Garden, The

I was a boy when first my Father gave
     From his broad fields a fair uncultured plot. 
     Flowerless and weedless for my garden spot.
With choice of many seeds, that in their grave
With husky cerements wrapt the vital force 
     Of perished seasons, safe from ice and rot: 
     And where to sow he left me free, and what:
Only the winds would sometimes break their course.
Or scatter germs not mine. Ah me, how glad 
     I trod my new field with a boy's delight,
And gaily flung the good seed and the bad,
     Careless of which and whither, wrong or right:
'T was joy enough to see each tender spear
Open its green leaves to the infant year.

Alas! the weeds are ranker than the flowers. 
     And choke the dwindled shootings of the corn, 
     Ere Summer's first moon fills her crescent horn. 
I did not know how many painful hours 
The sturdy toil of all my boyish powers
     Must bend to my small garden, night and morn,
     Its little plot with fitness to adorn; 
How I must bear hot sun and drenching showers. 
O many a sweet bud droopeth, sickly pale,
     Under the leaf-shade of unfruitful weeds. 
And creeping vines their icy meshes trail
     Round the young Rose, whose stem with wounding bleeds ;
So close they cling, their fingers will not quit, 
And my poor heart bleeds, too, to suffer it.

To let the weeds grow longer I am loth,
     They so encumber all my little land, 
To pluck them up will mar the better growth
     Which is so marr'd and stunted while they stand, 
Disturb 'd and broken, their rank odor doth
     Impregn the airs around, till they expand 
With growing deaths — so are they fell in both, —
     Assailed or prospering, — drinking up the dews, 
And feeding them with poisons for their gift.
     Foul-breathing plants, ye shall not so abuse 
The sweet-breath'd flowers, and spend their native thrift,
     Teaching the winds my folly to accuse; 
If yet your roots must fatten in my soil, 
My whetted knife your flaunting tops shall spoil.

There is no evil that is wholly ill ;
     Even the rankness of the garden-weeds,
     In their decay, the blooming rose-bud feeds. 
And every blossom which they strove to kill,
Of true revenge takes now its utmost fill,
     Turning the foul, that did it foul misdeeds.
     To pleasant sweets, and all their ugly reeds 
Transform to Rose, fair Pink, or Daffodil. 
The wasting spoiler feeds the wasted spoiled,
     The robber's booty makes the robbed more rich, 
The hungry Ill is in its climbing foiled.
     And the sweet Good hath found a prouder niche; 
The newer fragrance of my Roses, now, 
Will well repay the toil-drops of my brow.

Ah cruel weeds, when I have crop'd you so 
     Why will ye not your loathsome growth forbear? 
     My scanty field hath small room for the fair.
And ye, foul things! I would not have ye grow:
Oh not for such did he who gave, bestow 
     This pleasant land ; for what vile things ye are 
     He brought not water with such tender care,
When the great thirst bent all the herbage low.
But yesterday I thought ye would have died, 
     Clip'd round so closely by my pruning knife;
To day ye lift your heads in growing pride,
     And eat the flowers up with your lusty life; 
With firm hand I must cut you down once more. 
Though your sweet neighbors suffer for it sore.

The faithful tiller of his little field;
     Who makes the Rain and Sun his ministers. 
And every season its obedience yield;
     With the great Life and Soul of all confers: 
And, by the hoe and mattock he doth wield,
     He, on his rough indurate palm, is sealed 
Co-worker with the infinite Power that stirs
     The huge life-pulses of the universe. 
Better his little, with its blooming soil
     Cherished by Nature's fond maternal kiss, 
Than broadest leagues of prouder souls, where coil
     Unfruitful vines in tangled wilderness: 
The proud shall hunger in his hollow pride,  
While the poor Gardener's wants are all supplied.

