 'em, — 'Cause I'm happier in these posies, And the hollyhawks and sich, Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses In the roses o' the rich. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. A DROP OF DEW SEE how the Orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, (Yet careless of its mansion new For the clear region where 'twas born) Round in itself encloses, And in its little globe's extent Frames, as it can, its native element. How it the purple flower does slight, Scarce touching where it lies ; But gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light, Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere ; 100 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS Restless it rolls, and unsecure, Trembling, lest it grow impure ; Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Could it within the human flower be seen, Remembering still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green, And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater heaven in a heaven less. In how coy a figure wound, Every way it turns away ; So the world excluding round, Yet receiving in the day, Dark beneath, but bright above ; Here disdaining, there in love. How loose and easy hence to go ! How girt and ready to ascend ! Moving but on a point below, It all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, White and entire, although congealed and chill,- Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of the Almighty sun. ANDREW MARVELL. THE SYMBOL OF THE ROSE 101 THE SUNFLOWER (From " Rudel to the Lady of Tripoli ") I KNOW a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives First, when he visits, last, too, when he leaves The world ; and, vainly favoured, it repays The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze By no change of its large calm front of snow. And underneath the Mount, a Flower I know, He cannot have perceived, that changes ever At his approach ; and, in the lost endeavour To live his life, has parted, one by one, With all a flower's true graces, for the grace Of being but a foolish mimic sun, WTith ray-like florets round a disk-like face. Men nobly call by many a name the Mount As over many a land of theirs its large Calm front of snow like a triumphal targe Is reared, and still with old names, fresh names vie, Each to its proper praise and own account : Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, sportively. ROBEKT BROWNING. THE SYMBOL OF THE ROSE (From " Rosa Mystica") ALONG the husht garden-ways beside me and behind me are roses, crimson and yellow, sulphur-white and pale carnation, the blood-red damask, and a trailing- rose, brought from France, that looks as though it were live flame miraculously stilled. It is the hour of the rose. Summer has gone, but the phantom- summer is here still. A yellow butterfly hangs upon a great drooping Marechal Niel : two white butterflies faintly flutter above a corner-group of honey-sweet roses of Provence. A late hermit-bee, a few lingering wasps, and the sweet, reiterated, insistent, late-autumn song of the redbreast. That is all. It is the hour of the rose. . . . In the long history of th*e Rose, from the time when the Babylonians carried sceptres ornamented now with this flower, now with the apple or lotus, to the coming of the Damask Rose into England in the time of Henry VII. : from the straying into English gardens, out of the Orient, of that lovely yellow cabbage-rose, which first came into notice shortly after Shakespeare's death, or from Shake- speare's own "Proven9al rose," which is no other than the loved and common cabbage-rose of our gardens : from the combes of Devon to the straths of Suther- land, to that little clustering rose which flowered in Surrey meads in the days of Chaucer and has now wandered so far north that the Icelander can gather it in his brief hyperborean summer : from Keats' musk-rose — " The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves " — to that Green Rose which for more than half a century has puzzled the rose-lover and been a theme THE SYMBOL OF THE ROSE 103 of many speculations ... a thousand wise and beautiful things have been said of this most loved of flowers, and not a few errors been perpetu- ated. . . . I recall an old legend of the last rose of summer, long anterior to the familiar song so named : a legend of hoAv at Samhain (Hallowmass) when of old was held the festival of summer ended and of winter begun, a young Druid brought a rose to the sunward stones, and, after consecration and invoca- tion, threw it into the sea. To-day, sitting in my old garden amid many roses, and looking westward across a waveless, a moveless sea, now of faint apple-green and fainter mauve lost in a vast luminous space of milky, violet- shadowed translucency, I dream again that old dream, and wonder what its portent then, what its ancient significance, of what the symbol now, the eternal and unchanging symbol. For nothing is more strange than the life of natural symbols. We may discern in them a new illusion, a new meaning : the thought we slip into them may be shaped to a new desire and coloured with some new fantasy of dreams or of the unspoken and nameless longing in the heart : but the symbol has seen a multitude of desires come and go like shadows, has been troubled with many longings and baffled wings of the veiled passions of the soul, and has known dreams, many dreams, dreams as the uncounted sand, the myriad wave, the illimitable host of cloud, rain that none hath numbered. The Symbol of the Lily has been the chalice of the world's 104 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS tears; the Symbol of the Rose, the passion of uplifted hearts and of hearts on fire. FIONA MACLEOD. THE IVY GREEN O, A dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old ! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim ; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a stanch old heart has he ! How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend, the huge oak-tree ! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twrines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations scattered been ; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. THE IVY GREEN 105 The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy's food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. CHARLES DICKENS. Ill THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS The daughters of the year, One after one, through that still garden pass'd ; Each garlanded with her peculiar flower Danced into light, and died into the shade. TENNYSON. Lo, the winter is past, the rain i« over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land ; the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. THE SONG OF SOLOMON. Ere Man is aware That the Spring is here The Flowers have found it out. ANCIENT CHINESE SATING. There is an ancient Saxon name for springtime — Opyn-tide — thus defined by an old writer, " Whenne that fiowres think on blowen" — when the flowers begin to think of budding and blowing. ALICE MORSE EAKLE. / trust in nature for the stable laws Of beauty and utility. — Spring shall plant, And Autumn garner to the end of time. ROBERT BROWNING. Lay up treasures for thyself from the hues and odours of Spring-tide, for follow quickly on its heels the Autumn and the Winter. Is there aught sweeter than the delights of the garden and companionship of the spring '/ HAFIZ. (Translated from the Persian.) "WHEN SPRING HAS COME" WHEN Spring has come, and in your frost-bound heart Is born with her first sighing o'er the hills The longing that so strangely softens it, The blind, warm reaching out toward all that lives And breathes the tepid air along with you, The dreamy joy in life and youth and things That swells your achmg breast and finds no words, — Thrice happy, oh, thrice happy still the Earth That can express herself in roses, yes, Can make the lily tell her inmost thought ! GERTRUDE HALL. EACH FLOWER IN ITS SEASON (From " Of Oar dens ") FOR March, there come violets, especially the single blue, which are the earliest, the yellow daffodil, the daisy, the almond-tree in blossom, the peach-tree in blossom, the cornelian-tree in blossom, sweetbriar. In April follow the double white violet, the wall- flower, the stock gilliflower, the cowslip, flower-de- luces, and lilies of all natures, rosemary flowers, the tulip, the double peony, the pale daffodil, the 109 110 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS French honeysuckle, the cherry-tree in blossom, the damson and plum-trees in blossom, the white- thorn in leaf, the lilac-tree. In May and June come pinks of all sorts, espe- cially the blush pink, roses of all kinds, except the musk, which comes later; honeysuckles, straw- berries, bugloss, columbine, the French marigold, flos Africanus, cherry-tree in fruit, ribes, figs in fruit, rasps, vine flowers, lavender in flowers, the sweet satyrian, with the white flower, herba mus- caria, lilium convallium, the apple-tree in blossom. In July come gilliflowers of all varieties, musk roses, the lime-tree in blossom, early pears and plums in fruit, gennitings, quodlins. In August come plums of all sorts in fruit, pears, apricots, barberries, filberts, musk melons, monks- hoods of all colours, peaches, melocotones, necta- rines, cornelians, wardens, quinces. In October and the beginning of November come services, medlars, bullaces, roses cut or removed to come late, hollyhocks, and such like. These particulars are for the climate of London ; but my meaning is perceived that you may have ver perpetuum, as the place affords. For December, and January, and the latter part of November, you must take such things as are green all winter : holly, ivy, bays, juniper, cypress-trees, yews, pine-apple-trees, fir-trees, rose- mary, lavender ; periwinkle, the white, the purple, and the blue ; germander, flags ; orange-trees, lemon- trees and myrtles, if they be stoved ; and sweet marjoram, warm set. There followeth, for the latter part of January and February, the meserion- THE FLOWER 111 tree which then blossoms ; crocus vernus, both the yellow and the grey ; primroses, anemones, the early tulip, hyacinthus orientalis, chamairis, fritellaria. FRANCIS BACON (LORD VERULAM). THE FLOWER How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns ! e'en as the flowers in spring ; To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing. Who would have thought my shrivel'd heart Could have recover'd greenness ? It was gone Quite under ground ; as flowers depart To see their mother-root, when they have blown ; W'here they together All the hard weather, Dead to the world, keep house unknown. These are thy wonders, Lord of power, Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell And up to heaven in an hour ; Making a chiming of a passing bell. We say amiss, This or that is : Thy word is all, if we could spell. 112 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS These are thy wonders, Lord of love, To make us see we are but flowers that glide : Which when we once can find and prove, Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide. Who would be more, Swelling through store, Forfeit their Paradise by their pride. GEORGE HERBERT. A CHANTED CALENDAR FIRST came the primrose, On the bank high, Like a maiden looking forth From the window of a tower When the battle rolls below, So look'd she, And saw the storms go by. Then came the wind-flower In the valley left behind, As a wounded maiden, pale With purple streaks of woe, When the battle has roll'd by Wanders to and fro, So totter'd she, Dishevell'd in the wind. Then came the daisies, On the first of May, SPRING SONGS 113 Like a banner'd show's advance While the crowd runs by the way, With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields. As a happy people come, So came they, As a happy people come When the war has roll'd away, With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, And all make holiday. Then came the cowslip, Like a dancer in the fair, She spread her little mat of green, And on it danced she. With a fillet bound about her brow, A fillet round her happy brow, A golden fillet round her brow, And rubies in her hair. SYDNEY DOBELL. SPRING SONGS i Now the dreary winter's over, Fled with him are grief and pain, When the trees their bloom recover, Then the soul is born again. Spikenard blossoms shaking, Perfume all the air, And in bud and flower breaking, Stands my garden fair. H 114 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS While with swelling gladness blest, Heaves my friend's rejoicing breast. Oh, come home, lost friend of mine, Scared from out my tent and land. Drink from me the spicy wine, Milk and must from out my hand. Cares which hovered round my brow, Vanish, while the garden now Girds itself with myrtle hedges, Bright-hued edges Round it lie. Suddenly All my sorrows die. See the breathing myrrh-trees blow, Aromatic airs enfold me. While the splendour and the glow Of the walnut-branches hold me. And a balsam-breath is flowing, Through the leafy shadows green, On the left the cassia's growing, On the right the aloe's seen. Lo, the clear cup crystalline, In itself a gem of art, Ruby-red foams up with wine, Sparkling rich with froth and bubble. I forget the want and trouble, Buried deep within my heart. Where is he who lingered here, But a little while agone ? SPRING SONGS 115 From my homestead he has flown, From the city sped alone, Dwelling in the forest drear. Oh, come again, to those who wait thee long, And who will greet thee with a choral song ! Beloved, kindle bright Once more thine everlasting light. Through thee, oh, cherub with protecting wings, My glory out of darkness springs. ii Crocus and spikenard blossom on my lawn, The briar fades, the thistle is withdrawn. Behold, where glass-clear brooks are flowing, The splendour of the myrtle blowing ! The garden-tree has doffed her widow's veil, And shines in festal garb, in verdure pale. The turtle-dove is cooing, hark ! Is that the warble of the lark ? Unto their perches they return again. Oh, brothers, carol forth your joyous strain, Pour out full-throated ecstasy of mirth, Proclaiming the Lord's glory to the earth. One with a low, sweet song, One echoing loud and long, Chanting the music of a spirit strong. In varied tints the landscape glows. In rich array appears the rose. While the pomegranate's wreath of green, The gauzy red and snow-white blossoms screen. Who loves it now rejoices for its sake, And those are glad who sleep, and those who wake. 116 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS When cool-breathed evening visiteth the world, In flower and leaf the beaded dew is pearled, Reviving all that droops at length, And to the languid giving strength. Now in the east the shining light behold ! The sun has oped a lustrous path of gold. Within my narrow garden's greenery, Shot forth a branch, sprang to a splendid tree, Then in mine ear the joyous words did ring, " From Jesse's root a verdant branch shall spring." My Friend has cast his eyes upon my grief, According to His mercy, sends relief. Hark ! the redemption hour's resounding stroke, For him who bore with patient heart the yoke ! NACHUSI (Hebrew). (Translated by EMMA LAZARUS.) A WELCOME TO SPRING (From "The Alexander- Book") COME, gardener ! make gladsome preparation ; The rose is come back, throw wide open the gate of the garden. Nizami hath left the walls of the city for his pleasure-ground; Array the garden like the figured damask of China. Dress up its beauty with the ringlets of the violet ; Awaken from its sleep the tipsy narcissus. Let the lip of the rose-bud inhale a milky odour ; Let the palate of the red rose breathe out an amber fragrance. A WELCOME TO SPRING 117 Let the tall cypress spread wide its branches ; Tell the news to the turtle-dove, that its bough is again green. Whisper to the nightingale the joyful tidings, That the cradle of the rose is brought back to the wine-house. From the face of the green lawn wash away the dust ; That, bathed, it may resume its pristine splendour ; On the head of the white rose with its snowy hair Cast a shade from the darkness of the musk-willow. The lip of the pomegranate stain with wine ; Gild the ground with the yellow violet. Give to the jessamine a salutation from the arghavan ; Direct the running streamlet toward the rose-bush. Behold again the newly-born children of the mead ! Draw not a line over that delicate drawing ! Others, like me, inspire with a love of the verdant ; Bear my salutation to every green thing ! How the mild air of the pleasure-ground is attrac- tive to the soul ! How it sweetens to the heart our affections for our friends ! The trees are blossoming on the borders of the garden ; Every flower is lighted up with a lamp-like splen- dour. To the tongue-tied bird its voice is come again, To its wing the soaring flight of the old days. Wake once more the melodies of the plaintive lute, Break forth into dancing, my dejected heart ! NIZAMI. ( Translated from the Persian. ) 118 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD OH, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England — now ! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows ! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture ! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower — Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! ROBERT BROWNING. SEED-TIME HYMN LORD, in thy name thy servants plead, And thou hast sworn to hear ; Thine is the harvest, thine the seed, The fresh and fading year : SPRING HAS COME 119 Our hope, when autumn winds blew wild, We trusted, Lord, with thee ; And still, now spring has on us smil'd, We wait on thy decree. The former and the latter rain, The summer sun and air, The green ear and the golden grain, All thine, are ours by prayer. Thine too by right, and ours by grace, The wondrous growth unseen, The hopes that soothe, the fears that brace, The love that shines serene. So grant the precious things brought forth By sun and moon below, That thee in thy new heaven and earth We never may forego. JOHN KEBLE. SPRING HAS COME THE sunbeams, lost for half a year, Slant through my pane their morning rays ; For dry Northwesters cold and clear, The East blows in its thin blue haze. And first the snowdrop's bells are seen, Then close against the sheltering wall The tulip's horn of dusky green, The peony's dark unfolding ball. 120 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS The golden-chaliced crocus burns, The long narcissus-blades appear ; The cone-beaked hyacinth returns, And lights her blue-flamed chandelier. The willow's whistling lashes, wrung By the wild winds of gusty March, With sallow leaflets lightly strung Are swaying by the tufted larch. The elms have robed their slender spray With full-blown flower and embryo leaf; Wide o'er the clasping arch of day Soars like a cloud their hoary chief. See the proud tulip's flaunting cup, That flames in glory for an hour, — Behold it withering, — then look up, — How meek the forest monarch's flower ! — When wake the violets, Winter dies ; When sprout the elm-buds, Spring is near ; When lilacs blossom, Summer cries, " Bud, little roses ! Spring is here ! " The windows blush with fresh bouquets, Cut with the May-dew on their lips ; The radish all its bloom displays, Pink as Aurora's finger-tips. NATURE'S ENDLESS BLOOM 121 Nor less the flood of light that showers On beauty's changed corolla-shades, — The walks are gay as bridal bowers With rows of many-petalled maids. I hear the whispering voice of Spring, The thrush's trill, the robin's cry, Like some poor bird with prisoned wing That sits and sings, but longs to fly. Oh for one spot of living green, — One little spot where leaves Can grow, — To love unblamed, to walk unseen, To dream above, to sleep below ! