Verses of a life time :: :: University of Virginia Library

My garden fresh and beautiful, the spell of frost is o'er,
And earth sends out its varied leaves, a rich and lavish store;
My heart too breaks its wintry chain, with stem, and leaf and flower,
And glows in hope and happiness amid the springtide hour.

'T is sunset in my garden;—the flowers and buds have caught
Bright revelations from the skies in wondrous changes wrought;
And, as the twilight hastens on, a spiritual calm
Seems resting on the quiet leaves, which evening dews embalm.

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'T is moonlight in my garden; like some fair babe at rest
The day-flower folds its silky wing upon its pulseless breast;
Nor is it rain philosophy to think that plants may keep
A holiday of airy dreams beneath their graceful sleep.

'T is morning in my garden;—each leaf of crisped green
Hangs tremulous in diamond gems, with em'rald rays between;
It is the birth of nature,—baptiz'd in early dew,
The plants look meekly up and smile as if their God they knew.

My garden fair and brilliant!—the butterfly outspread
Alights with gentle fluttering on the wall-flower's golden head,
Then darting to the lily bed, floats o'er its sheeted white,
And settles on the violet's cup with fanciful delight.

My quiet little garden!—I hear the rolling wheel
Of the city's busy multitude along the highway peal,

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I tread thy paths more fondly, and inhale the circling air
That glads and cools me on its way from that wide mart of care.

My friendly little garden! few worldly goods have I
To tender with o'erflowing heart in blessed charity,
But like the cup of water, by a pure disciple given,
And herb or flower may tell its tale of kindliness in heaven.

My small herbescent garden! what though I may not raise
High tribute to thy fruitfulness in these familiar lays,
Yet when thy few shrunk radishes I pluck with eager haste,
They seem a daintier food to me than gods ambrosial taste.

As as for those three artichokes, the fruit of toilsome care,
And my angel-visit cucumbers, that come so sparse and rare,
And the straggling ears of corn that shoot so meagre, thin, and small,
To me they still outweigh the hoards that crowd the market stall.

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I own I have mistakenly oft train'd a vulgar weed,
And rooted up with savage hand some choice and costly seed,
And boiled a precious bulbous-root of lineage high and rare,
And planted onions in a jar with most superfluous care;

But truth springs out of error, and right succeeds to wrong,
Mistakes that wound, and weeds that vex, give morals to my song,
They bid me clear my mental soil and calmly look within,
To check the growth of earth's wild weeds—of passion and of sin.

To nobler themes, and hopes, and joys, my garden culture tends;
To that high world where only flower without the weed ascends,
I lift my soul in reverie, enraptur'd and alone,
Still coining links of thought that wreathe my spirit to God's throne.

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Yet sadness sometimes fills my mind, as each unfolding sweet
Springs up in ready beauty beneath my household's feet,
For some young hand that gathers now the plants that gaily wave,
May shortly lie in wither'd bloom within the dreary grave.

My faith-inspiring garden!—thy seeds so dark and cold
Late slept in utter loneliness amid earth's senseless mould;
No sunbeams fell upon them, nor west wind's gentle breath,
But there they lay in nothingness, an image meet of death.

Now, lo! they rise in gorgeous ranks, and glad the eager eye,
And on the wooing summer breeze their odor passes by;
The flower-grave cannot chain them, the spirit-life upsprings,
And scatters beauty in its path from thousand unseen wings.