I thank thee, Father, that my field is small: 
     A broader plot might tempt the envious eye.
Now I can glance in quiet over all, 
     Unmoved by bandyings of the passers by;
Can see the white Rose trembling rise and fall, 
     As if a whiter breast beneath did lie;
Or hear the wind's breath, soft and musical, 
     Where nod the blue-bells to the clear blue sky.
And one sweet Soul, or haply two or three 
     Whose hearts are restful with their depth of love.
May pass light-step'd the wicket gate with me, 
     And hushed with Beauty's living presence, rove
Among the flowers, inhaling their sweet breath.
But with rude fingers putting none to death.

In gardens open to the vulgar gaze 
     I have seen flowers most sweet and delicate, 
     Whose purer beauty bred them fouler fate,
So pure, the hot breath of perpetual praise
Blighted their sweets, till no cool shower could raise 
     Their shriveled petals; — whom to adulate, 
     The unwise crowd besmeared their virgin state
With touch and kiss, and jostlings in the ways.
But no foul breath of praise or calumny 
     Shall taint the air around my blooming plants,
Close-hedged and hidden from the common eye, 
     And only open to a dear one's glance ;
What rising odors fill the passing breeze,
These shall be theirs without, and only these.

I know that dwellers in the lands remote
     Have richer fields, where all the golden South
     Pours down its wealth, despite of storm and drouth. 
And the whole purple year, in ceaseless rote, 
Showers fast all fruits on which the senses dote,
     Into the full lap of luxurious Sloth;
     But not for all their wealth's spontaneous growth Would I exchange my little toil-fed spot: Their Olive's fatness I can gladly spare.
     Be well content to lack their odorous gums. 
For one sweet plant, which will not flourish there.
     From the good soil of my wee garden comes, 
A lowly herb, with fragrance ever pure, 
For whose rich virtue all exchange were poor.

I knew not once how rich a largess laid
     Hemm’d in my little garden's plot of ground. 
     Till in the midst, one blessed morn, I found
A tiny Spring beneath my busy spade;
O how it bounded from its ambuscade,
     Like an old Gladness leaping from a swound, 
     And scattered its clear waters all around, 
In whirls and crinkles, glittering as they play'd.

I thought my flowers were something fair before; 
     But fairest then, were brown and meager now ;
The dunnest herb spread sallow bloom no more
     The loveliest kindled with a lovelier glow,
All brightness sparkled more divinely bright, 
And the cloy'd air grew dizzy with delight.

Delightful flowers my garden never knew,
     Till from its bosom gushed the crystal spring,
Around its brim in simple sweetness grew,
     And showered their fragrance on the zephyr's wing, 
Making the softest breeze that ever flew
     More soft and bland, for their sweet blossoming; 
In the still pool they rest on Heaven's blue,
     With the deep stars that gird its nightly ring;
Though some have gone for whom I nurst their bloom, —
     Souls purer than the buds their breathing fed, —
 Yet never wasted was one flower's perfume,
     Though far alone its silent leaves were shed. 
Haply their blooms have shot ecstatic bliss 
Through unseen lips that bent them with their kiss.

If they who loved my little flowers in life, 
     Do yet rejoice when most their sweets prevail, 
     How will they mourn when ills their good assail,
From rank weeds towering o'er the blunted knife.
The embattled North, pour'd down in sudden strife, 
     Or when still cankers gnaw, or some vile snail 
     Across their fair bloom drags his slimy trail,
While hungry reptiles in their roots are rife!
All me? will they not wholly fly my grounds, 
     Dewing stain'd leaves with unavailing tears —
Weeping in sadness, for the oft sad wounds 
     They bear in woundings of my bloomy spears !
Alas, sweet Spirits, do not leave me so,
Or my poor field will into desert grow !

But now I went to kiss a dewy rose,
     For love of one whose pale hand planted it.
      Just ere her last hold upon life she quit;
A lovely plant, ere torn by vengeful foes,
As any flower that in my garden grows;

     Through the long Sabbath mornings would I Sit 
     And think her pure soul did around it flit.
As viewless pinions broke its sweet repose ;
Kneeling me there, a hateful Centipede
     Fell from my garments on its tender breast,
And all his hundred foot-tracks made it bleed, 
     Staining the rich folds of its downy vest j
Thrice cruel worm, for this my Rose's hurt
I pluck'd him off and trod him in the dirt.