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. NATURE'S ENDLESS BLOOM (From "The Seasons ") AT once array'd In all the colours of the flushing year, By Nature's swift and secret-working hand, The garden glows, and fills the liberal air With lavish fragrance ; while the promis'd fruit Lies yet a little embryo, unperceiv'd, Within its crimson folds. . . . Here their delicious task the fervent bees, In swarming millions, tend ; around, athwart, Through the soft air, the busy nations fly, Cling to the bud, and with inserted tube, Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul ; 122 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS And oft, with soaring wing, they soaring dare The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows, And yellow load them with the luscious spoil. At length the finish'd garden to the view Its vistas opens, and its alleys green. Snatch'd through the verdant maze, the hurried eye Distracted wanders ; now the bowery walk Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day Falls on the lengthened gloom, protracted sweeps : Now meets the bending sky : the river now Dimpling along, the breezy ruffled lake, The forest darkening round, the glittering spire, Th' ethereal mountain, and the distant main. But why so far excursive ? when at hand, Along these blushing borders, bright with dew, And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace ; Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first, The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue, And polyanthus of unnumbered dyes ; The yellow wall-flower, stain'd with iron brown And lavish stock that scents the garden round. Then comes the tulip race, where Beauty plays Her idle freaks ; from family diffus'd To family, as flies the father-dust, The varied colours run. . . . No gradual bloom is wanting ; from the bud, First-born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes, Nor hyacinths of purest virgin white, Low bent, and blushing inward ; nor jonquilles, THE GARDEN 123 Of potent fragrance ; nor narcissus fair, As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still ; Nor broad carnations, nor gay-spotted pinks ; Nor, shower'd from every bush, the damask-rose. Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells, With hues on hues expression cannot paint, The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom. JAMES THOMSON. THE GARDEN WHEN the light flourish of the bluebird sounds, And the south wind comes blandly ; when the sky Is soft in delicate blue with melting pearl Spotting its bosom, all proclaiming Spring, Oh with what joy the garden-spot we greet Wakening from wintry slumbers ! As we tread The branching walks, within its hollowed nook, We see the violet by some lingering flake Of melting snow, its sweet eye lifting up As welcoming our presence. Overhead The fruit-tree buds are swelling, and we hail Our grateful task of moulding into form The waste around us. The quick-delving spade Upturns the fresh and odorous earth. The rake Smooths the plump bed, and in their furrowed graves We drop the seed. The robin stops his work Upon the apple-bough, and flutters down, Stealing, with oft-checked and uplifted foot, And watchful gaze bent quickly either side, Toward the fallen wealth of food around the mouth Of the light paper pouch upon the earth. 124 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS But fearful of our motives, off he flies, And stoops upon the grub the spade has thrown Loose from its den beside the wounded root. Days pass along. The pattering shower falls down, And then the warming sunshine. Tiny clefts Tell that the seed has turned itself and swift Is pushing up its stem. The fruit-trees now Have broken into blossom ; and the grape Casting aside, in peels, its shrivelled skin, Shows its soft furzy leaf of delicate pink ; And the thick midge-like blossoms round diffuse A strong delicious fragrance. Soon along The trellis stretch the tendrils, sharply pronged, Clinging tenacious with their winding rings And sending on the stem. A sheet of bloom Then decks the garden, till the summer glows Forming the perfect fruit. In showery nights The firefly glances with its pendent lamp Of greenish gold. Each dark nook owns a voice : While perfume floats on every wave of air. And as we reap the rich fruits of our toil We bless the God who rains His gifts on us, Making the earth its treasures rich to yield With slight and fitful care. Our hearts should be Ever but harps to send unceasing hymns Of thankful praise to One who fills all space, And yet looks down with smiles on lowly Man. ALFBED B. STREET. SPRING IN CAROLINA 125 SPRING IN CAROLINA SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the air Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden sun and silver rain, Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons. In the deep heart of every forest tree The blood is all aglee, And there's a look about the leafless bowers As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still on every side we trace the hand Of Winter in the land, Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, Flushed by the season's dawn ; Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind, The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, The brown of autumn corn. As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb. 126 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS In gardens you may note amid the dearth, The crocus breaking earth ; And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, The violet in its screen. But many gleams and shadows need must pass Along the budding grass, And weeks go by, before the enamoured South Shall kiss the rose's mouth. Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn In the sweet airs of morn ; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start, If from a beech's heart, A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, " Behold me ! I am May ! " HENBY TIMEOD. BECAUSE THE ROSE MUST FADE BECAUSE the rose must fade, Shall I not love the rose ? Because the summer shade • Passes when winter blows, Shall I not rest me there In the cool air ? BECAUSE THE ROSE MUST FADE 127 Because the sunset sky Makes music in my soul, Only to fail and die, Shall I not take the whole Of beauty that it gives While yet it lives ? Because the sweet of youth Doth vanish all too soon, Shall I forget, forsooth, To learn its lingering tune ; My joy to memorise In those young eyes ? If, like the summer flower That blooms — a fragrant death, Keen music hath no power To live beyond its breath, Then of this flood of song Let me drink long ! Ah, yes, because the rose Fades like the sunset skies ; Because rude winter blows All bare, and music dies — Therefore, now is to me Eternity ! RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 128 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS THE TIME OF THE ROSES MORNING is blushing ; the gay nightingales Warble their exquisite songs in the vales ; Spring, like a spirit, floats everywhere, Shaking sweet spice-showers loose from her hair, Murmurs half-musical sounds from the stream, Breathes in the valley, and shines in the beam. In, in at the portal that youth uncloses ! It hastes, it wastes, the time of the roses. Meadows and gardens and sun-lighted glades, Palaces, terraces, grottoes, and shades Woo thee ; a fairy bird sings in thine ear : Come and be happy ! An Eden is here. Knowest thou whether for thee there be any Years in the future ? Ah, think on how many A young heart under the mould reposes, Nor feels how wheels the time of the roses ! In the red light of the many-leaved rose Mahomet's wonderful mantle reglows ; Gaudier far, but as blooming and tender, Tulips and martagons revel in splendour. Drink from the chalice of joy, ye who may ! Youth is a flower of early decay, And pleasure a monarch that age deposes, When past, at last, the time of the roses. See the young lilies, their scimitar-petals Glancing, like silver mid earthier metals : Dews of the brightest, in life-giving showers, Fall all the night on these luminous flowers : THE TIME OF THE ROSES 129 Each of them sparkles afar like a gem. Wouldst thou be smiling and happy like them ? O follow all counsel that pleasure proposes ! It dies, it flies, the time of the roses. Pity the roses ! Each rose is a maiden Pranked, and with jewels of dew overladen : Pity the maidens ! The moon of their bloom Rises to set in the cells of the tomb. Life has its winter ; when summer is gone, Maidens, like roses, lie stricken and wan. Tho' bright as the burning bush of Moses, Soon fades, fair maids, the time of your roses. Lustre and odours, and blossoms and flowers, All that is richest in garden and bowers, Teach us morality, speak of mortality, Whisper that life is a sad unreality. Death is the end of that lustre, those odours : Brilliance and beauty are gloomy foreboders To him who knows what this world of woes is, And sees how flees the time of the roses ! Heed them not, hear themJ not ! Morning is blushing, Perfumes are wandering, fountains are gushing. What tho' the rose, like a virgin forbidden, Long under leafy pavilion lay hidden ? Now, far around as the vision can stretch, Wreaths for the pencils of angels to sketch, Festoon the tall hills that the landscape discloses. O sweet, tho' fleet, is the time of the roses ! I 130 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS Now the air, drunk from the breath of the flowers, Faints like a bride whom her bliss overpowers ; Such and so rich is the fragrance that fills Ether and cloud, that its essence distils, As thro' thin lily-leaves, earthward again, Sprinkling with rose-water garden and plain. O joyously, after the winter closes, Returns and burns the time of the roses ! O for some magical vase to imprison All the sweet incense that yet has not risen, And the swift pearls that, radiant and rare, Glisten and drop thro' the hollows of air ! Vain : they depart, both the beaming and fragrant ; So, too, hope leaves us, and love proves a vagrant ; Too soon their entrancing illusion closes : It cheats, it fleets, the time of the roses ! Tempest and thunder and war were abroad ; Riot and turbulence triumphed unawed ; Suleiman rose, and the thunders were hushed, Faction was prostrate, turbulence crushed. Once again peace in her gloriousness rallies ; Once again shine the glad skies on our valleys, And sweetly anew the poet composes His lays in praise of the time of the roses ! I, too, Meseehi, already renowned, Centuries hence by my song shall be crowned ; Far as the stars of the wide heaven shine, Men shall rejoice in this carol of mine. SUMMER IN NEW ORLEANS 131 Lelia ! thou art as a rose unto me : Think on the nightingale singing for thee ! For he who on love like thine reposes Least heeds how speeds the time of the roses. JAMES CLAEENCE MANGAN. EARLY SUMMER IN NEW ORLEANS1 (From "Dr. Serier") IT was very beautiful to see the summer set in. Trees everywhere. You looked down a street, and, unless it were one of the two broad avenues where the only street-cars ran, it was pretty sure to be so overarched with boughs that, down in the distance, there was left but a narrow streak of vivid blue sky in the middle. Well-nigh every house had its garden, as every garden its countless flowers. The dark orange began to show its growing weight of fruitfulness, and was hiding in its thorny interior the nestlings of yonder mocking-bird, silently forag- ing down in the sunny grass. The yielding branches of the privet were boughed down with their plumy panicles, and swayed heavily from side to side, drunk with gladness and plenty. Here the peach was beginning to droop over a wall. There, and yonder again, beyond, ranks of fig-trees, that had so muffled themselves in their foliage that not the nakedness of a twig showed through, had yet more figs than leaves. The crisp, cool masses of the 1 From Dr. Seiner; copyright, 1883, 1884, by George W. Cable ; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 132 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS pomegranate were dotted with scarlet flowers. The cape jasmine wore hundreds of her own white favours, whose fragrance forerun the sight. Every breath of air was a new perfume. Roses, an innumerable host, ran a fairy riot about all grounds, and clam- bered from the lowest doorstep to the highest roof. The oleander, wrapped in one great garment of red blossoms, nodded in the sun, and stirred and winked in the faint stirrings of the air. The pale banana slowly fanned herself with her own broad leaf. High up against the intense sky, its hard, burnished foliage glittering in the sunlight, the magnolia spread its dark boughs, adorned with their queenly white flowers. Not a bird nor an insect seemed unmated. The little wren stood and sung to his sitting wife his loud, ecstatic song, made all of her own name, — Matilda, Urilda, Lucinda, Belinda, Adaline, Madaline, Caroline, or Melinda, as the case might be, — singing as though every bone of his tiny body were a golden flute. The humming-birds hung on invisible wings, and twittered with delight as they feasted on woodbine and honeysuckle. The pigeon 011 the roof-tree cooed and wheeled about his mate, and swelled his throat, and tremulously bowed and walked with a smiting step, and arched his purpling neck, and wheeled and bowed and wheeled again. Pairs of butterflies rose in straight upward flight, fluttered about each other in amorous strife, and drifted away in the upper air. And out of every garden came the voices of little children at play, — the blessedest sound on earth. GEOEGE W. CABLE. LIFE AMID THE GRASS 133 SUMMER-SWEET HONEY-SWEET, sweet as honey smell the lilies, Little lilies of the gold in a ring ; Little censers of pale gold are the lilies, That the wind, sweet and sunny, sets a-swing. Smell the rose, sweet of sweets, all a-blowing ! Hear the cuckoo call in dreams, low and sweet ! Like a very John-a-dreams coming, going. There's honey in the grass at our feet. There's honey in the leaf and the blossom, And honey in the night and the day, And honey-sweet the heart in Love's bosom, And honey-sweet the words Love will say. KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. LIFE AMID THE GRASS (From "My Winter Garden") HAVE you eyes to see ? Then lie down on the grass, and look near enough to see something more of what is to be seen ; and you will find tropic jungles in every square foot of turf; . . . dark strids, tremendous cataracts, " deep glooms and sudden glories," in every foot-broad rill which wanders through the turf. All is there for you to see, if you will but rid yourself of " that idol of space " ; and Nature, as every one will tell you 134 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS who has seen dissected an insect under the micro- scope, is as grand and graceful in her smallest as in her hugest forms. CHARLES KINGSLEY. AN EVENING IN MY GARDEN (From " The Spectator ") " Mr. SPECTATOR, — There is hardly anything gives me a more sensible delight than the employment of a cool still evening after the uneasiness of a hot sultry day. Such an one I passed not long ago, which made me rejoice when the hour was come for the sun to set, that I might enjoy the freshness of the evening in my garden, which then affords me the pleasantest hours I pass in the whole four and twenty. I immediately rose from my couch, and went down into it. You descend at first by twelve stone steps into a large square divided into four grass plots, in each of which is a statue of white marble. This is separated from a large par- terre by a low wall, and from thence through a pair of iron gates you are led into a broad walk of the finest turf, set on each side with tall yews, and on either hand bordered by a canal, which on the right divides the walk from a wilderness parted into a variety of alleys and arbors, and on the left form a kind of amphitheatre, which is the receptacle of a great number of oranges and myrtles. The moon shone bright, and seemed then most agreeably to supply the place of the sun, obliging me with as MIDSUMMER POMPS 135 much light as was necessary to discover a thousand pleasing objects, and at the same time divested of all power of heat. The reflection of it in the water, the fanning of the wind rustling on the leaves, the singing of the thrush and nightingale, and the cool- ness of the walks, all conspired to make me lay aside all displeasing thoughts, and brought me into such a tranquillity of mind, as is, I believe, the next happiness to that of hereafter." AUTHOR UNKNOWN. MIDSUMMER POMPS (From " Thy r sis") So, some tempestuous morn in early June, When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er, Before the roses and the longest day, When garden walks, and all the grassy floor, With blossoms red and white of fallen May, And chestnut-flowers, are strewn, — So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry, From the wet field, through the vexed garden- trees, Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze : The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I ! Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thoti go ? Soon will the high midsummer pomps come on, Soon will the musk carnations break and swell, Soon shall we have gold -dusted snapdragon, Sweet-william with his homely cottage-smell, And stocks in fragrant blow ; 136 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS Roses that down the alley shine afar, And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, And the full moon, and the white evening-star. MATTHEW ARNOLD. A SONG WHEN the roses blow, Man looks for brighter hours ; When the roses glow, Hope relights her lampless bowers. Much that seemed, in winter gloom, Dark with heavy woe, Wears a gladsome hue and bloom When the roses blow ! When the roses blow, Love that slept shall wake anew ; Merrier blood shall flow Through the springald's veins of blue. And if sorrow wrang the heart, Even that shall go : Pain and mourning must depart When the roses blow, When the roses blow ; Pain and mourning must depart When the roses blow ! When the roses blow, Look to heaven, my fainting soul : There, in stainless show, Spreads the veil that hides thy goal. AUGUST WEATHER 137 Not while winter breathes his blight, Burst thy bonds below : Let the earth look proud and bright, Let the roses blow, Let the roses blow. O let earth look proud and bright, Let the roses blow ! CONRAD WETZBL. (Translated by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.) AUGUST WEATHER DEAD heat and windless air, And silence over all ; Never a leaf astir, But the ripe apples fall ; Plums are purple-red, Pears amber and brown ; Thud ! in the garden-bed Ripe apples fall down. Air like a cider-press With the bruised apples' scent ; Low whistles express Some sleepy bird's content ; Still world and windless sky, A mist of heat o'er all ; Peace like a lullaby, And the ripe apples fall. KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. 