How glorious is thy girdle, cast O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam:

For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span; Nor lets the type grow pale with age, That first spoke peace to man.

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

GREEN THINGS GROWING

MY GARDEN

A garden is a lovesome thing, G.o.d wot!

Rose plot, Fringed pool, Ferned grot-- The veriest school Of peace; and yet the fool Contends that G.o.d is not-- Not G.o.d! in gardens! when the eve is cool?

Nay, but I have a sign: 'Tis very sure G.o.d walks in mine.

Thomas Edward Brown [1830-1897]

THE GARDEN

How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labors see Crowned 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.

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! where'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own he found.

When we have run our pa.s.sions' heat, Love hither makes his best retreat: The G.o.ds, 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 cl.u.s.ters 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 pa.s.s, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on gra.s.s.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; 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 walked 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 gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new!

Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run: And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers

Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]

A GARDEN Written After The Civil Wars

See how the flowers, as at parade, Under their colors stand displayed: 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 curled, Seem to their staves the ensigns furled.

Then in some flower's beloved hut Each bee, as sentinel, is shut, And sleeps so too; but if once stirred, 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 watery 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 [1621-1678]

A GARDEN SONG

Here, in this sequestered close Bloom the hyacinth and rose; Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and, degrees.

All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach, and apricot, and fig Here will ripen, and grow big; Here is store and overplus,-- More had not Alcinous!

Here, in alleys cool and green, Far ahead the thrush is seen; Here along the southern wall Keeps the bee his festival; All is quiet else--afar Sounds of toil and turmoil are.

Here be shadows large and long; Here be s.p.a.ces meet for song; Grant, O garden-G.o.d, that I, Now that none profane is nigh,-- Now that mood and moment please, Find the fair Pierides!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]