Trodden in earth, that yields beneath the tread, 
     The trampled reptile from his grave doth crawl,
To soil anew the Rose's heart he bled; 
     With half his length drag'd lifeless from his fall
A loathsome weight, more vile for being dead,
     While yet is clinging any life at all. 
Nightly he comes, but when I wake is fled
     Into some covert of the outer wall: 
Witness ye dews that see my nightly search
     Intent the many-footed fiend to slay, 
How ill my heart brooks he should so besmirch
     A single flower in all my fair array; 
And thou pure moon, if thou thy lamp wilt lend, 
This cunning foe one night shall meet his end.

I cannot tire of sitting by my Spring,
     And looking down into its crystal cup
     All day, to see the pure lymph bubble up, 
As if it came from the bright clouds that swing 
In the blue deeps: While all the blithe birds sing
     Perpetual paeans on the hedgerow top;
     And when night-chills their streams of music stop, 
And every breeze has furl'd its gentle wing, 
My spotless hyaline, girding in the sweep
     Of the great stars, reminds ambitious care 
How much of Heaven a little cirque may keep,
     When blessed peace and purity are there; 
It hath such life I would not quit it then, 
But fall’n asleep could see it all agen [sic].

Just in the centre of my living Well
     A swan-like Lily floateth regally,
     Set like the pupil of a soft blue eye, 
But hueless; and it heaveth with the swell 
Of the thrill'd pulses, when the young winds tell
     Their love-tales to the waters. Tenderly 
It kisseth the pure waves that underlie
     Its virgin bosom, and the waves reply 
With sweet embraces, as if Life and Love,
     After long parting, met and mingled there 
Sown from the full lip of Eudora's dove
     Was the good seed of this my Lily fair, 
And for her dear sake will I keep from harm 
This sweetest bloom in all my little farm.

No day is long whose hours behold me muse 
     Above my Well-spring and its one white Lily, 
     And never blows the breath of night-winds chilly,
Or showers disaster in the falling dews,
When prolonged watches teach me to abuse
     Health, and the sleep-god's summons answer illy; 
     Till he, sly Elfin! creeping slow and stilly,
Leaps on my lids to force what I refuse.
But all his triumph is not my defeat,
     He cannot lock the postern gate of thought,
Where dreams glide in with their rehearsals sweet, 
     And play the scenes that waking fancy wrought; 
Through all those hours the droughtless runnel flows, 
And the pure Lily smiles on her for whom it blows.

Bright Spring, that waterest, with perennial flow 
     My little Garden from thy pebbled urn, 
     Thirsting and faint to thee I gladly turn,
And to the one white Lily that doth grow
Upon thy breast, rock'd gently to and fro 
     By the clear wavelets; sweeter than the fern
      In sweetest hedges, — for you both I yearn,
Beauty that flows, and Beauty blooming so ;
Thy waters feed a hundred flowers beside, 
     Thy perfume, Lily, rivaleth them all ;
Joy is it deep to see thy clear waves glide;
     And more to mark thy bosom's rise and fall,
Divine white Flower; translucent Pool divine;
Sweet child of a pure Mother, and both mine.

My Northern bound an oaken forest girts ;
     But down the rough North-east the winds may speed 
     To blight my tilth, or sow the thistle's seed; 
     Mornward the Windflower beds my fields environ, 
     Cowslips, and Daisies, and the Dandelion ;
And o'er the rich South-east grow precious worts,
Wherewith the wise heal wounded Nature's hurts.
     And splendor waves o'er all the Southern mead; 
The golden Fruit-land bounds the broad South-west,
     Where sober Pansies deck the generous soil, 
And purple vines, that with true culture dress' d,
     With fourfold bounty would repay the toil; 
Round all the West, as o'er a dismal tomb, 
Hangs a dark cypress-grove, and nodding poppies bloom.