138 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS GILLYFLOWERS (From "The Winter's Tale") Perdita. Sir, the year growing ancient, — Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth Of trembling winter, — the fairest flowers o' th' season Are our carnations, and streak'd gillyflowers, Which some call nature's bastards : of that kind Our rustic garden's barren ; and I care not To get slips of them. Polixenes. Wherefore, gentle maiden, Do you neglect them ? Per. For I have heard it said, There is an art which in their piedness shares With great creating nature. Pol. Say, there be ; Yet nature is made better by no mean, But nature makes that mean ; so, o'er that art, Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock ; And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race. This is an art Which does mend nature, — change it rather : but The art itself is nature. Per. So it is. Pol. Then make your garden rich in gillyflowers, And do not call them bastards. Per. I'll not put The dibble in earth to set one slip of them. IN THE GARDEN 139 . . . Here's flowers for you ; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram ; The marigold, that goes to bed with th' sun, And with him rises weeping ; these are flowers Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given To men of middle age. You are very welcome. WILLIAM SHAKESPEAEE. IN THE GARDEN SUMMER is dying, slowly dying — She fades with every passing day ; In the garden alleys she wanders, sighing, And pauses to grieve at the sad decay. The flowers that came with the spring's first swallow, When March crept timidly over the hill, And slept at noon in the sunny hollow — The snowdrop, the crocus, the daffodil, The lily, white for an angel to carry, The violet, faint with its spirit-breath, The passion-flower, and the fleeting, airy Anemone — all have been struck by death. Autumn the leaves is staining and strewing, And spreading a veil o'er the landscape rare ; The glory and gladness of summer are going, And a feeliii"; of sadness is in the air. 140 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS The purple hibiscus is shrivelled and withered, And languid lolls its furry tongue : The burning pomegranates are ripe to be gathered ; The grilli their last farewell have sung ; The fading oleander is showing Its last rose-clusters over the wall, And the tubes of the trumpet-flower are strewing The gravel-walks as they loosen and fall ; The crocketed spire of the hollyhock towers, For the sighing breeze to rock and swing ; On its top is the last of its bell-like flowers, For the wandering bee its knell to ring. In their earthen vases the lemons yellow, The sun-drunk grapes grow lucent and thin, The pears on the sunny espalier mellow, And the fat figs swell in their purple skin ; The petals have dropped from the spicy carnation ; And the heartless dahlia, formal and proud, Like a worldly lady of lofty station, Loveless stares at the humble crowd. And the sunflower, too, looks boldly around her ; While the belladonna, so wickedly fair, Shorn of the purple flowers that crowned her, Is telling her Borgian beads in despair. See ! by the fountain that softly bubbles, Spilling its rain in the lichened vase, Summer pauses ! — her tender troubles Shadowing over her pensive face. THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER 141 The lizard stops on its brim to listen, The butterfly wavers dreamily near, And the dragon-flies in their green mail glisten, And watch her, as pausing she drops a tear — Not as she stood in her August perfection ! Not as she looked in the freshness of June ! But gazing around with a tender dejection, And a weary face like the morning moon. The breeze through the leafy garden quivers, Dying away with a sigh and moan : A shade o'er the darkening fountain shivers, And Summer, ghost-like, has vanished and gone. WILLIAM WETMOEE STORY. THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER 'Tis the last Rose of Summer, Left blooming alone, All her lovely companions Are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem, Since the lovely are sleeping, Go sleep thou with them ; 142 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may / follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away ; When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, Oh ! who would inhabit This bleak world alone ? THOMAS MOORE. TO AUTUMN O AUTUMN, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou mayst rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance ! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. " The narrow bud opens her beauties to The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins ; Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, Till clustering Summer breaks forth into singing, And feathered clouds strew flowers round her head. THE GOLDEN FLOWER 143 " The Spirits of the Air live on the smells Of fruit ; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees." Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat ; Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak Hills fled from our sight ; but left his golden load. WILLIAM BLAKE. THE GOLDEN FLOWER WHEN Advent dawns with lessening days, While earth awaits the angel's hymn ; When bare as branching coral sways In whistling winds each leafless limb ; When spring is but a spendthrift's dream, And summer's wealth a wasted dower, Nor dews nor sunshine may redeem, — Then autumn coins his Golden Flower. Soft was the violet's vernal hue, Fresh was the rose's morning red, Full-orbed the stately dahlia grew, — All gone ! their short-lived splendour shed. The shadows, lengthening, stretch at noon ; The fields are stripped, the groves are dumb ; The frost-flowers greet the icy moon, — Then blooms the bright chrysanthemum. The stiffening turf is white with snow, Yet still its radiant disks are seen Where soon the hallowed morn will show The wreath and cross of Christmas green ; 144 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS As if in autumn's dying days It heard the heavenly song afar, And opened all its glowing rays, The herald lamp of Bethlehem's star. Orphan of summer, kindly sent To cheer the fading year's decline, In all that pitying Heaven has lent No fairer pledge of hope than thine. Yes ! June lies hid beneath the snow, And winter's unborn heir shall claim For every seed that sleeps below A spark that kindles into flame. Thy smile the scowl of winter braves, Last of the bright-robed, flowery train, Soft sighing o'er the garden graves, " Farewell ! farewell ! we meet again ! " So may life's chill November bring Hope's golden flower, the last of all, Before we hear the angels sing Where blossoms never fade and fall ! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. SONG A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours, Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : To himself he talks ; For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh Jn the walks; CARNATIONS IN WINTER 145 Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers : Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, As a sick man's room when he taketh repose An hour before death ; My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. ALFEED, LOED TENNYSON. CARNATIONS IN WINTER YOUR carmine flakes of bloom to-night The fire of wintry sunsets hold ; Again in dreams you burn to light A far Canadian garden old. The blue north summer over it Is bland with long ethereal days ; The gleaming martins wheel and flit Where breaks your sun down Orient ways. K 146 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS There, when the gradual twilight falls, Through quietudes of dusk afar, Hermit antiphonal hermit calls From hills below the first pale star. BLISS CARMAN. SONNET . . . Never-resting time leads summer on To hideous winter, and confounds him there ; Sap check'd with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o'ersiiow'd and bareness everywhere : Then, were not summer's distillation left, A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was : But flowers distill'd, though they with winter i meet, Leese but their show ; their substance still lives sweet. WILLIAM SHAKESPEABE. A WINTER GARDEN (From " The Spectator ") "I HAVE often wondered that those who are like myself, and love to live in gardens, have never thought of contriving a winter-garden, which would consist of such trees only as never cast their leaves. We have very often little snatches of sunshine and A WINTER GARDEN 147 fair weather in the most uncomfortable parts of the year, and have frequently several days in November and January that are as agreeable as any of the finest months. At such times, therefore, I think there could not be a greater pleasure than to walk in such a winter-garden as I have proposed. In the summer season the whole country blooms, and is a kind of garden, for which reason we are not so sensible of those beauties that at this time may be everywhere met with ; but when nature is in her desolation, and presents us with nothing but bleak and barren prospects, there is something un- speakably cheerful in a spot of ground which is covered with trees that smile amidst all the rigour of winter, and give us a view of the most gay season in the midst of that which is the most dead and melancholy. ... It is very pleasant at the same time, to see the several kinds of birds retiring into this little green spot, and enjoying themselves among the branches and foliage, when my great garden, which I have before mentioned to you, does not afford a single leaf for their shelter." JOSEPH ADDISON. IV THE SINGING OF BIRDS He ne'er is crown'd With immortality, who fears to follow Where airy voices lead. KEATS. Stand there and hear The birds' quiet singing, that tells us] What life if, so clear. BROWNING. A HYMN OF PRAISE (From "The Gulistdn") YESTERNIGHT, towards morning, a warbling bird stole away my reason, my patience, my strength, and my understanding. My exclamations, by chance, reached the ear of a most intimate friend. " Never," he said, " could I have believed that the voice of a bird should have such power to disturb thy intellect ! " — " It is not," I replied, " befitting the condition of man, that a bird should be reciting its hymn of praise, and that I should be silent." SA'DI. ( Translated from the Persian.) OVERHEAD THE TREE-TOPS MEET." (From " Pippa Passes ") OVERHEAD the tree-tops meet, Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet ; There was nought above me, nought below, My childhood had not learned to know : For, what are the voices of birds — Ay, and of beasts, — but words, our words, Only so much more sweet ? The knowledge of that with my life begun. ROBERT BBOWNING. 161 152 THE SINGING OF BIRDS A BIRD'S SONG CHILL was the air, for yet the year was young, Wan was the sky, the clouds were fresh with rain ; A bird, from where his small, soft nest was hung, Sang very joyously a tender strain. For he had seen, near where a giant oak Stretched out its Titan branches, strong and sure, Close-sheltered^, in a quiet moss-grown nook, A dainty April garden bloom secure. And there he saw the sun-born crocus, tall, Shine out in 'broidered bravery of gold ; The violet — no longer winter's thrall — Begin her purple mantle to unfold. He saw the primrose star rise palely fair From where the mosses thickly, softly grow, And, delicately gleaming in the air, The snowdrop's fairy robe of green and snow. And oh ! with sudden flush of life and heat, The grey March world for him was charmed to May ; And then rang out in bird-notes, fresh and sweet, A jocund carol in the clear cold day. He heard the soft wind whisper from the West — The promise of the Summer's blossoming ; And gleefully he sang from out his nest A herald welcome to the coming Spring. KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON. TO A NIGHTINGALE 153 THE CAROL OF A BIRD (From "The Prisoner of Chillon ") A LIGHT broke in upon my brain, — It was the carol of a bird ; It ceased, and then it came again, The sweetest song ear ever heard, And mine was thankful till my eyes Ran over with the glad surprise, And they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery. LOKD BYRON. TO A NIGHTINGALE MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, — That thou, light- winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green, Dance, and Provensal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! 154 THE SINGING OF BIRDS O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim : Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs ; Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away ! away ! for I will fly with thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : Already with thee ! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. TO A NIGHTINGALE 155 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen ; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy ! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not bom for death, immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 156 THE SINGING OF BIRDS Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self. Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? Fled is that music :— do I wake or sleep ? JOHN KEATS. THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH (From " Tales of a Wayside Inn") THE birds, who make sweet music for us all In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. The thrush that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood ; The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, Flooding with melody the neighbourhood ; Linnet and meadow- lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song, — Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ? Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 157 The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought ? Whose household words are songs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! Whose habitations in the tree-tops even Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! Think, every morning when the sun peeps through The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy biixls renew Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! And when you think of this, remember, too, 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. Think of your woods and orchards without birds } Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams, As in an idiot's brain remembered words Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds Make up for the lost music, when your teams Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more The feathered gleaners follow to your door ? You call them thieves and pillagers ; but know They are the winged wardens of your farms, Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, And from your harvests keep a hundred harms ; Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, And crying havoc on the slug and snail. HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 158 THE SINGING OF BIRDS THE GREEN LINNET BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of Spring's unclouded weather, In this sequester'd nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat ! And flowers and birds once more to greet, My last year's friends together. One have I mark'd, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest : Hail to Thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion ! Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array Presiding Spirit here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May ; And this is thy dominion. While birds, and butterflies, and flowers Make all one band of paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, Art sole in thy employment ; A Life, a Presence like the Air, Scattering thy gladness without care, Too blest with any one to pair ; Thyself thy own enjoyment. Amid yon tuft of hazel-trees That twinkle to the gusty breeze, Behold him perched in ecstasies , Yet seeming still to hover ; THE BLACKBIRD 159 There ! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings, That cover him all over. My dazzled sight he oft deceives — A brother of the dancing leaves ; Then flits, and from the cottage -eaves Pours forth his song in gushes ; As if by that exulting strain He mock'd and treated with disdain The voiceless Form he chose to feign, While fluttering in the bushes. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE BLACKBIRD O BLACKBIRD ! sing me something well : While all the neighbours shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine ; the range of lawn and park : The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, Thy sole delight is, sitting still, With that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the summer jenneting. 160 THE SINGING OF BIRDS A golden bill ! the silver tongue, Cold February loved, is dry : Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when young : And in the sultry garden-squares, Now thy flute notes are changed to coarse, I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning ! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. BLACKBIRDS AND CHERRIES (Prom " The Spectator ") " THERE is another circumstance in which I am very particular, or, as my neighbours call me, very whimsical : as my garden invites into it all the birds of the country, by offering them the conveniency of springs and shades, solitude and shelter, I do not suffer any one to destroy their nests in the spring, or drive them from their usual haunts in fruit time. I value my garden more for being full of blackbirds than cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for their songs. By this means I have always the music of the season in its perfection, and am highly de- lighted to see the jay or the thrush hopping about THE SONG THE ORIOLE SINGS 161 my walks, and shooting before my eyes across the several little glades and alleys that I pass through." JOSEPH ADDISON. THE ORIOLE'S SECRET To hear an oriole sing May be a common thing, Or only a divine. It is not of the bird Who sings the same, unheard, As unto crowd. The fashion of the ear Attireth that it hear In dun or fair. So whether it be rune, Or whether it be none, Is of within ; " The tune is in the tree," The sceptic showeth me ; " No, sir ! In thee ! " EMILY DICKINSON. THE SONG THE ORIOLE SINGS THERE is a bird that comes and sings In the Professor's garden-trees ; Upon the English oak he swings, And tilts and tosses in the breeze. L 162 THE SINGING OF BIRDS I know his name, I know his note, That so with rapture takes my soul ; Like flame the gold beneath his throat, His glossy cope is black as coal. O oriole, it is the song You sang me from the cottonwood, Too young to feel that I was young, Too glad to guess if life were good. And while I hark, before my door, Adown the dusty Concord Road, The blue Miami flows once more As by the cottonwood it flowed. And on the bank that rises steep, And pours a thousand tiny rills, From death and absence laugh and leap My schoolmates to their flutter-mills. The blackbirds jangle in the tops Of hoary-antlered sycamores ; The timorous killdee starts and stops Among the driftwood on the shores. Below, the bridge — a noonday fear Of dust and shadow shot with sun — Stretches its gloom from pier to pier, Far unto alien coasts unknown. And on those alien coasts, above, Where silver ripples break the stream's Long blue, from some roof-sheltering grove A hidden parrot scolds and screams, THE WHITE PEACOCK 163 Ah, nothing, nothing ! Commonest things : A touch, a glimpse, a sound, a breath — It is a song the oriole sings — And all the rest belongs to death. But oriole, my oriole, Were some bright seraph sent from bliss With songs of heaven to win my soul From simple memories such as this, What could he tell to tempt my ear From you ? What high thing could there be, So tenderly and sweetly dear As my lost boyhood is to me ? WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. THE WHITE PEACOCK HERE where the sunlight Floodeth the garden, Where the pomegranate Rearetli its glory Of gorgeous blossom ; Where the oleanders Dream through the noon-tides ; And, like surf o' the sea Round cliffs of basalt, The thick magnolias In billowy masses Front the sombre green of the ilexes Here where the heat lies 164 THE SINGING OF BIRDS Pale blue in the hollows, On the fronds of the cactus, Where pale blue the gleaming Of fir and cypress, With the cones upon them Amber or glowing with virgin gold : Here where the honey-flower Makes the heat fragrant, As though from the gardens Of Gulistan, Where the bulbul singeth Through a mist of roses, A breath were borne : Here where the dream-flowers, The cream-white poppies Silently waver, And where the Scirocco, Faint in the hollows, Foldeth his soft white wings in the sunlight, And lieth sleeping Deep in the heart of A sea of white violets : Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty, Moveth in silence, and dreamlike, and slowly, White as a snow-drift in mountain valleys When softly upon it the gold light lingers : White as the foam of the sea that is driven O'er billows of azure agleam with sun-yellow ; Cream-white and soft as the breasts of a girl Moves the White Peacock, as though through the noon-tide A dream of the moonlight were real for a moment, DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW 165 Dim on the beautiful fan that he spreadeth, Foldeth and spreadeth abroad in the sunlight, Dim on the cream-white are blue adumbrations, Shadows so pale in their delicate blueness That visions they seem as of vanishing violets, The fragrant white violets veined with azure, Pale, pale as the breath of blue smoke in far wood- lands. Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty, White as the cloud through the heats of the noon- tide Moves the White Peacock. FIONA MACLEOD. THE DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW AND is the swallow gone ? Who beheld it ? Which way sail'd it ? Farewell bade it none ? No mortal saw it go : But who doth hear Its summer cheer As it flitteth to and fro ? So the freed spirit flies ! From its surrounding clay It steals away Like the swallow from the skies. 166 THE SINGING OF BIRDS Whither ? wherefore doth it go ? Tis all unknown : We feel alone That a void is left below. WILLIAM HOWITT. V THE LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS Dost thou not see the little plants, the little birds, the ants, the spiders, the bees working together to put in order their several parts of the universe? MARCUS AUBELIUS ANTONINUS. I know the. butterfly, the lizard, and the orchis. Are not these your countrymen? EMILY DICKINSON. To think that I have been friends with all these — roses and centipedes and all! GEORGE DU MAURIER. ALL THINGS WAIT UPON THEE INNOCENT eyes not ours And made to look on flowers, Eyes of small birds, and insects small ; Morn after summer morn The sweet rose on her thorn Opens her bosom to them all. The last and least of things, That soar on quivering wings, Or crawl among the grass blades out of sight, Have just as clear a right To their appointed portion of delight As Queens and Kings. CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI. ARIEL'S SONG (From " The Tempest ") WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I : In a cowslip's bell I lie ; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 169 170 LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS A MORE ANCIENT MARINER THE swarthy bee is a buccaneer, A burly velveted rover, Who loves the booming wind in his ear As he sails the seas of clover. A waif of the goblin pirate crew, With not a soul to deplore him, He steers for the open verge of blue With the filmy world before him. His flimsy sails abroad on the wind Are shivered with fairy thunder; On a line that sings to the light of his wings He makes for the lands of wonder. He harries the ports of the Hollyhocks, And levies on poor Sweetbriar ; He drinks the whitest wine of Phlox, And the Rose is his desire. He hangs in the Willows a night and a day ; He rifles the Buckwheat patches ; Then battens his store of pelf galore Under the tautest hatches. He woos the Poppy, and weds the Peach, Inveigles Daffodilly, And then like a tramp abandons each For the gorgeous Canada Lily. A MORE ANCIENT MARINER 171 There's not a soul in the garden world But wishes the day were shorter, When Mariner B. puts out to sea With the wind in the proper quarter. Or, so they say ! But I have my doubts ; For the flowers are only human, And the valour and gold of a vagrant bold Were always dear to woman. He dares to boast, along the coast, The beauty of Highland Heather, — How he and she, with night on the sea, Lay out on the hills together. He pilfers from every port of the wind, From April to golden autumn ; But the thieving ways of his mortal days Are those his mother taught him. His morals are mixed, but his will is fixed ; He prospers after his kind, And follows an instinct, compass-sure, The philosophers call blind. And that is why, when he comes to die, He'll have an easier sentence Than someone I know who thinks just so, And then leaves room for repentance. He never could box the compass round ; He doesn't know port from starboard ; But he knows the gates of the Sundown Straits, Where the choicest goods are harboured. 172 LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS He never could see the Rule of Three, But he knows a rule of thumb Better than Euclid's, better than yours, Or the teachers' yet to come. He knows the smell of the hydromel As if two and two were five ; And he hides it away for a year and a day In his own hexagonal hive. Out in the day, hap-hazard, alone, Booms the old vagrant hummer, With only his whim to pilot him Through the splendid vast of summer. He steers and steers on the slant of the gale, Like the fiend or Vanderdecken ; And there's never an unknown course to sail But his crazy log can reckon. He drones along with his rough sea-song And the throat of a salty tar, This devil-may-care, till he makes his lair By the light of a yellow star. He looks like a gentleman, lives like a lord, And works like a Trojan hero ; Then loafs all winter upon his hoard, With the mercury at zero. BLISS CABMAN. ODE XXXIV 173 ODE XXXIV OH thou, of all creation blest, Sweet insect ! that delight' st to rest Upon the wild wood's leafy tops, To drink the dew that morning drops, And chirp thy song with such a glee, That happiest kings may envy thee ! Whatever decks the velvet field, Whate'er the circling seasons yield, Whatever buds, whatever blows, For thee it buds, for thee it grows. Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear, To him thy friendly notes are dear ; For thou art mild as matin dew, And still, when summer's flowery hue Begins to paint the bloomy plain. We hear thy sweet prophetic strain ; Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear, And bless the notes and thee revere ! The Muses love thy shrilly tone ; Apollo calls thee all his own ; 'Twas he who gave that voice to thee, 'Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy. Unworn by age's dim decline, The fadeless blooms of youth are thine. Melodious insect ! child of earth ! In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth ; Exempt from every weak decay, That withers vulgar frames away ; 174 LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS With not a drop of blood to stain The current of thy purer vein ; So blest an age is passed by thee, Thou seemest — a little deity ! ANACREON. (MOORE'S translation.) TO A BUTTERFLY I'VE watched you now a full half-hour, Self-poised upon that yellow flower ; And, little Butterfly ! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless ! — not frozen seas More motionless ! and then What joy awaits you when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again ! This plot of orchard-ground is ours ; My trees they are, my Sister's flowers ; Here rest your wings when they are weary ; Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! Come often to us, fear no wrong ; Sit near us on the bough ! We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days, when we were young ; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE HUMBLE-BEE 175 THE HUMBLE-BEE BURLY, dozing humble-bee, Where them art is clime for me. Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek ; I will follow thee alone, Thou animated torrid zone ! Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines ; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines. Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion ! Sailor of the atmosphere ; Swimmer through the waves of air ; Voyager of light and noon ; Epicurean of June, — Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum, — All without is martyrdom. When the south wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall, And, with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With a colour of romance, And, infusing subtle heats, Turns the sod to violets, 176 LAST AND LEAST OF THINGS Thou, in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods, The green silence dost displace With thy mellow, breezy bass. Hot midsummer's petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found ; Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. Aught unsavoury or unclean Hath my insect never seen ; But violets and bilberry bells, Maple-sap and daffodels, Grass with green flag half-mast high, Succory to match the sky, Columbine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony, Clover, catchfly, adder' s-tongue And briar-roses, dwelt among ; All beside was unknown waste, All was picture as he passed. Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher ! Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff and take the wheat ; GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET 177 When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep ; Woe and want thou canst outsleep : Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET THE poetry of earth is never dead : When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead. That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead In summer luxury, — he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never : On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half-lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. JOHN KEATS. M VI THE LOVER IN THE GARDEN And lemons, citrons, dates, and oranges, And all the fruits whose savour is most rare, Shall shine within the shadow oj your trees ; And every one shall be a lover there." TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN. Perhaps thy lov'd Lucinda shares thy walk, With soul to thine attuned. Tlien Nature all Weart to the lover's eye a look of love. JAMES THOMSON. 0 my Lull's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June ! ROBERT BURNS. TRANQUILLITY Do you respect the heavy-lidded flowers That nod so drowsily upon their bed ? Can you endure the slow-stepped, dreamy hours That fall, indifferent, to gold and red ? Have you the key that opens to green arches Where trees repeat their prayers in monotone ? Then take my hand down life's mysterious marches, And let us walk in silence and alone. HELEN HAY WHITNEY. SONG FROM "MAUD" COME into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone ; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon ; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune ; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon. 181 182 THE LOVER IN THE GARDEN I said to the lily, " There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay ; When will the dancers leave her alone ? She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day ; Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away. I said to the rose, " The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, For one that will never be thine ? But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, " For ever and ever, mine." And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clash'd in the hall ; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all ; From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise. SONG FROM "MAUD" 183 The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree ; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me ; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one ; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun. There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear ; She is coming, my life, my fate ; The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near ; " And the white rose weeps, " She is late ; " The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ; " And the lily whispers, " I wait." She is coming, my own, my sweet ; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed ; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead ; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. 184 THE LOVER IN THE GARDEN THE FLOWER'S NAME HERE'S the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since : Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince ! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung ; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box : And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by ! She loves you, noble roses, I know ; But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie ! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name : What a name ! Was it love or praise ? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake ? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake. Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase ; "A GARDEN ENCLOSED" 185 But do not detain me now ; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Stay as you are and be loved for ever ! Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not : Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never ! For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle — Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; Whither I follow her, beauties flee ; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Treasure my lady's lightest footfall ! Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces — Roses, you are not so fair after all ! ROBERT BROWNING. "A GARDEN ENCLOSED" A GARDEN enclosed is my sister, my spouse ; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed. Thy plants are an orchard of pomegranates, with pleasant fruits; camphire, with spikenard ; spikenard and saffron ; calamus and cinnamon, with all trees of frank- 186 THE LOVER IN THE GARDEN incense ; myrrh and aloes, with all the chief spices ; a fountain of gardens, a well of living waters, and streams from Lebanon. Awake, O north wind ; and come, thou south ; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits. THE SONG OP SOLOMON. STANZA FROM OMAR KHAYYAM THE Breath of the early Spring in the Face of the Rose is sweet ; The Face of my Love in the Shade of the Garden- close is sweet ; Naught you can say of the Day that has faded away is sweet ; Be happy ! Think not of the Past, for To-day as it glows is sweet. Prom the Persian, (Translated by NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.) CHERRY-RIPE THERE is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow ; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow ; There cherries grow that none may buy Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry. SONG WITHOUT A SOUND 187 Those cherries fairly do enclose Of Orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow : Yet them no peer nor prince can buy, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still ; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry. THOMAS CAMPION. SONG WITHOUT A SOUND (From " With Sa'di in the Garden ") THE Bulbul wail'd, " Oh, Rose, all night I sing, And Thou, Beloved ! utterest not one thing." " Dear Bird ! " she answer'd, " scent and blossoming Are music of my Song without a sound." The Cypress to the Tulip spake : " What bliss Seest thou in sunshine, dancing still like this ? " " My cup," the Tulip said, " the wind's lips kiss ; Dancing I hear the Song without a sound." The gray Owl hooted to the Dove at morn, " Why art thou happy on thy jungle-thorn ? " " Hearest thou not," she cooed, " o'er Earth's face borne This music of the Song without a sound ? " 188 THE LOVER IN THE GARDEN "Ah, Darweesh ! " moan'd a King, " vainly I pray For Allah's comfort, kneeling day by day." " Sultan ! " quoth he, " be meek, and hear alway The music of His Mercy without sound." " Poet ! " a Queen sigh'd, " why alone to thee Come visions from that world we cannot see — Nor great nor rich ? " " I borrow minstrelsy," Smiling he said, "from Songs without a sound." Shirin-i-man I dear Lover ! true and sweet, Ask no more if I love, nor kiss my feet ; But hear, with cheek against my bosom's beat, The music of the Song without a sound ! EDWIN ARNOLD. THE GARDENER THE gardener stands in his bower-door With a primrose in his hand, And by there came a leal maiden As jimp as a willow wand. " O lady, can you fancy me, For to be my bride ? Ye'se get a' the flowers in my garden To be to you a weed. Leal, true ; jimp, slender ; weed, clothing. THE GARDENER 189 in " The lily white sail be your smock Becomes your body best ; Your head sail be busk'd wi' gillyflower, And the primrose in your breast. IV " Your gown sail be the sweet-william, Your coat the camoviiie, Your apron a' the salluds neat That taste baith sweet and fine. v " Your stockings sail be o' the braid kail-blade, That is baith braid and lang ; And narrow, narrow at the cute, And braid, braid at the brawn. " Your gloves sail be the marigold, All glittering to your hand, Well spread o'er wi' the blue blaewort That grows amang corn-land." — VII " O fare ye well, young man," she says, " Farewell, and I bid adieu ; If you can fancy me," she says, " O I cannot fancy you. Camorine, camomile ; cute, ankle ; brawn, calf ; blaewort, corn bluebottle. 