The Poetical Language of Flowers or, The Pilgrimage of Love. By Thomas Miller. Second Edition |
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THE OLD CASTLE GARDEN. |
 | The Poetical Language of Flowers |  |
152
THE OLD CASTLE GARDEN.
Hard by the crumbling castle wall,
That old and gloomy garden spread,
With many a quaintly-shapen bed,
And many a mazy path that led
To postern, drawbridge, bower, and hall,
Through gloomy groves of evergreens,
Dark low-browed rocks, and shady scenes,
Hemmed in by fir-trees black and tall.
And all around
That dreary ground
Was heard the sound
Of many a mournful fountain falling,
And many an echo faintly calling
To waving trees and low-voiced streams,
Where Day but rarely spread his beams,—
It seemed a living land of dreams.
That old and gloomy garden spread,
With many a quaintly-shapen bed,
And many a mazy path that led
To postern, drawbridge, bower, and hall,
Through gloomy groves of evergreens,
Dark low-browed rocks, and shady scenes,
Hemmed in by fir-trees black and tall.
And all around
That dreary ground
Was heard the sound
Of many a mournful fountain falling,
And many an echo faintly calling
To waving trees and low-voiced streams,
Where Day but rarely spread his beams,—
It seemed a living land of dreams.
153
There ruined summer-arbours stood,
Mantled with moss and untwined vine,
A wilderness of sweet woodbine,
Ivy and starry jessamine,
And mirrored in a murmuring flood
Were marble forms of many a god,
Some gazing on the daisied sod,
Or half-seen through the underwood;
And Venus fair
With parted hair
Was bending there.
She seemed to mock the Sculptor's art,
And listening stood with lips apart.
Others were buried 'mid the flowers,—
Dryads, and Fauns, and Nymphs, and Hours,
Stood peeping through the leafy bowers.
Mantled with moss and untwined vine,
A wilderness of sweet woodbine,
Ivy and starry jessamine,
And mirrored in a murmuring flood
Were marble forms of many a god,
Some gazing on the daisied sod,
Or half-seen through the underwood;
And Venus fair
With parted hair
Was bending there.
She seemed to mock the Sculptor's art,
And listening stood with lips apart.
Others were buried 'mid the flowers,—
Dryads, and Fauns, and Nymphs, and Hours,
Stood peeping through the leafy bowers.
| The Poetical Language of Flowers | |