My Father saith, what time my toil shall make
     This little field to conquering order bow, 
From wilds surrounding, I am free to take
     New realms to subjugate with spade and plough, 
Ever advancing, for sweet Beauty's sake,
     Upon the rude wealth that empales me now. 
Which way I till, is driven another stake
     New lines to stretch, and the grim waste to cow, 
So broad and noble is his great domain,
     That endless toil an endless field shall find; 
So fast on idlesse will the wild growth gain,
     The running vine the sluggard's hand will bind 
Even while he sleeps, and 'fume his senses so 
That rousing he shall doubt whether he wake or no.

A Gardener's life must be a life of toil, 
     Beset with trials many and severe; 
     Battling his way against the fickle year, 
With no kind Sabbath when he may assoil 
His rugged palm, or from the knotted coil
     Of carking cares once shake his strong limbs clear.
     Till his purged earth's so pure he may not fear
 The cruel tares that all his harvest spoil. 
On barren winds careers the thistle's down,
     And, rooted once, long mocks the rugged spade; 
Rolls the fog-blight in wreathings dank and brown,
     Blasting the hopes that all his toil had paid: 
His hedge is scanty when the north-winds troop. 
And hungry wants grin through its every loop.

Oft bending lonely in my tangled field
     To pluck the worthless brambles from the vine,
Round my soft limbs would winds their scourges wield. 
     While clouds rushed madly o'er Heaven's sapphirine,
And, ere their bolts one warning note had peal'd, 
     Devoured in greedy haste the warm sunshine, 
     And belched the great shower on this head of mine.
As their huge forms in drunken revel reel'd :
Bent from its place the bladed corn would stoop, 
     And draggled flowers blush in the rude embrace
Of gloating earth, that forced their honors droop, 
     So basely bowed their cheeks to things so base :
And the close clinging earth, blush all they may,
Will but perforce let go so sweet a prey.

The fierce sun cometh, and with fiery lips 
     Drinks up the life-pulse of the pleasant herbs.
The ambrosial juices of the flower-cup sips, 
     Nor the hot temper of his passion curbs 
Till half my blooms in forced embrace he clips :
     Such gross despite my troubled heart disturbs, 
And pray I rather for the murk eclipse,
     When cloud to cloud the deep-mouthed cry reverbs, 
That hunts his life-devouring beams away;
     For fellest storms leave freshness in their track, 
While only ruin marks his burning way,
     With perished charms no dews can summon back; 
Alas, my daily round of fortune seems 
A tennis, bandied between huge extremes.

Maugre the ills that mar my scanty crop, 
     And blight the blooming of my goodly beds, 
     The embattled corn its victor ensign spreads,
The sweet flowers their deflowering foes o'ertop,
And sweeter dews of honied odors drop,
     Feasting the winds that bowed their innocent heads: 
     Each widowed bloom a newer beauty weds,
Gilding the earth that earthed her beauty up;
Too hasty me, to add my murmuring breath 
     And selfish tears, to swell the showery gale,
Whose march I feared would tread my field to death, 
     Doubling the danger with my briny wail :
Now all the sunny bloom-beds bless the wet,
And but my fiery drops leave any stain-marks yet.

0 blessed Sunshine, and thrice-blessed Rain, 
     How ye dissolve and warm the rugged soil, 
     Which else were barren, nathless all my toil, — 
And summon Beauty, from her grave again, 
To breathe live odors o'er my scant domain; 
     How softly from their pouting buds uncoil 
     The furled sweets, no more a shriveled spoil 
To the loud storm, or canker's silent bane; 
Were it all sun, the heat would drink them up.
     Were it all shower, then piteous blight were sure; 
Now hangs the dew in every nodding cup,
     Shooting new glories from its orblets pure: 
Sun-fire and shower, I shrink from your extremes, 
But with delight behold your blended gleams.