190 THE LOVER IN THE GARDEN VIII " Sin you've provided a weed for me Amang the summer flowers, Then I'se provide anither for you Amang the winter showers. — IX " The new-fa'n snaw to be your smock Becomes your body best ; An' your head sail be wound wi' the eastern wind, An' the cauld rain on your breast." OLD BALLAD. SONG (From " Jason ") I KNOW a little garden close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering. And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there, And though the apple-boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before. There comes a murmur from the shore, SONG 191 And in the place two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea ; The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee, The shore no ship has ever seen, Still beaten by the billows green, Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry. For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, That maketh me both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskilled to find, And quick to lose what all men seek. Yet tottering as I am and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place, To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me Anigh the murmuring of the sea. WILLIAM MOKRIS. SONG (From " With Sa'di in the Garden ") ALL in a Garden fair I sate, and spied The Tulips dancing, dancing side by side, With scarlet turbans dressed ; All in a Garden green at night I heard The gladsome voice of night's melodious Bird Singing that " Love is Best ! " 192 THE LOVER IN THE GARDEN The shy white Jasmine drew aside her veil, Breathing faint fragrance on the loitering gale, And nodded, nodded " Yes ! Sweetest of all sweet things is Love ! and wise ! Dance, Tulip ! Pipe, fond Bird, thy melodies ! Wake, Rose of Loveliness ! " " Yet," sighed the swaying Cypress, ' ' who can tell If Love be wise as sweet ? if it be well For Love to dance and sing ? I see — growing here always — year by year The Bulbuls die, and on their grassy bier Rose-petals scattering ! " All in that Garden green the Rose replied : " Ah ! Cypress, look ! I put my leaves aside ; Mark what is 'mid this bush ! Three blue eggs in a closely-woven nest, Sheltered, for music's sake, by branch and breast ! There will be Bulbuls ! hush ! " All in that Garden green the Bulbul trilled, " Oh, foolish Cypress ! thinking Love was killed Because he seemed to cease ! My best Belov'd hath secrets at her heart, Gold seeds of summer-time, new buds to start ; There will be Roses ! peace ! " Then lightlier danced the Tulips than before To waftings of the perfumed breeze, and more Chanted the Nightingale : The fireflies in the palms fresh lanterns lit ; Her zone of grace the blushing Rose unknit, And blossomed, pure and pale ! EDWIN ARNOLD. THE CYPRESS TREE 193 THE CYPRESS TREE (From " Laili and Majnun ") Wandering he reached a spot of ground, With palmy groves and poplars crowned ; A lively scene it was to view, Where flowers too bloomed, of every hue ; In wonder lost, he saw the axe applied To fell a cypress tree — and thus he cried : " Gardener ! did ever love thy heart control ? Was ever woman mistress of thy soul ? When joy has thrilled through every glowing nerve, Hadst thou no wish that feeling to preserve ? Does not a woman's love delight, entrance, And every blessing fortune yields enhance ? Then stop that lifted hand, the stroke suspend, Spare, spare the cypress tree, and be my friend ! And why ? Look there, and be forewarned by me, 'Tis Laili's form, all grace and majesty ; Wouldst thou root up resemblance so complete, And lay its branches withering at thy feet ? What ! Laili's form ? no ; spare the cypress tree ; Let it remain, still beautiful and free ; Yes, let my prayers thy kindliest feelings move, And save the graceful shape of her I love ! " — The gardener dropped his axe, o'ercome with shame, , And left the tree to bloom, and speak of Laili's fame. NIZAMI. (Translated from the Persian.) N 194 THE LOVER IN THE GARDEN SONG JUST like Love is yonder Rose, — Heavenly fragrance round it throws, Yet tears its dewy leaves disclose, And in the midst of briars it blows, Just like Love. Cull'd to bloom upon the breast, Since rough thorns the stem invest, They must be gather'd with the rest, And with it to the heart be prest, Just like Love. And when rude hands the twin-buds sever, They die, and they shall blossom never ; Yet the thorns be sharp as ever, Just like Love. Luiz DE CAMOENS. (Translation.) SONNET THE forward violet thus did I chide : Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath ? The purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. SONNET 195 The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair ; The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair ; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both, And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath ; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee. WILLIAM SHAKESPEABB. VII THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN All through the days of childhood the garden is our fairy- ground of sweet enchantment and innocent wonder. " E. V. B." The child who is garden bred has a happier start in life, a greater love and knowledge of Nature. ALICE MOESE EABLE. In childhood I never sowed a seed unless it was perennial — and that is why my garden lasts. EMILY DICKINSON'S Letters. " Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow ? " " With silver bells, and cockle-shells, And pretty maids all in a row." MOTHER GOOSE. FLOWER-LOVING PARENTS WHO, that was blessed with parents that indulged themselves and children with a flower garden, can forget the happy, innocent hours spent in its culti- vation ! O ! who can forget those days, when to announce the appearance of a bud, or the colouring of a tulip, or the opening of a rose, or the perfection of a full-blown peony, was glory enough for one morning. JOSEPH BKECK. NIGHT AND DAY1 WHEN the golden day is done, Through the closing portal, Child and garden, flower and sun, Vanish all things mortal. As the blinding shadows fall As the rays diminish, Under evening's cloak, they all Roll away and vanish. 1 From Poems and Ballads; copyright, 1895, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 199 200 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN Garden darkened, daisy shut, Child in bed, they slumber — Glow-worm in the highway rut, Mice among the lumber. In the darkness houses shine, Parents move with candles ; Till on all, the night divine Turns the bedroom handles. Till at last the day begins In the east a-breaking, In the hedges and the whins Sleeping birds a-waking. In the darkness shapes of things, Houses, trees and hedges, Clearer grow ; and sparrows' wings Beat on window ledges. These shall wake the yawning maid ; She the door shall open — Finding dew on garden glade And the morning broken. There my garden grows again Green and rosy painted, As at eve behind the pane From my eyes it fainted. Just as it was shut away, Toy-like, in the even, Here I see it glow with day Under glowing heaven. FORGET-ME-NOT 201 Every path and every plot, Every bush of roses, Every blue forget-me-not Where the dew reposes, " Up ! " they cry, " the day is come On the smiling valleys : We have beat the morning drum ; Playmate, join your allies ! " ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. FORGET-ME-NOT (Myosotis) WHEN to the flowers so beautiful The Father gave a name, Back came a little blue-eyed one (All timidly it came) ; And standing at its Father's feet And gazing in His face, It said, in low and trembling tones, With sweet and gentle grace, " Dear God, the name Thou gavest me, Alas ! I have forgot." Kindly the Father looked Him down And said, "Forget-me-not." ANONYMOUS. 202 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN THE GARDEN OF SLEEP (From " The Golden Age ") THE passage was achieved, and I stood inside, safe but breathless at the sight. Gone was the brambled waste, gone the flickering terrace of shaven sward, stone-edged, urn-cornered, steeped delicately down to where the stream, now tamed and educated, passed from one to another marble basin, in which on occasion gleams of red hinted at gold-fish poised among the spreading water-lilies. The scene lay slumbrous in the brooding noonday sun : the drows- ing peacock squatted humped on the lawn, no fish leaped in the pools, no bird declared himself from the trim secluding hedges. Self-confessed it was here, then, at last, the Garden of Sleep ! Two things, in those old days, I held in especial distrust : gamekeepers and gardeners. Seeing, how- ever, no baleful apparitions of either quality, I pursued my way between rich flower-beds, in search of the necessary Princess. Conditions declared her presence patently as trumpets ; without this centre such surroundings could not exist. A pavilion, gold-topped, wreathed with lush jessamine, beckoned with a special significance over close-set shrubs. There, if anywhere, She would be enshrined. In- stinct, and some knowledge of the habits of Prin- cesses, triumphed ; for (indeed) there She was ! In no tranced repose, however, but laughingly struggling to disengage her hand from the grasp of a grown-up man who occupied the marble bench FAIRIES AND CHILDREN 203 with her. ... I paused, thinking it strange they should prefer seclusion when there were fish to be caught, and butterflies to hunt in the sun outside ; and as I cogitated thus, the grown-up man caught sight of me. KENNETH GRAHAME. FAIRIES AND CHILDREN1 (From " The Little White Bird") IT is frightfully difficult to know much about the fairies, and almost the only thing known for certain is that there are fairies wherever there are children. Long ago children were forbidden the Gardens, and at that time there was not a fairy in the place ; then the children were admitted, and the fairies came trooping in that very evening. . . . When you were a bird you knew the fairies pretty well, and you remember a good deal about them in your babyhood, which it is a great pity you can't write down, for gradually you forget, and I have heard of children who declared that they had never once seen a fairy. Very likely if they said this in the Kensington Gardens, they were standing look- ing at a fairy all the time. The reason they were cheated was that she pretended to be something else. This is one of their best tricks. They usually pretend to be flowers, because the court sits in the Fairies' Basin, and there are so many flowers there, and all along the Baby Walk, that a flower is the 1 From The Little White Bird ; copyright, 1902, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 204 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN thing least likely to attract attention. They dress exactly like flowers, and change with the seasons, putting on white when lilies are in and blue for blue-bells, and so on. They like crocus and hyacinth time best of all, as they are partial to a bit of colour, but tulips (except white ones, which are the fairy-cradles) they consider garish, and they sometimes put off dressing like tulips for days, so that the beginning of the tulip weeks is almost the best time to catch them. J. M. BABKIE. THE CHILD AND THE SUN-DIAL (From " The Old Benchers of the Inner Temple") WHAT an antique air had the now almost effaced sun-dials, with their moral inscriptions, seeming co- evals with that Time which they measured, and to take their revelations of its flight immediately from heaven, holding correspondence with the fountain of light ! How would the dark line steal imper- ceptibly on, watched by the eye of childhood, eager to direct its movement, never catched, nice as an evanescent cloud, or the first arrests of sleep ! CHAELES LAMB. NEPHON'S SONG LADY and gentleman fays, come buy ! No pedlar has such a rich packet as 1. NEPHON'S SONG 205 Who wants a gown Of purple fold, Embroider'd down The seams with gold ? See here ! — a Tulip richly laced To please a royal fairy's taste ! Who wants a cap Of crimson grand ? By great good hap I've one on hand : Look, sir! — a Cock's-comb, flowering red, 'Tis just the thing, sir, for your head ! Who wants a frock Of vestal hue ? Or snowy smock ? — Fair maid, do you ? O me ! — a Ladysmock so white ! Your bosom's self is not more bright. Who wants to sport A slender limb ? I've every sort Of hose for him : Both scarlet, striped, and yellow ones : This Woodbine makes such pantaloons ! Who wants — (hush ! hush !) A box of paint ? 'Twill give a blush Yet leave no taint : This rose with natural rouge is fill'd, From its own dewy leaves distill'd. 206 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN Then lady and gentleman fays, come buy ! You never will meet such a merchant as I ! GEORGE DARLEY. HECTOR IN THE GARDEN NINE green years had scarcely brought me To my childhood's haunted spring : I had life, like flowers and bees, In betwixt the country trees ; And the sun the pleasure taught me Which he teacheth everything. And the sun and I together Went a-rushing out of doors : We our tender spirits drew Over hill and dale in view, Glimmering hither, glimmering thither, In the footsteps of the showers. Underneath the chestnuts dripping, Through the grasses wet and fair, Straight I sought my garden-ground, With the laurel on the mound, And the pear-tree oversweeping A side-shadow of green air. HECTOR IN THE GARDEN 207 In the garden lay supinely A huge giant wrought of spade ; Arms and legs were stretched at length In a passive giant strength, — The fine meadow-turf, cut finely, Round them laid and interlaid. Call him Hector, son of Priam ! Such his title and degree. With my rake I smoothed his brow, Both his cheeks I weeded through , But a rhymer such as I am, Scarce can sing his dignity. Eyes of gentianellas azure, Staring, winking at the skies ; Nose of gillyflowers and box ; Scented grasses put for locks, Which a little breeze at pleasure Set a-waving round his eyes : Brazen helm of daffodillies, With a glitter toward the light ; Purple violets for the mouth, Breathing perfumes west and south ; And a sword of flashing lilies, Holden ready for the fight : And a breastplate made of daisies, Closely fitting, leaf on leaf; Periwinkles interlaced Drawn for belt about the waist ; While the brown bees, humming praises, Shot their arrows round the chief, 208 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN And who knows (I sometimes wondered) If the disembodied soul Of old Hector once of Troy Might not take a dreary joy Here to enter — if it thundered, Rolling up the thunder-roll ? It was hard to answer, often ; But the birds sang in the tree, But the little birds sang bold In the pear-tree green and old, And my terror seemed to soften Through the courage of their glee. Oh the birds, the tree, the ruddy And white blossoms sleek with rain ! Oh, my garden rich with pansies ! Oh, my childhood's bright romances ! All revive, like Hector's body, And I see them stir again. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. AUTUMN FIRES1 IN the other gardens And all up the vale, From the autumn bonfires See the smoke trail ! 1 From Poems and Ballads; copyright, 1895, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons. THE GARDEN 209 Pleasant summer over And all the summer flowers, The red fire blazes, The grey smoke towers. Sing a song of seasons ! Something bright in all ! Flowers in the summer, Fires in the fall ! ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. THE GARDEN I HAD a garden when a child ; I kept it all in order ; 'Twas full of flowers as it could be, And London-pride was its border. And soon as came the pleasant spring, The singing-birds built in it, — The blackbird and the throstle-cock, The woodlark and the linnet. And all within my garden ran A labyrinth-walk so mazy ; In the middle there grew a yellow rose, At each end a Michaelmas-daisy. I had a bush of southern- wood, And two of bright mezereon ; A peony root, a snow-white phlox, And a plant of red valerian ; 210 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN A lilac-tree and a guelder-rose, A broom, and a tiger-lily ; And I walked a dozen miles to find The true wild daffodilly. I had columbines, both pink and blue, And thalictrum like a feather ; And the bright goat's-beard, that shuts its leaves Before a change of weather. I had marigolds and gilliflowers, And pinks all pinks exceeding ; I'd a noble root of love-in-a-mist, And plenty of love-lies-bleeding. I had Jacob's ladder, Aaron's rod, And the peacock-gentianella ; I had asters more than I can tell, And lupins blue and yellow. I set a grain of Indian corn, One day in an idle humour, And the grain sprang up six feet or more, My glory for a summer. I found far off in the pleasant fields More flowers than I can mention ; I found the English asphodel, And the spring and autumn gentian. THE GARDEN 211 I found the orchis, fly and bee, And the cistus of the mountain ; The money-wort, and the green hart's-tongue, Beside an old wood fountain. I found, within another wood, The rare pyrola blowing ; For wherever there was a curious flower, I was sure to find it growing. I set them in my garden beds, Those beds I loved so dearly, Where I laboured after set of sun, And in summer mornings early. O ! my pleasant garden-plot ! A shrubbery was beside it, And an old and mossy apple-tree, With a woodbine wreathed to hide it. There was a bower in my garden-plot, A spirea grew before it ; Behind it was a laburnum-tree, And a wild hop clambered o'er it. Ofttimes I sat within my bower, Like a king in all his glory ; Ofttimes I read, and read for hours, Some pleasant, wondrous story. 