Volume Iii Part 31 (1/2)
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.