 | Under Cross and Crescent |  |
93
MY GARDEN
(IN TURKEY)
Six giant pines their stems upraise
Above a rosy Judas-tree,
Here, where, approach'd by winding ways,
A hanging garden fronts the sea,
And here it was, in ancient days,
A Christian chapel used to be.
Above a rosy Judas-tree,
Here, where, approach'd by winding ways,
A hanging garden fronts the sea,
And here it was, in ancient days,
A Christian chapel used to be.
The grey wall rises sheer and high,
With flow'r and rock-weed overgrown,
And ivy-bines that underlie
And help to fasten stone to stone,
A world of sea, a patch of sky,
And then this garden of my own,
With flow'r and rock-weed overgrown,
And ivy-bines that underlie
And help to fasten stone to stone,
A world of sea, a patch of sky,
And then this garden of my own,
94
Like eagle's nest on ruin'd tow'r
Or beetling crag perch'd high in air,
Or some fair lady's secret bow'r
Approach'd by winding turret-stair,
A garden bright with bud and flow'r
Above the world and all its care.
Or beetling crag perch'd high in air,
Or some fair lady's secret bow'r
Approach'd by winding turret-stair,
A garden bright with bud and flow'r
Above the world and all its care.
And in the substance of the wall,
Half hid by hanging ivy-tress,
The sacred apse, conceal'd and small,
And fashion'd so that none might guess
It was a holy place at all,
Or ever priest came there to bless.
Half hid by hanging ivy-tress,
The sacred apse, conceal'd and small,
And fashion'd so that none might guess
It was a holy place at all,
Or ever priest came there to bless.
Yet it was here, when Faith was young,
And angry tempests lash'd the wave,
That weeping women knelt and clung
And pray'd to Christ to hear and save,
And grateful hymns of praise were sung
To thank Him for the gifts He gave.
And angry tempests lash'd the wave,
That weeping women knelt and clung
And pray'd to Christ to hear and save,
And grateful hymns of praise were sung
To thank Him for the gifts He gave.
95
From yonder niche methinks I see,
Through blinding roots that intertwine,
The Virgin mild, with Babe on knee,
Gaze down with countenance benign,
And all this precinct seems to me
Less of a garden than a shrine.
Through blinding roots that intertwine,
The Virgin mild, with Babe on knee,
Gaze down with countenance benign,
And all this precinct seems to me
Less of a garden than a shrine.
And from my heart of hearts I pray,
As erst so many pray'd of yore,
For lov'd ones biding far away
O'er land and sea, on storm-girt shore,
For God seems nearer here to-day
Than ever He has seem'd before.
As erst so many pray'd of yore,
For lov'd ones biding far away
O'er land and sea, on storm-girt shore,
For God seems nearer here to-day
Than ever He has seem'd before.
As, by this solitude beguiled,
I listen to the pine-tree's sigh,
Though Christian cross be now defiled,
Whilst star and crescent wave on high,
And where the Virgin Mother smiled
The lizard blinks his gold-rimm'd eye!
I listen to the pine-tree's sigh,
Though Christian cross be now defiled,
Whilst star and crescent wave on high,
And where the Virgin Mother smiled
The lizard blinks his gold-rimm'd eye!
| Under Cross and Crescent | |