212 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN I read of gardens in old times, — Old stately gardens, kingly, Where people walked in gorgeous crowds, Or, for silent musing, singly. I raised up visions in my brain, The noblest and the fairest ; But still I loved my garden best, And thought it far the rarest. And all amongst my flowers I walked, Like a miser 'midst his treasure ; For that pleasant plot of garden ground Was a world of endless pleasure. MARY Ho WITT. TALKING IN THEIR SLEEP " You think I am dead," The apple-tree said, " Because I have never a leaf to show ; Because I stoop, And my branches droop, And the dull grey mosses over me grow. But I'm all alive in trunk and shoot ; The buds of next May I fold away — But I pity the withered grass at my root. " You think I am dead," The quick grass said, THE FLOWERS 213 " Because I have parted with stem and blade ! But under the ground I am safe and sound, With the snow's thick blanket over me laid. I'm all alive and ready to shoot, Should the spring of the year Come dancing here — But I pity the flower without branch or root." " You think I am dead," A soft voice said, " Because not a branch or a root I own ! I never have died, But close I hide In a plumy seed that the wind has sown. Patient I wait through the long winter hours, You will see me again — I shall laugh at you then, Out of the eyes of a hundred flowers." EDITH M. THOMAS. THE FLOWERS1 ALL the names I know from nurse : Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse, Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock, And the Lady Hollyhock. Fairy places, fairy things, Fairy woods where the wild bee wings, 1 From Poems and Ballads; copyright, 1895, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 214 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN Tiny trees for tiny dames — These must all be fairy names ! Tiny woods below whose boughs Shady fairies weave a house ; Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme, Where the braver fairies climb ! Fair are grown-up people's trees, But the fairest woods are these ; Where, if I were not so tall, I should live for good and all. ROBEET Louis STEVENSON. THE SWEET, RED ROSE " GOOD morrow, little rose-bush, Now prythee, tell me true : To be as sweet as a sweet, red rose What must a body do ? " '•' To be as sweet as a sweet, red rose A little girl like you Just grows and grows and grows and grows — And that's what she must do." MARY MAPES DODGE. BUTTERCUP AND POPPY 215 BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT1 BUTTERCUP, Poppy, Forget-me-not — These three bloomed in a garden spot ; And once, all merry with song and play, A little one heard three voices say : " Shine and shadow, summer and spring, O thou child with the tangled hair And laughing eyes ! we three shall bring Each an offering passing fair." The little one did not understand, But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand. Buttercup gambolled all day long, Sharing the little one's mirth and song; Then, stealing along on misty gleams, Poppy came bearing the sweetest dreams. Praying and dreaming — and that was all Till once a sleeper would not awake ; Kissing the little face under the pall, We thought of the words the third flower spake ; And we found betimes in a hallowed spot The solace and peace of Forget-me-not. Buttercup shareth the joy of day, Glinting with gold the hours of play ; Bringeth the Poppy sweet repose, When the hands would fold and the eyes would close ; 1 From With Trumpet and Drum; copyright, 1892, by Mary French Field ; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 216 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN And after it all — the play and the sleep Of a little life — what cometh then ? To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep A new flower bringeth God's peace again. Each one serveth its tender lot — Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not. EUGENE FIELD. LITTLE WHITE LILY LITTLE white Lily Sat by a stone, Drooping and waiting Till the sun shone. Little white Lily Sunshine has fed ; Little white Lily Is lifting her head. Little white Lily Said, "It is good — Little white Lily's Clothing and food." Little white Lily Drest like a bride ! Shining with whiteness, And crowned beside ! Little white Lily Droopeth with pain, Waiting and waiting For the wet rain. THE GARDENER 217 Little white Lily Holdeth her cup ; Rain is fast falling And filling it up. Little white Lily Said, " Good again — When I am thirsty To have fresh rain ! Now I am stronger ; Now I am cool ; Heat cannot burn me, My veins are so full." Little white Lily Smells very sweet : On her head sunshine, Rain at her feet. " Thanks to the sunshine, Thanks to the rain ! Little white Lily Is happy again ! " GEOBGE MACDONALD. THE GARDENER1 THE gardener does not love to talk, He makes me keep the gravel walk ; And when he puts his tools away, He locks the door and takes the key. 1 From Poems and Bcdhids ; copyright, 1895, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 218 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN Away behind the currant row Where no one else but cook may go, Far in the plots I see him dig, Old and serious, brown and big. He digs the flowers, green, red and blue, Nor wishes to be spoken to. He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, And never seems to want to play. Silly gardener ! summer goes, And winter comes with pinching toes, When in the garden bare and brown You must lay your barrow down. Well now, and while the summer stays, To profit by these summer days, O how much wiser you would be To play at Indian wars with me ! ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. VIII OF THE DAYS GONE BY In yon once gay garden, the hemlock and thistle Have chok'd up the Rose, which late bloom 'd in the way. BYRON. And all day long a bird sings there, And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times ; The place is silent and aware ; It has had its scenes, its joys, its crimes, But that is its own affair. BROWNING. THE DESERTED GARDEN I MIND me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun, With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted. The beds and walks were vanished quite ; And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, The greenest grasses Nature laid, To sanctify her right. I called the place my wilderness ; For no one entered there but I. The sheep looked in, the grass to espy, And passed it ne'ertheless. The trees were interwoven wild, And spread their boughs enough about To keep both sheep and shepherd out, But not a happy child. Adventurous joy it was for me ! I crept beneath the boughs and found A circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar tree. 221 OF THE DAYS GONE BY Old garden roses hedged it in, Bedropt with roses waxen-white, Well satisfied with dew and light, And careless to be seen. Long years ago, it might befall, When all the garden flowers were trim, The grave old gardener prided him On these the most of all, — Some Lady, stately overmuch, Here moving with a silken noise, Has blushed beside them at the voice That likened her to such. Or these, to make a diadem, She often may have plucked and twined ; Half-smiling as it came to mind, That few would look at them. Oh, little thought that Lady proud, A child would watch her fair white rose, When buried lay her whiter brows, And silk was changed for shroud ! Nor thought that gardener (full of scorns For men unlearn'd and simple phrase) A child would bring it all its praise, By creeping through the thorns ! To me upon my low moss seat, Though never a dream the roses sent Of science or love's compliment, I ween they smelt as sweet. THE DESERTED GARDEN 223 It did not move my grief, to see The trace of human step departed. Because the garden was deserted, The blither place for me ! Friends, blame me not ! a narrow ken Hath childhood 'twixt the sun and sward : We draw the moral afterward — We feel the gladness then. And gladdest hours for me did glide In silence at the rose-tree wall : A thrush made gladness musical Upon the other side. Nor he nor I did e'er incline To peck or pluck the blossoms white — How should I know but that they might Lead lives as glad as mine ? To make my hermit-home complete, I brought clear water from the spring Praised in its own low murmuring, — And cresses glossy wet. And so, I thought my likeness grew (Without the melancholy tale) To "gentle hermit of the dale," And Angelina too. For oft I read within my nook Such minstrel stories ! till the breeze Made sounds poetic in the trees, — And then I shut the book. 224 OF THE DAYS GONE BY If I shut this wherein I write, I hear no more the wind athwart Those trees, — nor feel that childish heart Delighting in delight. My childhood from my life is parted, My footstep from the moss which drew Its fairy circle round : anew The garden is deserted. Another thrush may there rehearse The madrigals which sweetest are ; No more for me ! — myself afar Do sing a sadder verse. Ah me, ah me ! when erst I lay In that child's-nest so greenly wrought, I laugh'd unto myself and thought, " The time will pass away." And still I laugh'd, and did not fear But that, whene'er was passed away The childish time, some happier play My womanhood would cheer. I knew the time would pass away ; And yet, beside the rose-tree wall, Dear God, how seldom, if at all Did I look up to pray ! The time is past : — and now that grows The cypress high among the trees, And I behold white sepulchres As well as the white rose, — A FORSAKEN GARDEN 225 When wiser, meeker thoughts are given, And I have learnt to lift my face, Reminded how earth's greenest place The colour draws from heaven ; — It something saith for earthly pain, But more for Heavenly promise free, That I who was, would shrink to be That happy child again. ELIZABETH BAEEETT BBOWNINQ. A FORSAKEN GARDEN IN a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee, Walled round with rocks as an inland island, The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses The steep square slope of the blossomless bed Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses Now lie dead. The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken, To the low last edge of the long lone land. If a step should sound or a word be spoken, Would a ghost not rise at the 'strange guest's hand ? So long have the grey bare walls lain guestless, Through branches and briars if a man make way, He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless Night and day. P 226 OF THE DAYS GONE BY The dense hard passage is blind and stifled That crawls by a track none turn to climb To the strait waste place that the years have rifled Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time. The thorns he spares when the rose is taken ; The rocks are left when he wastes the plain ; The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, These remain. Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls not ; As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry; From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not, Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. Over the meadows that blossom and wither, Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song. Only the sun and the rain come hither All year long. The sun burns sear, and the rain dishevels One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. Only the wind here hovers and revels In a round where life seems barren as death. Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, Haply, of lovers none ever will know, Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping Years ago. Heart handfast in heart as they stood, " Look thither," Did he whisper ? " Look forth from the flowers to the sea ; A FORSAKEN GARDEN 227 For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither, And men that love lightly may die — But we ?" And the same wind sang, and the same waves whitened, And or ever the garden's last petals were shed, In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened, Love was dead. Or they loved their life through, and then went whither ? And were one to the end — but what end who knows ? Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither, As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them ? What love was ever as deep as a grave ? They are loveless now as the grass above them Or the wave. All are at one now, roses and lovers, Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. Not a breath of the time that has been hovers In the air now soft with a summer to be. Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons here- after, Or the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep, When as they that are free now of weeping and laughter We shall sleep. 228 OF THE DAYS GONE BY Here death may deal not again forever ; Here change may come not till all change end. From the graves they have made they shall rise up never, Who have left naught living to ravage and rend. Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing, While the sun and the rain live, these shall be ; Till a last wind's breath, upon all these blowing, Roll the sea. Till the slow sea rise, and the sheer cliff crumble, Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, Here now in his triumph where all things falter, Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread, As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, Death lies dead. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. "AS WANDERING, I FOUND" As wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, By the dial-stone aged and green, One Rose of the Wilderness left on its stalk, To mark where a garden had been : Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, All wild, in the silence of nature it drew From each wandering sunbeam a lovely embrace ; For the night- weed and thorn overshadow'd the place Where the flower of my forefathers grew. PAST AND PRESENT 229 Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all That survives in this desolate heart ; The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, But patience shall never depart ; Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, In the days of delusion, by fancy combin'd With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul like a dream of the night, And leave but a desert behind. THOMAS CAMPBELL. PAST AND PRESENT I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn ; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day ; But noAv, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away. I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups — Those flowers made of light ! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set y/ The laburnum on his birthday, — The tree is living yet ! 230 OF THE DAYS GONE BY I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing ; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky : It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven, Than when I was a boy. THOMAS HOOD. THE OLD GARDEN CLOSED on three sides by crumbling walls of brick, All spotted by slow-creeping lichen stains, And nearly hid by ivy, matted thick, And dim with clinging mists of years of rains, The garden lies. When all outside is vexed by summer rains, Whose dash and rush will bend the stateliest rose, And blur the street with dull and tearful stains, The freshened garden but the brighter glows ; THE OLD GARDEN 231 The swaying flowers lift their sweet, wet eyes, And burst of perfume fills the shining air, The drenched and dreary street feels vague surprise At the strange fragrance overflowing there. Inside the walls, the tall ailanthus' shade Is tangled in the meshes of the grass, Or flecks the path, whose mossy flags were laid For childish feet, long since grown old, to pass ; Between the stones, the scarlet pimpernel Finds room to spread its thread-like roots and grow; And all self-sown the portulaca's bell Lights up the ground with tender, rosy glow. The walls are hedged with dusky green of box, That once enclosed long borders, trim and neat ; Within them stood great clumps of snowy phlox, That shone at dusk, and grew more deeply sweet. But now the phlox wild morning-glories seek, Whose silky blossoms rove the garden through, And press pure faces 'gainst the thistle's cheek, Or star-like gleam amid the grass and dew — A thousand pushing weeds the borders hold, And standing with them, wild and rank as they, Are tender blossoms, now grown over-bold, And careless of the garden's slow decay. Oh, far away, in some serener air, The eyes that loved them see a heavenly dawn : How can they bloom without her tender care ? Why should they live, when her sweet life is gone ? OF THE DAYS GONE BY Still from the far-off pastures comes the bee, And swings all clay inside the hollyhock, Or steals her honey from the winged sweet-pea, Or the striped glory of the four-o'clock ; The pale sweet-william, ringed with pink and white, Grows yet within the damp shade of the wall ; And there the primrose stands, that as the night Begins to gather, and the clews to fall, Flings wide to circling moths her twisted buds, That shine like yellow moons with pale, cold glow, And all the air her heavy fragrance floods, And gives largess to any winds that blow. Here, in wann darkness of a night in June, While rhythmic pulses of the factory's flame Lighted with sudden flare of red the gloom, And deepened long black shadows, children came To watch the primrose blow! Silent they stood, Hand clasped in hand, in breathless hush around, And saw her shyly doff her soft green hood And blossom — with a silken burst of sound ! Once more I listen for the trembling chime From purple-throated Canterbury bell ; For surely, in that far-off golden time, Strange fragrant music from it softly fell. Beneath the lilacs, in whose heart-shaped leaves The dust has settled and white stains of mould, The money-vine with clinging myrtle weaves A thick dark carpet, starred with blue and gold. THE OLD GARDEN 233 A wedge of vivid blue the larkspur shines From out the thorny heart of the sweetbriar, And at its side are velvet brandy-wines, Shadowed by honeysuckles' fringe of fire. On the long grass, where still the drops of dew Are threaded like a necklace for the dawn, The flaming poppies their soft petals strew, Then stand and shiver, all their brav'ry gone. Each crumpled, crepe-like leaf is soft as silk ; Long, long ago the children saw them there, Scarlet and rose, with fringes white as milk, And called them " shawls for fairies' dainty wear ! " They were not finer, those laid safe away In that low attic, 'neath the brown, warm eaves, Where yellow sunshine 011 the rafters lay, Or danced with shadows of the outside leaves — The scent of cedarn chest in each soft fold, And ling' ring sweetness of dried lavender, Or pale-pressed rose-leaves. Still the grape-vines hold The leaning arbour, where the leaves scarce stir, In cool green darkness that shuts out the sky ; For, if a sunbeam wandered there, 't was lost, Or flitted like a golden butterfly Across the ceiling that the fruit embossed. 