Revengeful Winter, for the joy I took 
     In my sweet Flowers, came down with chilly breath, 
     And in grey envy flouted them to death
With hissing wind-whips; while his gorgon-look
To solid marble turned my prattling Brook; 
     Yet on its face stood fixed the dimpling whirls, 
     In icy beauty, like the smile which curls
An Infant's cheek, that life but just forsook.
O gentle Flowers, I knew that ye must die, 
     My heart was sad to see it day by day,
Yet would I cling to you, and wonder why 
     Beauty must perish, Summer pass away.
And sweetest odors feed ungrateful frost.
While famished Zephyrs mourn that all are lost.

O, dear white Lily! wherefore must thou sink 
     Into the frosty death-realm, must thou shed 
     Thy soft leaves on the waters which have fed
Their bloom so fondly? Kneeling on the brink
Of the clear pool to kiss thy folds, or drink 
     The bubbling lymph, — no spirit-murmur said 
     That any freshness of thy life was fled, —
Yet then it trembled like a starlet's wink.
Thy pleasant leaves all scentless drifted on, 
     Like shivered hopes upon a troubled soul;
Now the last cherished one is sunk and gone, 
     And the bare pool sleeps chilly in its bowl ;
O let me weep till my warm tears revive
The thrice-dear flower and keep its sweets alive !

Why mourn the perished glories of the past? 
     Why wrong with murmurs Death's paternal care?
Sire of Immortal Beauty, from his vast
     Embrace with Infinite Life, spring all things fair 
     And good and wonderful; ye are not cast.
Like wailing orphans, on the desert bare,
To cry and perish. Life comes every where 
     With Mother-love, and strong Death garners fast 
     His bounty for her board, — for all that live
His tireless hands the harvest sow and reap. 
     He feeds alone those lily breasts which give
New strength to all on Life's white arms that leap; 
     Fear not sweet Babes in his thick mantle furl’d, 
     Now lull'd asleep, to wake in a new splendor- world.

Ha! Winter winds may be severe and keen,
     And winter-rime, with treason's dagger, stab 
The artless daughters of the Floral Queen;
     And check the blithe waves, till they dare not blab 
Their pretty secrets to their loves, who lean 
From verdant banks to kiss their babbling lips;
     And winter-clouds may hug in foul eclipse 
The clear Sun, tarnishing its mellow sheen. 
But Beauty, deathless, still survives the shock ;
     Those merry sprites, who feed the rose's bloom, 
Back to the earth with all their riches flock,
     Hiding the dead year's treasure in its tomb;
And free and joyous, in the icy ring 
Of Winter's arms, leaps up the buoyant Spring.

Anon, when Winter's palsied hand no more
     The sleety storm in giant fury hurls, 
And tearful April, ceased 'from weeping o’er
     Her Mother's grave, dead on her bosom curls, 
Lo, May comes forth, with ill-concealed store
     Of blushing rubies, diamonds, and link’d pearls, —
A ransom, opening Beauty's prison-door
     To her, and her blithe troop of laughing girls.
Bird-like a few, whose full hearts made them brave, 
     Sang in the barren cells their hopeful song,
Whereat this Angel came, bright-winged, to save,
     Melting the dungeon bolts and fetters strong:
Now all pure natures hold the heavens in calm.
With the deep power of their victorious psalm.

Free, free! the waters from my Well-Spring bound; 
     The immortal vigor of their central Heart, 
     From unknown deeps whose living pulses start, 
Hath burst the bondage of their marble mound, 
And through the field their sinuous flower-path found: 
     The cunning Buds renew their playful part, 
     And odors keen from leafy ambush dart, 
Sweet upon sweet, till all the air around 
With joy's excess grows giddy. Dying May
     Her gems, unused, to infant June bequeathed. 
And the dear Babe hath flung them every way
     In her most gleeful mood, till they have wreathed 
The brownest dell with beauties which bemock 
The eyes of Angel-choirs that in the star-paths walk.

