 | Under Cross and Crescent |  |
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MY NEIGHBOUR'S GARDEN
(IN ENGLAND)
Nestled beside a wood where larch and pine
Tow'r tall against the sky, and where, beneath,
Nature has spread a carpet of pink heath
And velvet mosses; guarded by a line
Of cypress-sentinels, from over-seas,—
Press'd into foreign service, like to Scot
Or Switzer of old time,—this is the spot
Where now my kindly neighbour takes his ease.
Tow'r tall against the sky, and where, beneath,
Nature has spread a carpet of pink heath
And velvet mosses; guarded by a line
Of cypress-sentinels, from over-seas,—
Press'd into foreign service, like to Scot
Or Switzer of old time,—this is the spot
Where now my kindly neighbour takes his ease.
His windows look upon a garden, gay
With many roses, which a terrace-wall
Divides from park and lawn, where, over all,
None but the very fairest winds may stray
(My neighbour will'd it so), and where a gray
And lichen'd dial marks the passing hours,
Whose graven motto, half effaced by flow'rs,
Warns us to gather rosebuds while we may.
With many roses, which a terrace-wall
Divides from park and lawn, where, over all,
None but the very fairest winds may stray
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And lichen'd dial marks the passing hours,
Whose graven motto, half effaced by flow'rs,
Warns us to gather rosebuds while we may.
Here might an autocratic will control
And change each rural feature. He might set
His seal upon the land as never yet
Upon the human mind, for he could roll
The hill into the valley, plant the waste,
And fell the forest: dot the distant lake
With fairy Crusoe-isles, and mar, and make,
And mould the face of Nature to his taste.
And change each rural feature. He might set
His seal upon the land as never yet
Upon the human mind, for he could roll
The hill into the valley, plant the waste,
And fell the forest: dot the distant lake
With fairy Crusoe-isles, and mar, and make,
And mould the face of Nature to his taste.
But, since he is so travell'd and so wise
And temperate of spirit,—that, although
It is not given unto us to know
What his creative fancy may devise,—
What tow'rs and temples, pointing to the stars,
What grots and bow'rs, as year to year succeeds,
Or whether goat-foot gods, half hid in reeds,
May not pour rivers forth from earthen jars;—
And temperate of spirit,—that, although
It is not given unto us to know
What his creative fancy may devise,—
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What grots and bow'rs, as year to year succeeds,
Or whether goat-foot gods, half hid in reeds,
May not pour rivers forth from earthen jars;—
I feel he will not ruthlessly upheave,
Or hew, or devastate. By Nature's aid,
His pleasure will be, rather to persuade
With a benign insistence, and achieve
Each end by gentle means and patient skill,
So that the tutor'd tendril, as it grows,
Or the diverted streamlet, scarcely knows
It is not wand'ring at “its own sweet will.”
Or hew, or devastate. By Nature's aid,
His pleasure will be, rather to persuade
With a benign insistence, and achieve
Each end by gentle means and patient skill,
So that the tutor'd tendril, as it grows,
Or the diverted streamlet, scarcely knows
It is not wand'ring at “its own sweet will.”
Hence, no impetuous spirit of unrest
Disturbs the sylvan quiet, though a sure
And gradual evolution shall mature
And lure each thing of beauty to its best,
Yet never can complete achievement bring
Its wonted curse, since, ev'ry changing year,
Shall some fresh fancy be engender'd here,
And some new wonder wake with ev'ry Spring.
Disturbs the sylvan quiet, though a sure
And gradual evolution shall mature
And lure each thing of beauty to its best,
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Its wonted curse, since, ev'ry changing year,
Shall some fresh fancy be engender'd here,
And some new wonder wake with ev'ry Spring.
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