'Neath it the path was worn and mossy green, And here, on long, still, Sunday afternoons, The garden hidden by the leafy screen, A child could walk, crooning to low, strange tunes, Her catechism, or the evening hymn ; 234 OF THE DAYS GONE BY But ever gazing with a wistful eye, From out the quiet of the arbour dim, At the bright garden, Sunday did deny. The house is empty of the old, sweet life ; The outside world long since has claimed the child, And gone forever from its bitter strife The gentle face that always on her smiled. Yet, though tin tended, still the garden glows, And 'gainst its walls the city's heart still beats, And out from it each summer wind that blows Carries some sweetness to the tired streets ! MARGARET DELANO. IX SOME FAMOUS GARDENS Show me your garden, provided it be your ou-n, and I will tell you what you are like. ALFRED AUSTIN. 1 know her own rose-garden, And mean to linger in it. TENNYSON. MIRACULOUS PLANTS (From "Picciola") HE called to mind all the miraculous plants recorded from the earliest times by poet or historian, — the holly of Homer, the palm-tree of Latona, the oak of Odin ; nay, even the golden herb which shines before the eyes of the ignorant peasants of Brit- tany, and the Mayflower which preserves from evil thoughts the simple shepherdesses of La Brie. He recollected the sacred fig-tree of the Romans, the olive of the Athenians, the Teutates of the Celts, the vervain of the Gauls, the lotus of the Greeks, the beans of the Pythagoreans, the mandrake of the Hebrews. He remembered the blue campac which blossoms everlastingly in the Persian's Paradise ; the touba-tree which overshadows the celestial throne of Mahomet ; the magic camalata, the sacred amreet on whose branches the Indians behold imaginary fruits of Ambrosia and of voluptuous enjoyment. He recurred with pleasure to the symbolical worship of the Japanese, who elevate the altars of their divinities on pedestals of heliotropes and water- lilies, assigning the throne of Love himself to the corolla of a nenuphar. He admired the religious 837 238 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS scruples of the Siamese, which make it sacrilege to exterminate or even mutilate certain consecrated shrubs. X. B. SAINTINE. (Translated.) THE GARDENS OF THE HESPERIDES (From " The Gardens of Epicurus ") WHAT the Gardens of the Hesperides were, we have little or no account, further than the mention of them, and thereby the testimony of their having been in use and request, in such remoteness of place, and Antiquity of Time. THE HANGING GARDENS OF BABYLON Semiramis is the first we are told of in Story, that brought gardens in use through her Empire, and was so fond of them, as to make one wherever she built, and in all, or most of the Provinces she sub- dued, which are said to have been from Babylon as far as India. The Assyrian Kings continued this Custom and Care, or rather this Pleasure, till one of them brought in the use of smaller or more regular Gardens : For having married a Wife he was fond of, out of one of the Provinces, where such Paradises or Gardens were much in use, and the Country Lady not well bearing the Air or Inclosure of the Palace in Babylon to which the Assyrian Kings used to con- fine themselves ; he made her Gardens, not only within the Palaces, but upon Terraces raised with PHILOSOPHER IN THE GARDEN 239 Earth, over the arched Roofs, and even upon the top of the highest Tower, planted them with all sorts of Fruit-Trees, as well as other Plants and Flowers, the most pleasant of that Country, and thereby made at least the most airy Gardens, as well as the most costly, that have been heard of in the World. THE GARDENS OF KING SOLOMON THE next Gardens we read of, are those of Solomon, planted with all sorts of Fruit-Trees, and watered with Fountains ; and though we have no more particular description of them, yet we may find, they were the places where he passed the times of his Leisure and Delight, where the Houses as well as Grounds, were adorned with all that could be pleasing and elegant, and were the Retreats and Entertainments of those among his Wives that he loved the best ; and it is not impossible that the Paradises mentioned by Strabo, were planted by this great and wisest King. But the Idea of the Garden must be very great, if it answers at all to that of the Gardener, who must have employed a great deal of his Care and of his Study, as well as of his Leisure and Thought in these Entertainments, since he writ of all Plants, from the Cedar to the Shrub. THE PHILOSOPHER IN THE GARDEN Epicurus passed his Life wholly in his Garden ; there he Studied, there he Exercised, there he taught his 240 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS Philosophy ; and indeed no other sort of abode seems to contribute so much, to both the Tranquil- lity of Mind, and Indolence of Body, which he made his Chief Ends. The Sweetness of Air, the Pleasantness of Smells, the Verdure of Plants, the Cleanness and Lightness of Food, the Exercises of working or walking, but above all, the Exemption from Cares and Sollicitude, seem equally to favour and improve, both Contemplation and Health, the Enjoyment of Sense and Imagination, and thereby the Quiet and Ease both of the Body and Mind. THE GARDEN OF ALCINOUS THE Garden of Alcinous, described by Homer, seems wholly Poetical, and made at the pleasure of the Painter, like the rest of the Romantick Palace, in that little barren island of Phoeacia or Corfu. Yet as all the pieces of this transcendent Genius, are composed with excellent knowledge, as well as fancy ; so they seldom fail of Instruction as well as Delight, to all that read him. The Seat of this Garden, joining to the Gates of the Palace, the compass of the Inclosure, being four Acres, the tall Trees of shade, as well as those of fruit, the two Fountains, the continual succession of fruits throughout the whole Year, are, for aught I know, the best Rules or Provisions, that can go towards composing the best Gardens, IMPERIAL GARDENS AT PEKIN 241 A MODERN HESPERIDES THE Picture I have met with in some relations of a Garden made by a Dutch Governor of their Colony, upon the Cape de Ruen Esperance is admirable, and described to be of an Oblong Figure, very large Extent, and divided into four Quarters by long and cross Walks, ranged with all sorts of Orange-Trees, Fruits, Lemmons, Limes, and Citrons ; each of these four Quarters is planted with the Trees, Fruits, Flowers, and Plants that are native and proper to each of the four parts of the World ; so, as in this one Inclosure are to be found the several Gardens of Europe, Asia, Africk, and America. There could not be in my mind, a greater thought of a Gardener, nor a nobler Idea of a Garden, nor better suited or chosen for the Climat, which is about Thirty Degrees, and may pass for the Hesperides of our Age, whatever or wherever the other was. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. THE IMPERIAL GARDENS AT PEKIN (From " A Particular Account of the Emperor of China's Gardens ") As for the Pleasure-houses, they are really charming. They stand in a vast Compass of Ground. They have raised Hills, from 20 to 6*0 Foot high ; which form a great Number of little Valleys between them. The Bottoms of these Valleys are water'd with clear Streams ; which run on till they join Q. 242 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS together, and form larger Pieces of Water and Lakes. They pass these Streams, Lakes, and Rivers, in beautiful and magnificent Boats. In each of these Valleys, there are Houses about the Banks of the Water ; very well disposed : with their different Courts, open and close Porticos, Parterres, Gardens, and Cascades. They go from one of the Valleys to another, not by formal straight Walks as in Europe ; but by various Turnings and Windings, adorn'd on the Sides with little Pavilions and charming Grottos : and each of these Valleys is di versify 'd from all the rest, both by their manner of laying out the Ground, and in Structure and Disposition of its Buildings. All the Risings and Hills are sprinkled with Trees ; and particularly with Flowering-trees, which are here very common. The Sides of the Canals, or lesser Streams, are not faced (as they are with us) with smooth Stone, and in a Straight Line ; but look rude and rustic, with different Pieces of Rock, some of which jut out, and others recede inwards ; and are placed with so much Art, that you would take it to be the Work of Nature. In some Parts the Water is wide, in others narrow ; here it ser- pentizes, and there spreads away, as if it was really push'd off by the Hills and Rocks. The Banks are sprinkled with Flowers ; which rise up even thro' the Hollows in the Rock-work, as if they had been produced there naturally. They have a great Variety of them, for every Season of the Year. On your Entrance into each Valley, you see its THE GARDEN OF IREM 243 Buildings before you. . . . You go up to them, not by regular Stone Steps, but by a rough Sort of Rock- work ; form'd as if there had been so many Steps produced there by Nature. . . . Every Valley, as I told you before, has its Pleasure-house. . . . And how many of these Places do you think there may be, in all the Valleys of the Inclosure ? There are1 above 200 of them : without reckoning as many other Houses for the Eunuchs. . . . The whole Inclosure is called, Yven-ming Yven, The Garden of Gardens ; or The Garden, by way of Eminence. It is not the only one that belongs to the Emperor ; he has Three others, of the same Kind : but none of them so large, or so beautiful, as this. In one of these lives the Empress his Mother, and all her Court. It was built by the Emperor's Grandfather, Cang-hy ; and is called Tchamg Tchun Yven, or The Garden of Perpetual Spring. F. ATTIBET. (Translated by JOSEPH SPENCE.) THE GARDEN OF IREM HAVE you seen the Garden of Irem ? No mortal knoweth the road thereto. Find me a path in the mists that gather When the sunbeams scatter the morning-dew, And I will lead you thither. Give me a key to the halls of the sun When he goes behind the purple sea, 244 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS Or a wand to open the vaults that run Down to the afrite-guarcled treasures, And I will open its doors to thee. Who hath tasted its countless pleasures ? Who hath breathed, in its winds of spice, Raptures deeper than Paradise ? Who hath trodden its ivory floors, Where the fount drops pearls from a golden shell, And heard the hinges of diamond doors Swing to the music of Israfel ? Its roses blossom, its palms arise, By the phantom stream that flows so fair Under the Desert's burning skies. Can you reach that flood, can you drink its tide, Can you swim its waves to the farther side, Your feet may enter there. I have seen the Garden of Irem. I found it, but I sought it not : Without a path, without a guide, I found the enchanted spot : Without a key its golden gate stood wide. I was young and strong and bold and free As the milk-white foal of the Nedjidee, And the blood in my veins was like sap of the vine, That stirs, and mounts, and will not stop Till the breathing blossoms that bring the wine Have drained its balm to the last sweet drop. Lance and barb were all I knew, Till deep in the Desert the spot I found, Mine were the pearl and ivory floors, THE GARDEN OF IREM 245 Mine the music of diamond doors, Turning each on a newer glory : Mine were the roses whose bloom outran The spring-time beauty of Gulistan, And the fabulous flowers of Persian story. Mine were the palms of silver stems, And blazing emerald for diadems ; The fretted arch and the gossamer wreath, So light and frail you feared to breathe ; Yet o'er them rested the pendant spars Of domes bespangled with silver stars, And crusted gems of rare adorning : And ever higher, like a shaft of fire, The lessening links of the golden spire Flamed in the myriad-coloured morning. Like one who lies on the marble lip Of the blessed bath in a tranquil rest, And stirs not even a finger's tip Lest the beatific dream should slip, So did I lie in Irem's breast. Sweeter than Life and stronger than Death Was every draught of that blissful breath ; Warmer than summer came its glow To the youthful heart in a mighty flood, And sent its bold and generous blood To water the world in its onward flow. There, where the Garden of Irem lies, Are the roots of the Tree of Paradise, And happy are they who sit below, When into this world of Strife and Death The blossoms are shaken by Allah's breath. BAYAKD TAYLOB. 246 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS THEOPHRASTUS IN HIS GARDEN (From " Gleanings on Gardens") THEOPHRASTUS, who died at the age of eighty-five (though some historians say he wrote his Characters when eighty-nine), and whose name was so cele- brated throughout Greece, that he had at one time two thousand pupils, lived entirely in his gardens at Athens, to which he was so devoted that, in his will, he left it to some particular friends to study in, and for the repose of his bones; giving orders therein for embellishing the walks, and for the continuation of his old faithful gardener, for whom he had before made a good provision. S. FELTON. THE GARDENS OF DAMASCUS THE gardens and orchards, which have been so long and so justly celebrated, encompass the city, and extend on both sides of the Barada some miles east- ward. They cover an area at least twenty-five miles in circuit, and make the environs an earthly paradise. The varied tints of the foliage, and of the blossoms and fruit in their season, greatly enhance the beauty of the picture. The sombre hue of the olive and the deep green of the walnut are finely relieved by the lighter shade of the apricot, the silvery sheen of the poplar, and the purple tint of the pomegranate ; while lofty, cone- like cypresses appear at intervals, and a few PLINY'S "HIPPODROME" 247 palm-trees here and there raise up their graceful heads. . . . It is not because the meandering paths are kept with taste and care, or laid down with mathematical precision, that one admires these gardens ; and neither is it because the banks of the river are trimmed with all the precision of rug-work, or that rustic seats and rose-wreathed bowers are found in every spot where indolence or luxury would wish for them. There is more of nature and less of art here than in the wilderness pleasure-grounds of the Far West. There are miles of shade along the brink of the lazy stream. The noble trees around stretch out their giant arms, or shoot up their stately heads, unrestrained by human care. Here the air is cool and fresh amid the hottest days of summer ; and were it not that in the coolest breezes is wafted the poison of the burning fever, this might well be regarded as an earthly paradise. J. L. POSTER. PLINY'S "HIPPODROME" (From a Letter to his friend Apollinaris) THE hippodrome extends its length before this agreeably disposed range of building, entirely open in the middle, so that the eye on the first entrance sees the whole. It is surrounded by plane-trees, which are clothed with ivy, so that while their tops flourish in their own, their bodies are decked in borrowed verdure ; the ivy thus wanders over the 248 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS trunks and branches, and by passing from one plane-tree to another unites the neighbours to- gether. Between these plane-trees, box-trees are interposed, and the laurel stationed behind the box, adds its shade to that of the planes. This plantation forming the straight boundary on each side of the hippodrome, or great garden walk, ends in a semicircle, is varied in form ; this part is surrounded and sheltered with cypress trees which cast round a dark and solemn shade ; while the day breaks in upon the interior circular walks, which are numerous. You are regaled at this spot with the fragrance of roses, while you find the coldness of the shade agreeably tempered and corrected by the warmth of the sun. Having passed through these winding walks, you re-enter the walk with its straight en- closure, but not to this only, for many ways branch out from it, divided by box-hedges. Here you have a little meadow, and here the box is cut into a thousand different forms; sometimes into letters expressing the name of the owner, sometimes that of the artificer. In some places are little pillars, intermingled alternately with fruit-trees ; when on a sudden while you are gazing on these objects of elegant workmanship, your view is opened on an imitation of natural scenery, in the middle of which is a group of dwarf plane-trees. Beyond these there commences a walk, abound- ing in the smooth and flexible acanthus, and trees cut into a variety of figures and names ; at the upper end of which is a seat of white marble, over- THE GARDENS OF GRANADA 249 spread with vines, which are supported by four small Carystian pillars. From this seat the water issues through little pipes, as if pressed out by the persons sitting upon it ; and first falling into a stone reservoir, is received by a polished marble basin, its descent being secretly so managed as always to keep the basin full, without running over. . . . In many places there are seats of marble, which . . . offer a great relief and accommodation to such as are fatigued with walking. Near each seat is a little fountain. And throughout the whole hippodrome, rivulets run murmuring along, conducted by pipes, and taking whatever turn the hand of art may give them ; and by these the different green plots are severally refreshed, and sometimes the whole together. THE GARDENS OF GRANADA (From, " The Conquest of Granada ") THE glory of the city was its vega or plain, which spread out to a circumference of thirty-seven leagues, surrounded by lofty mountains, and was proudly compared to the famous plain of Damascus. It was a vast garden of delight, refreshed by numerous fountains, and by the silver windings of the Xenil. The labour and ingenuity of the Moors had diverted the waters of this river into thousands of rills and streams, and diffused them over the whole surface of the plain. Indeed, they had wrought up this happy region to a degree of 250 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS wonderful prosperity, and took a pride in decorat- ing it, as if it had been a favourite mistress. The hills were clothed with orchards and vineyards, the valleys embroidered with gardens, and the wide plains covered with waving grain. Here were seen in profusion the orange, the citron, the fig, the pomegranate, with great plantations of mulberry trees, from which was produced the finest silk. The vine clambered from tree to tree ; the grapes hung in rich clusters about the peasant's cottage, and the groves were rejoiced by the perpetual song of the nightingale In a word, so beautiful was the earth, so pure the air, and so serene the sky of this delicious region, that the Moors imagined the para- dise of their prophet to be situated in that part of heaven which overhung the kingdom of Granada. WASHINGTON IRVING. THE GARDEN OF MARIOS (From " The Whde Art of Husbandry ") EPICURE is reported to be the first that euer deuised gardens in Athens, before his time it was not scene, that the pleasures of the countrie were had in the citie. Now when Thrasybulus trauailing in the affayres of his prince, chaunced to come to the house of Marius, and carried by him into a garden that he had, which was very beautifull, being led about among the sweet smelling flowres, and under the pleasant arbours, what a goodly sight (quoth Thrasybulus) is heere. How excellently haue you garnished this Paradise of yours with all kinds of GARDEN OF THE TAJ-MAHAL 251 pleasures. Your parlers and your banketting houses both within and without, are all bedecked with pictures of beautifull flowres and trees, that you may not onJey feede your eyes with the be- holding of the true and liuely flowre, but also delight your selfe with the counterfait in the midst of winter, seeing in the one, the painted flowre to contend in beauty with the very flowre : in the other, the wonderfull worke of nature, and in both, the passing goodness of God. Moreouer, your pleasant arbours to walk in, whose shaddowes keepe off the heate of the sunne, and if it fortune to raine, the cloisters are hard by. But especially this little riuer, with most cleere water, encom- passing the garden, doth wonderfully set it forth, and herewithall the greene and goodly quickset hedges. BABNABY GOOGE. THE GARDEN OF THE TAJ-MAHAL (From " With Sa'di in the Garden ") THROUGH the vaulted door, opens to sight A glorious garden — green, for ever green, Since hither comes no harsh nor biting time To strip the buds, but, all the warm year through, The palms rise feathered, and the pipal-boughs Whisper men's doings to the listening gods With watchful leaves ; citrons and rose-apples Keep their bright blossoms and their jewelled fruits, And broad bananas flaunt their silken flags. 