Joy! joy! a boon, more rich than any gem,
     Queen Summer gives, — my Lily from its grave! 
Oh green and lithe shot up its slender stem,
     And two broad leaves spread out upon the wave. 
Like hands in prayer uplifted ; under them
     The full bud nestled, and fresh odors gave, 
As the pure white came peering by the hem
     Of the green calyx: sweet and sweeter yet 
It opened to the sunlight, like a sun,
     Till all its golden heart lay dewy wet 
In the cool morn; or seemed this peerless one
     A full-orb'd Moon in the blue heavens set 
Mid starry sparkles, as the bright waves run,
     So white and queenly fair my glance it met.

‘Tis wise in summer-warmth to look before
     To the keen-nipping winter; it is good 
In lifeful hours to lay aside some store
     Of Thought to leaven the spirits duller mood: — 
To mould the sodded dyke in sunny hour,
     Against the coming of the wasteful flood; 
Still tempering Life's extremes, that wo no more
     May start abrupt in Joy's sweet neighborhood. 
If Day burst sudden from the bars of Night;
     Or with one plunge leaped down the sheer abyss, 
Painful alike were darkness and the light,
     Bearing fixed war through shifting victories; 
But sweet their bond, where peaceful Twilight lingers, 
Weaving the rosy with the sable ringers.

While yet the Summer bears herself aloft
     So queenly dight, and with such plenty teems,
Let me not waste the hours in dalliance soft,
     By airs ambrosial lull'd to sabbath dreams: 
But with hard hand uprear, against the oft
     Reverse of times, rock-laid, the oaken beams 
Of firm defense; that when the year hath doff'd
     Its glorious verdure, shall be left some gleams 
Of the old Beauty, and a sunny spot
     Redeemed from Winter's reign, where flowers may grow 
In simple beauty, and the frosts come not, —
     A little shelter warmed and guarded so 
That sweetest things, from which the soul is loth 
To part, may flourish with perennial growth.

Now Summer's green with Summer shall not pass.
     Nor all my blooms with changing seasons wilt ;
     Fair in my field a sheltering cot is built; 
Foundations, riven from the granite's mass, 
Bear up the hewn oak like a shield of brass,
     Against the North, to dare the wildest tilt
     Of errant storms. With blessed sunshine gilt,
On cedar rafters slopes the roof of glass. 
To the sweet South the wall is crystal clear,
     Letting the smallest ray of gladness in :
But thieving frosts that creep for plunder here,
     Pry all they can, they shall no entrance win; 
Immortal Beauty, in one little sphere, 
May dance her blithe round through the changing year.

Let the frorne North my sturdy walls assail, 
     Till all its engines with o’er-gorging break; 
     Insidious Frost low-creeping like a snake,
Swift-rushing sleet, or the quick crackling hail,
By treachery try, or fury, to prevail;
     Let the North-west its howling winds awake, 
     And shout around me till their hoarse lungs ache,
And their spent wrath dies to a feeble wail;
Yet calm within, the silver dew shall rest 
     Fresh in the Rose's heart, its wonted place,
And my sweet flowers keep Summer's virgin vest, 
     Flying she left in Autumn's rude embrace:
Beat on by wrathful storms, my cot shall be
     An isle of Beauty in a raging sea.

What if the herd who see my glassy roof
     Peer o'er the drifts, and glitter in the sun, 
With snow-wreaths hung, Aquilo's cunning woof,
     Do deem that life and dwelling there, is none, 
Only the icy mockery of a home,
     By the old year in childish dotage done, 
Who mimics oft fantastic hall and dome
     To cheat the wretch whose eye is wise alone ?
Ye blessed ones who often meet me here, — 
     For that ye come the never-drifted way,—
Know well, within far else than icy cheer 
     Welcome your souls elect, though night winds play
Without, on shrill pipes, to the waltzing snow,
And the great trees creak, heaving to and fro.

Beneath my crystal roof a chosen few,
     Not rudest storms can buffet from my door,
     Sport glad, and glad'ning, though the cold winds roar :
Spirits all truthful, and so tender, too,
Their honey-kiss scarce shakes the quivering dew 
     From the soft petal, where it hung before; 
     And all my young buds pout and blush the more,
To tempt those lips to greet their rival hue.
In warm and loving hearts, there liveth sure 
     Magnetic force to swell the coyish bud
Into a bloom more delicate and pure, 
     And send a soul along its tingling blood;
For seems each flower more fresh, at every meeting,
To turn its fair lips to their gentle greeting.

