 | Hagar |  |
109
OUR GARDEN.
Have you a garden? we have one
The loveliest spot beneath the sun.
'Tis close by the southern orchard wall,
Where the early light is swift to fall,
Which the morning glories mantle o'er
So greenly the stones are seen no more,
Where every morn, still staunch and true
Its colors float, “Red, White and Blue.”
And fragrant peas, the bird-like things
Go fluttering round on rosy wings,
While like a nun so pure and fair
The tuberose scents all the air,
And Pinks, sweet Maidens, primly set
Beside the Quakeress, Mignonette.
Pale Heliotrope, that loves the sun,
While all love her the peerless one!
And we have bright verbenas there
Which trail their splendors everywhere,
Alyssum sweet, a wayward child
That breaks its bounds, and wanders wild,
And blended with the white and red,
The yellow Poppy lifts its head;
Gay western flower, so bright and bold
Fit emblem of “The Land of Gold.”
But sweetest spot of all to me,
Is by the gnarled old apple tree,
Where close within its friendly shade,
The Fuchsias their gay wreaths have laid,
And round the trunk, the bells of snow
With crimson bells, wave to and fro,
I sit and watch their gorgeous dyes
And dream of burning tropic skies.
The loveliest spot beneath the sun.
'Tis close by the southern orchard wall,
Where the early light is swift to fall,
Which the morning glories mantle o'er
So greenly the stones are seen no more,
Where every morn, still staunch and true
Its colors float, “Red, White and Blue.”
And fragrant peas, the bird-like things
Go fluttering round on rosy wings,
While like a nun so pure and fair
The tuberose scents all the air,
And Pinks, sweet Maidens, primly set
Beside the Quakeress, Mignonette.
Pale Heliotrope, that loves the sun,
While all love her the peerless one!
And we have bright verbenas there
Which trail their splendors everywhere,
Alyssum sweet, a wayward child
That breaks its bounds, and wanders wild,
110
The yellow Poppy lifts its head;
Gay western flower, so bright and bold
Fit emblem of “The Land of Gold.”
But sweetest spot of all to me,
Is by the gnarled old apple tree,
Where close within its friendly shade,
The Fuchsias their gay wreaths have laid,
And round the trunk, the bells of snow
With crimson bells, wave to and fro,
I sit and watch their gorgeous dyes
And dream of burning tropic skies.
Away with tropics, give to me
The Phlox Drummondii, blithe and free,
Blooming alike in sun or shade
Through spring and summer, still arrayed
In brightest robes of wondrous hue.
Dear little flower! thou'rt always new,
Sweeter than flowers from foreign strands
This wilding from the prairie lands.
This is our garden, morn and night
It has some store of fresh delight,
I turn with loving hand the mould
And watch each leaf and bud unfold,
And feel no joy more pure can be
Than this sweet spot has given me.
The Phlox Drummondii, blithe and free,
Blooming alike in sun or shade
Through spring and summer, still arrayed
In brightest robes of wondrous hue.
Dear little flower! thou'rt always new,
Sweeter than flowers from foreign strands
This wilding from the prairie lands.
This is our garden, morn and night
It has some store of fresh delight,
I turn with loving hand the mould
And watch each leaf and bud unfold,
And feel no joy more pure can be
Than this sweet spot has given me.
June, 1865.
| Hagar | |