252 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS The spacious Pleasaunce shows on either hand Dark verdant banks of various foliage — Cooling the eyes and quieting the heart — With parterres interspersed, and rose-thickets, And sheets of fiery Indian marigolds, Moon-flowers, and shell-flowers ; crimson panoply Of the silk-cottons, and soft lilac light Where sunbeams sift through Bougainvilliers ; Pink oleander-sprays you mark, fig-blooms, Stars of the champak, tulip-cups, and spikes Of silver-studded aloes, with red gold Of peacock-bushes, and fair deadly bells Of white datura. What most holds the eye, Leading it onward towards the sight of sights, Is yon black avenue of thuja-trees With cypress intermixed, ranged, all the way, On either border of the broad paved path, Like sentinels of honour. From the gate Straight to the threshold of the Taj-Mahal Those trees of mourning marshall you ! Between Gleams the paved way, laid smooth in slabs of white River-like running through the banks of green ; And, on this middle pavement — all its length — Wan water lies entanked, its crystal face Rippled with gliding fish, and lotus-leaves By the wind rocked, and rain of fountain-drop.-, ; For — all its length — jets of thin silver dart Into the Blue, and sparkle back to the Blue Reflected in those marble-margined pools. Led thus by sombre cypresses, and lines Of dancing water-jets, and lilied tanks, And glistering garden-causeway, the gaze lights THE GARDENS OF VERSAILLES 253 On that great Tomb, rising prodigious, still, Matchless, perfect in form, a miracle Of grace, and tenderness, and symmetry, Pearl-pure against the sapphire of the sky ! EDWIN ARNOLD. THE GARDENS OF VERSAILLES ON one side stretches that vast and sumptuous pile,1 seen to its fullest extent, with the various flower gardens, fountains, statues, &c., on the noble terrace by which it is bounded. In the opposite direction the eye embraces a great portion of the beautiful gardens, once esteemed the finest in the world, and which, though not in accordance with the fashion of the present day, display a richness of fancy and a variety of design that cannot fail to excite admira- tion ; raised terraces, stately avenues of clipped trees, noble fountains, fine jets of water, gleaming statues . . . and rows of ancient orange trees, bor- dering smooth gravel walks, and verdant lawns, are seen in every direction — a " concentration of elegance, a paradise of dainty devices, where the imagination is spell-bound." ROBERT BURPORD. 1 The palace of Louis XIV. 254 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS SONG OF THE SEA BY THE ROYAL GARDEN AT NAPLES I HAVE sung for ages to and fro ; I have striven in vain to reach thy feet, 0 Garden of joy ! whose walls are low, And odours are so sweet. 1 palpitate with fitful love ; I sigh and sing with changing breath ; I raise my hands to heaven above, I smite my shores beneath ! In vain, in vain ! while far and fine, To curb the madness of my sweep, Runs the white limit of a line I may not overleap. Once thou wert sleeping on my breast, Till fiery Titans lifted thee From the fair silence of thy rest, Out of the loving sea. And I swing eternal to and fro ; I strive in vain to reach thy feet, O Garden of joy ! whose walls are low, And odours ai-e so sweet ! RossiTERjW. RAYMOND. EMPRESS OF THE FLOWERS 255 JOSEPHINE, EMPRESS OF THE FLOWERS (From " Picciola ") JOSEPHINE 1 herself was an almost idolatrous lover of flowers. ... At Malmaison she reigned despotic over thousands of beauteous subjects collected from all quarters of the globe. She knew them face by face, name by name ; was fond of disposing them in classes, castes, or regiments ; and when some fresh subject presented itself for the first time at her levee, she was able to interrogate the new-comer, so as to ascertain his family and connections, and assign him an appropriate station in the community of which every brigade had its banner, and every banner a fitting standard-bearer. Following the example of Napoleon, she respected the laws and customs of those she rendered tribu- tary. Plants of all countries found their native soil and climate restored to them by her providence. Malmaison was a' world in miniature, within whose circumscribed limits were to be found rocks and savannahs, the soil of virgin forests and the sand of the desert, banks of marl or clay, lakes, cascades, and strands liable to inundation. From the heat of a tropical climate you might fly to the refreshing coolness of the temperate zone ; and in these varied specimens of atmosphere and soil flourished, side by side, the various races of vegetative kind, divided only by green edges or an intrenchment of glass windows. 1 Wife of Napoleon I. 256 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS When Josephine held her field-days at Malmaison, the review was indeed calculated to excite the ten- derest associations. First in the ranks was the hydrangea, which had recently borrowed from her charming daughter its French name of Hortensia. Glory too found its reminiscences there as well as maternal affection. Following the victories of Bonaparte, she contrived to reap her share in the plunder of conquered countries ; and Italy and Egypt paid tribute to her triumphant parterres. Blooming in resplendent union at Malmaison were the soldanella of the Alps, the violet of Parma, the adonis of Castiglione, the carnation of Lodi, the willow and plane of Syria, the cross of Malta, the water-lily of the Nile, the hibiscus of Palestine, the rose of Damietta. Such were the conquests of Josephine ; and of these, at least, France still retains the benefits ! X. B. SAINTINE. (Trantlated.) THE GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES I FINISHED this day with a walk in the garden of the Tuileries, rarely contrived for privacy, shade, or company, by groves, plantations of tall trees, especially that in the middle, being of elms, the other of mulberries ; and the labyrinth of cypresses ; not omitting the noble hedges of pomegranates, fountains, fish-ponds, and an aviary ; but, above all, the artificial echo, redoubling the words so dis- tinctly ; and, as it is never without some fair nymph GARDENS OF THE GENERALIFE 257 singing to its grateful returns ; standing at one of the focuses, which is under a tree, or little cabinet of hedges, the voice seems to descend from clouds ; at another, as if it was underground. This being at the bottom of the garden, we were let into another, which being kept with all imaginable accurateness as to the orangery, precious shrubs, and rare fruits, seemed a Paradise. JOHN EVELYN. THE GARDENS OF THE GENERALIFE (From " The Alhambra") HIGH above the Alhambra, on the breast of the mountain, amidst embowered gardens and stately terraces, rise the lofty towers and white walls of the Generalise ; a fairy palace, full of storied recollec- tions. Here are still to be seen the famous cypresses of enormous size which flourished in the time of the Moors, and which tradition has connected with the fabulous story of Boabdil and his sultana. . . . Here is everything to delight a southern volup- tuary : fruits, flowers, fragrance, green arbours and myrtle hedges, delicate air and gushing waters. Here I had an opportunity of witnessing those scenes which painters are fond of depicting about southern palaces and gardens. It was the saint's day of the count's daughter, and she had brought up several of her youthful companions from Granada, to sport away a long summer's day among the breezy halls and bowers of the Moorish palaces. A visit to the Generalife was the morning's enter- £ 258 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS tainment. Here some of the gay company dis- persed itself into groups about the green walks, the bright fountains, the flights of Italian steps, the noble terraces and marble balustrades. Others, among whom I was one, took their seats in an open gallery or colonnade commanding a vast prospect ; with the Alhambra, the city, and the Vega far below, and the distant horizon of mountains — a dreamy world, all glimmering to the eye in summer sunshine. WASHINGTON IRVING. AN OLD ENGLISH GARDEN OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY THE perfectest figure of a garden I ever saw, either at home or abroad, was that of Moor Park in Hertfordshire, when I knew it about thirty years ago. It was made by the Countess of Bedford, esteemed among the greatest wits of her time, and celebrated by Dr. Donne. I will describe it for a model to those that meet with such a situation, and are above the regards of common expense. It lies on the side of a hill (upon which the house stands), but not very steep. The length of the house, where the best rooms and of most use or pleasure are, lies upon the breadth of the garden. The great parlour opens into the middle of a terras gravel-walk that lies even with it, and which may be, as I remember, about three hundred paces long, and broad in proportion ; the border set with AN OLD ENGLISH GARDEN 259 standard laurels, and at large distances, which have the beauty of orange-trees, out of flower and fruit. From this walk are three descents by many stone steps, in the middle and at each end, into a very large parterre. This is divided into quarters by gravel-walks, and adorned by two fountains and eight statues in the several quarters. At the end of the terras-walk are two summer- houses, and the sides of the parterre are ranged with two large cloisters, open to the garden, upon arches of stone, and ending with two other summer- houses even with the cloisters, which are paved with stone, and designed for walks of shade, there being none other in the whole parterre. Over these two cloisters are two terrasses covered with lead, and fenced with balusters ; and the passage into these airy walks is out of the two summer- houses at the end of the first terras-walk. The cloister facing the south is covered with vines, and would have been proper for an orange-house, and the other for myrtles, or other more common greens, and had, I doubt not, been cast for that purpose, if this piece of gardening had been in as much vogue as it is now. From the middle of the parterre is a descent by many steps, flying on each side of a grotto that lies between them (covered with lead, and flat) into the lower garden, which is all fruit-trees, ranged about the several quarters of a wilderness which is very shady. The walks here are all green, the grotto embellished with figures of shee-rock-work, fountains, and water-works. If the hill had not ended with 260 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS the lower garden, and the wall were not bounded by a common way that goes through the park, they might have added a third quarter of all greens ; but this want is supplied by a garden on the other side of the house, which is all of that sort, very wild, very shady, and adorned with rough rock- work and fountains. SIB WILLIAM TEMPLE. IN DOVE COTTAGE GARDEN ON the terrace lies the sunlight, Fretted by the shade Of the wilding apple-orchard Wordsworth made. Sunlight falls upon the aspen, And the cedar glows Like the laurel or the climbing Christmas rose. Downward through green-golden windows Let your glances fall ; You'd not guess there was a cottage There at all. Vines of bryony and bramble Overhang the green Of the crowding scarlet-runner And the bean. IN DOVE COTTAGE GARDEN 261 But I marked one quiet casement Ivy-covered still. There he sat, I think, and loved this Little hill ; Loved the rocky stair that led him Upward to the seat Coleridge fashioned ; loved the fragrant, High retreat In the wood above the garden. There he walked, and there In his heart the beauty gathered To a prayer. Looking down into the garden, I can seem to see, In among her Christmas roses, Dorothy. Deeper joy and truer service, Fuller draught of life, Came, I doubt not, to the sister And the wife. And one patient robin-redbreast, Waiting, waiting long, Seals the twilight in the garden With a song. PHILIP H. SAVAGE. 262 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS OXFORD GARDENS (Prom " Star Papers ") I WAS even more delighted with the grounds and walks, than with the twilight seclusion of the cloistered rooms. I sat down in the recess of a window, in one of the students' rooms, and looked out into an exquisite nook, with a large mound, not unlike some of our conical hills in the rolling lands of the West, planted with shrubs and trees to the very top. Is there anything more bewitching than to look up, beneath the branches of trees, upon the ascent of a hill? The grass was like the pile of velvet, thick, even, deeply green, and with a crisp, succulent look, that made you feel that Nebuchadnezzar had not so bad a diet after all. The grounds were laid out with parterres of flowers, clumps of trees, gravelled walks artfully traced to produce the utmost illusion, vines, and upon every unsightly object, and along the stone fence, that glorious sheet of ivy that, everywhere in England, encases walls and towers in vegetable emerald. In these delicious coverts, birds hopped about in literary seclusion, or chatted with each other in musical notes, such as Jenny Lind might be supposed to sing to her sleeping cradle, or to a frolicking child. It is a very paradise of seclusion. Noise seemed like an antediluvian legend as I sat and dreamed in the slumberous stillness. HENRY WARD BEECHER. UPPER GARDEN AT KENSINGTON 263 THE UPPER GARDEN AT KENSINGTON (From " The Spectator ") I THINK there are as many kinds of gardening as of poetry : your makers of partei'res and flower-gardens are epigrammatists and sonnetteers in this art : contrivers of bowers and grottos, treillages and cascades, are romance writers. Wise and London are our heroic poets ; and if, as a critic, I may single out any passage of their works to commend, I shall take notice of that part in the upper garden at Kensington, which was at first nothing but a gravel pit. It must have been a fine genius for gardening that could have thought of forming such an unsightly hollow into so beautiful an area, and to have hit the eye with so agreeable a scene as that which it is now wrought into. To give this particular spot of ground the greatest effect, they have made a very pleasant contrast ; for as on one side of the walk you see this hollow basin, with its several little plantations lying so conveniently under the eye of the beholder, on the other side of it there appears a seeming mount, made up of trees rising one higher than another in proportion as they approach the centre. A spectator who has not heard this account of it, would think this circular mount was not only a real one, but that it had been actually scooped out of that hollow space which I have before mentioned. I never yet met with any one who has walked in this garden, 264 SOME FAMOUS GARDENS who was not struck with that part of it which I have here mentioned. JOSEPH ADDISON. POPE'S GARDEN AT TWICKENHAM (From a Letter to Edward Blount, Esq.) LET the young ladies be assured I make nothing new in my gardens without wishing to see the print of their fairy steps in every part of them. I have put the last hand to my works of this kind, in happily finishing the subterraneous way and grotto : I there found a spring of the clearest water, which falls in a perpetual rill, that echoes thro' the cavern day and night. From the river Thames, you see thro' my arch up a walk of the wilderness, to a kind of open temple, wholly composed of shells in the rustic manner, and from that distance under the temple you look down thro' a sloping arcade of trees, and see the sails on the river passing suddenly and vanishing, as thro' a perspective glass. When you shut the doors of this grotto, it becomes on the instant, from a luminous room, a camera obscura ; on the walls of which all the objects of the river, hills, woods, and boats, are forming a moving picture in their visible radiations : and when you have a mind to light it up, it affords you a very different scene ; it is finished with shells inter- spersed with pieces of looking-glass in angular forms ; and in the ceiling is a star of the same material, at which, when a lamp (of an orbicular OUR OWN GARDENS 265 figure of thin alabaster) is hung in the middle, a thousand pointed rays glitter, and are reflected over the place. There are connected to this grotto by a narrower passage two porches, one towards the river of smooth stones full of light, and open ; the other towards the garden, shadow'd with trees, rough with shells, flints, and iron ore. . . . You'll think I have been very poetical in this description, but it is pretty near the truth. I wish you were here to bear testimony how little it owes to Art, either the place itself, or the image I give of it. OUR OWN GARDENS (From "Othello") lago. 'Tis in ourselves, that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens ; to the which our wills are gardeners : so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce ; set hyssop, and weed up thyme ; supply it with one gender of herbs, or distract it with many ; either to have it sterile with idleness, or manured with industry ; why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. m f\/'\f\ '''' "••' "'" I'