Here, throned in beauty, reigns supreme delight, 
     Whether hoarse Winter growls along the wold,
Or walks majestic Summer, queenly dight, 
     Circled with glories woven manifold;
Whether dun war-ranks of marauding Night 
     Drive bleeding Day into his western hold,
Or morn, victorious on the mountain height, 
     Unfurls his tent of azure fringed with gold ;
Here whitest thought, dove-wing'd, from purest hearts, 
     Hangs on the breath of every whispering flower,

And, through their sweets, its sweeter sense imparts, 
     A living joy to bless the weariest hour;
And yet so humble is my little all,
There is no room for envy's shafts to fall.

Some evil mind beside my runnel flung
     The Deadly Nightshade, that it rooted there, 
     And with foul breathing choked the plundered air 
It fed on, ere good hap revealed where clung 
Its hidden vine, with rich red berries hung, 
     Mocking plain Virtue with an outward fair. 
     For, though its clustered fruit seemed passing rare, 
Its false eye-sweets were poison to the tongue; 
Plucking it thence defiled my naked hand, 
And its firm grip destroyed with deathful wound 
     A cherished plant, which came from Holy Land, 
     And long was sheltered in my hardy ground. 
Ah me! I wept with unavailing grief, 
To see the shrunk herb perish leaf by leaf.

Dear far-sent Aloe! let my anxious toil 
     Witness, how painfully I sought to make
Thy shriveled root survive a foreign soil ;
     Shutting the searching winds, for thy dear sake, 
From breathing on thee; and with glassy foil
     Making the keen shafts of the frost to break 
From their true path, shot forth to wound and spoil,
     And giving dews thy fever-thirst to slake: 
Yet week by week I saw thy leaves decay,
     And mourned thy buds could never come to bloom, 
Till all their freshness sunk consumed away,
     And the warm soil, thy nurse, became thy tomb; 
So prized, so lost, I never dreamed, be sure, 
One perished weed could leave me half so poor.

O now lost herb I will not mourn for thee ;
     Out of thy grave hath sprang, more fair and fresh, 
     A graceful vine that weaves its delicate mesh
In mazy folds around the hawthorn tree,
That stands to guard it. How luxuriantly 
     Its lithe stem climbeth heaven-ward, girt around 
     With wondrous flowers, whose mystic sense profound
Erst tempted gazers to idolatry.
They saw the symbols of a Savior slain,
     In bloom red-streak' d, stamen, and tendrils curl'd;
The Scourge and Cross, and Vesture's crimson stain, 
     Types of redemption to a fallen world ;
But though to me such message is not there,
Its gorgeous bloom reveals a soul surpassing fair.
Sustained and sheltered in my sunlit bower,
     Where mocking winds come not with bitter gibes, 
In delicate beauty blooms the Passion Flower; 
Tempting with innocent smiles — those maiden bribes, —
     Heaven's own sweet limners, such as paint the shower.
     And bannerets of Sunset's airy tribes, 
To gild her robes. They, glad to swell her dower,
     So eager crowd that each on each they press: 
And sooth, poor Suitor, she can only pay
     In bashful blushes and breathed thankfulness 
Their kingly boons; yet more and more give they
     For that sweet shame, which makes her need the less; 
For worth with modesty is worth made more, 
Which doubles still its still redoubling store.

From dewy day-dawn, to its dewy close, 
     Between the Lark's note and the Whippoorwill's, 
     With life as fresh and musical as fills
Their varied round, in quiet joyance goes
The faithful Gardener, spying out the foes 
     Of queenly Beauty, whom, for all the ills 
     They wrought her reign, his hand in pity kills,
That pure-eyed Peace may in her realm repose.
He bears cool water to the drooping flowers, 
     And gently crops o’er-flush'd exuberance;
Trains the young vines to crown imperial bowers. 
     And guardeth well fair buds from foul mischance;
Let others find what prize befits their powers, 
     His deeds put smiles on Nature's countenance.

