Part 14 (1/2)
This fairy pleasance in the brake-- This maze run wild of flower and vine-- Our fathers planted for the sake Of eyes that longed for English gardens Amid the virgin wastes of pine.
Here, by the broken, moldering wall, Where still the tiger-lilies ride, Once grew the crown imperial, The tall blue larkspur, white Queen Margaret, Prince's-feather, and mourning bride.
Beyond their pale, a humbler throng, Grew Bouncing Bet and columbine; The mountain fringe ran all along The thick-set hedge of cinnamon roses, And overhung the eglantine.
And Sunday flowers were here as well-- Adam-and-Eve within their hood, The stately Canterbury bell, And, oft in churches breathing fragrance, The sweet and pungent southernwood.
When s.h.i.+ps for England cleared the bay, If long beside these reefs of foam She stood, and watched them sail away, It was her garden first enticed her To turn, and call this country ”home.”
SARAH N. CLEGHORN
THE OLD-FAs.h.i.+ONED GARDEN
Among the meadows of the countryside, From city noise and tumult far away, Where clover-blossoms spread their fragrance wide And birds are warbling all the sunny day, There is a spot which lovingly I prize, For there a fair and sweet old-fas.h.i.+oned country garden lies.
The gray old mansion down beside the lane Stands knee-deep in the fields that lie around And scent the air with hay and ripening grain.
Behind the manse box-hedges mark the bound And close the garden in, or nearly close, For on beyond the hollyhocks an olden orchard grows.
So bright and lovely is the dear old place, It seems as though the country's very heart Were centered here, and that its antique grace Must ever hold it from the world apart.
Immured it lies among the meadows deep, Its flowery stillness beautiful and calm as softest sleep.
The morning-glories ripple o'er the hedge And fleck its greenness with their tinted foam; Sweet wilding things, up to the garden's edge They love to wander from their meadow home, To take what little pleasure here they may Ere all their silken trumpets close before the warm midday.
The larkspur lifts on high its azure spires, And up the arbor's lattices are rolled The quaint nasturtium's many-colored fires; The tall carnation's breast of faded gold Is striped with many a faintly-flus.h.i.+ng streak, Pale as the tender tints that blush upon a baby's cheek.
The old sweet-rocket sheds its fine perfumes, With golden stars the coreopsis flames, And here are scores of sweet old-fas.h.i.+oned blooms, Dear for the very fragrance of their names,-- Poppies and gilly flowers and four-o'clocks, Cowslips and candytuft and heliotrope and hollyhocks,
Harebells and peonies and dragon-head, Petunias, scarlet sage and bergamot, Verbenas, ragged-robins, soft gold-thread, The bright primrose and pale forget-me-not, Wall-flowers and crocuses and columbines, Narcissus, asters, hyacinths, and honeysuckle vines.
A sweet seclusion this of sun and shade, A calm asylum from the busy world, Where greed and restless care do ne'er invade, Nor news of 'change and mart each morning hurled Round half the globe; no noise of party feud Disturbs this peaceful spot nor mars its perfect quietude.
But summer after summer comes and goes And leaves the garden ever fresh and fair; May brings the tulip, golden June the rose, And August winds shake down the mellow pear.
Man blooms and blossoms, fades and disappears,-- But scarce a tribute pays the garden to the pa.s.sing years.
Sweet is the odor of the warm, soft rain In violet-days when spring opes her green heart; And sweet the apple trees along the lane Whose lovely blossoms all too soon depart; And sweet the br.i.m.m.i.n.g dew that overfills The golden chalices of all the trembling daffodils.
But sweeter far, in this old garden-close To loiter 'mid the lovely old-time flowers, To breathe the scent of lavender and rose, And with old poets pa.s.s the peaceful hours.
Old gardens and old poets,--happy he Whose quiet summer days are spent in such sweet company!
JOHN RUSSELL HAYES
A COLONIAL GARDEN
Down this pathway, through the shade, Lightly tripped the dainty maid, In her eyes the smile of June, On her lips some old sweet tune.
Through yon ragged rows of box, By that awkward clump of phlox, To her favorite pansy bed Like a ray of light, she sped.
Satin slippers trim and neat Gleamed upon her slender feet; Round her ankles, deftly tied, Ribbons crossed from side to side, Here her pinks, old fas.h.i.+oned, fair, Breathed their fragrance on the air; There her fluttering azure gown Shook the poppy's petals down.
Here a rose, with fond caress, Stooped to touch a truant tress From her fillet struggling free, Scorning its captivity.