He wrongs the great Heart and the great Heart's Sire.
     Who saith that Labor is the curse of eld; 
All Life delights to deck the proud attire
     In which the God is visibly beheld; 
The boundless hungerings of the Soul require
     The regal task, unawed and uncompelled; 
Those glittering drops, which manly brows perspire,
     Are gems more rich than idle pearls, and seld 
Have crowned kings such inborn royalty,
     As the free tiller of the unbought soil, 
Who from his rich soul casteth lavishly
     New forms of Beauty with unwearied toil: 
Bend with high heart, and bravely, to thy task, 
And Luxury pale the like as a proud boon shall ask.

While pleasant care my yielding soil receives,
     Other delights the open soul may find; 
On the high bough the daring Hang-bird weaves
     Her cunning cradle rocking in the wind; 
The arrowy Swallow builds beneath the eaves,
     Her clay-wall'd grotto with soft feathers lined; 
The dull-red Robin under sheltering leaves
     Her bowl-like nest to sturdy limbs doth bind;
And many Songsters, worth a name in song.
     Plain homely Birds, my Boy-love sanctified, 
On hedge and tree, and grassy bog, prolong
     Sweet loves and cares, in carols sweetly plied;
In such dear strains their simple natures gush, 
That through my heart at once all tear-blest memories rush.

Merrily sings the fluttering Bob-o-link.
     Whose trilling song above the meadow floats; 
The eager air speeds tremulous to drink
     The bubbling sweetness of the liquid notes. 
Whose silver cadences arise and sink,
     Shift, glide and shiver, like the trembling motes 
In the full gush of sunset. One might think
     Some potent charm had turned the auroral flame 
Of the night-kindling North to melody,
     Which in one gurgling rush of sweetness came 
Mocking the ear, as once it mock'd the eye,
     With varying beauties twinkling fitfully: 
Low hovering in the air his song he sings. 
As if he shook it from his trembling wings.

In Boyhood oft I shook with foolish dread, 
     When the long shadow of the cypress trees 
     Came creeping on by slow and sure degrees,
Till their high tops o'er all my Garden spread,
As sun by sun sunk in its dying bed;
     "Will there not come a deeper night than these,
     When the great darkness all the days shall seize, 
And never morning rise again?” I said. 
Then would I murmur 'gainst the blameless shade.
     For smothering sweet Day in its heavy murk, 
And weep that golden Light was so waylaid
     By ruffian Glooms that in the wood did lurk. 
For every eve my trustless Soul did fright 
With sad foretokens of a time-long night.

Now solemn Beauty all the Spirit awes,
     As sunset glories gild the eternal green 
     Of the dark cypress-grove, shot forth between
The draperied trunks, where faint day loves to pause
Through the long aisles and breathing corridors 
     Streaming, like fire-gleams of an altar seen 
     In holy ritual, till its vapory screen
The smoke of incense o'er the temple draws.
Peace hovers there, o'er all those golden aisles. 
     Pure, as the first dream in the Land of Rest;
Day, like the righteous man expiring, smiles. 
     And the dun shades, no more in terror drest,
Stretch their long arms to point, far as they may,
To the Eternal Source of unextinguished day.

I cannot think that what the heart, made pure
     By trial, loves, shall ever pass away; 
From golden deeps, whose floods eterne [sic] endure,
     Wells up the light spring of each fleeting day; 
An infinite Beauty underlies, be sure, 
Earth's transient hues, which seem its ocean-spray; 
They are but twilight gleams — the clare-obscure,
     Where dusk Time meets the glories of FOR-AYE: 
Ye loved of earth, flower, bird, and dying Song.
     Though now I linger with a sad farewell,
Ye have but gone to lure my Soul along,
     To where your full paternal beauties dwell; 
Slowly I follow, showering fond tears down,
As one who leaves his loved cot for a crown.