 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
MY GARDEN.
I love my Garden!—dearly love
That little spot of ground!
There's not, methinks—though I may err
In partial pride—a pleasanter,
In all the country round!
That little spot of ground!
There's not, methinks—though I may err
In partial pride—a pleasanter,
In all the country round!
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The smooth green turf winds gently there,
With no ungraceful bend,
Round many a bed and many a border,
Where, gaily grouped in sweet disorder,
Young Flora's darlings blend.
With no ungraceful bend,
Round many a bed and many a border,
Where, gaily grouped in sweet disorder,
Young Flora's darlings blend.
Spring! Summer! Autumn!—of all three,
Whose reign is loveliest there?
Oh! is not she who paints the ground,
When its frost fetters are unbound,
The fairest of the fair?
Whose reign is loveliest there?
Oh! is not she who paints the ground,
When its frost fetters are unbound,
The fairest of the fair?
I gaze upon her violet beds,
Laburnums, golden-tressed;
Her flower-spiked almond—breathe perfume
From lilac and syringa bloom,
And cry, “I love Spring best!”
Laburnums, golden-tressed;
Her flower-spiked almond—breathe perfume
From lilac and syringa bloom,
And cry, “I love Spring best!”
But Summer comes, with all her pomp
Of fragrance, beauty, bliss!—
And from amidst her bower of roses,
I sigh, as purple evening closes,
“What season equals this?”
Of fragrance, beauty, bliss!—
And from amidst her bower of roses,
I sigh, as purple evening closes,
“What season equals this?”
That pageant passeth by. Comes next
Brown Autumn in her turn;—
Oh! not unwelcome cometh she;
The parchèd earth Luxuriously
Drinks from her dewy urn.
Brown Autumn in her turn;—
Oh! not unwelcome cometh she;
The parchèd earth Luxuriously
Drinks from her dewy urn.
And she hath flowers, and fragrance too,
Peculiarly her own;
Asters of every hue—perfume,
Spiced rich with clematis and broom,
And mignonette late blown.
Peculiarly her own;
Asters of every hue—perfume,
Spiced rich with clematis and broom,
And mignonette late blown.
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Then if some lingering rose I spy
Reclining languidly,
Or the bright laurel's glossy green,—
Dear Autumn! my whole heart, I ween,
Leaps up for love of thee!
Reclining languidly,
Or the bright laurel's glossy green,—
Dear Autumn! my whole heart, I ween,
Leaps up for love of thee!
Oh, yes!—I love my garden well,
And find employment there;—
Employment sweet; for many an hour,
In tending every shrub and flower
With still unwearied care.
And find employment there;—
Employment sweet; for many an hour,
In tending every shrub and flower
With still unwearied care.
I prop the weakly—prune the rude—
Scatter the various seeds—
Clear out intruders,—yet of those
Oft sparing, what the florist knows
To be but gaudy weeds.
Scatter the various seeds—
Clear out intruders,—yet of those
Oft sparing, what the florist knows
To be but gaudy weeds.
But when my task—my pleasant task!—
Is ended for the day—
Sprinkled o'er every sun-bowed flower
The artificial evening shower,
Then oftentimes I stray—
Is ended for the day—
Sprinkled o'er every sun-bowed flower
The artificial evening shower,
Then oftentimes I stray—
(Inherent is the love of change
In human hearts)—far, far
Beyond the garden-gate;—the bound
That clips my little Eden round,
Chance for my leading star;
In human hearts)—far, far
Beyond the garden-gate;—the bound
That clips my little Eden round,
Chance for my leading star;
Through hollow lanes or coppice paths,
By hill or hawthorn fence,
O'er thymy commons, clover fields,
Where every step I take reveals
Some charm of sight or sense.
By hill or hawthorn fence,
O'er thymy commons, clover fields,
Where every step I take reveals
Some charm of sight or sense.
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The winding path brings suddenly
A rustic bridge in sight;
Beneath it, gushing brightly out,
The rivulet, where speckled trout
Leap in the circling light.
A rustic bridge in sight;
Beneath it, gushing brightly out,
The rivulet, where speckled trout
Leap in the circling light.
Pale water-lilies float thereon,
The Naiads' loveliest wreath!
The adders' tongues dip down to drink;
The flag peers high above the brink,
From her long slender sheath.
The Naiads' loveliest wreath!
The adders' tongues dip down to drink;
The flag peers high above the brink,
From her long slender sheath.
There, on the greensward, an old oak
Stands singly. One, I trow,
Whose mighty shadow spread as wide,
When they were in their prime, who died
A hundred years ago.
Stands singly. One, I trow,
Whose mighty shadow spread as wide,
When they were in their prime, who died
A hundred years ago.
A single ewe, with her twin lambs,
Stands the grey trunk beside;
Others lie clustering in the shade,
Or, down the windings of the glade,
Are scattered far and wide.
Stands the grey trunk beside;
Others lie clustering in the shade,
Or, down the windings of the glade,
Are scattered far and wide.
Two mossy thorns, o'er yonder stile,
A bowery archway rise;—
Oh, what a flood of fragrance thence
Breathes out!—Behind that hazel fence
A flowering bean-field lies.
A bowery archway rise;—
Oh, what a flood of fragrance thence
Breathes out!—Behind that hazel fence
A flowering bean-field lies.
The shadowy path winds gently on,
That hazel fence beneath;
The wild-rose, and the woodbine there
Shoot up, festooning high in air
Their oft-entangled wreath.
That hazel fence beneath;
The wild-rose, and the woodbine there
Shoot up, festooning high in air
Their oft-entangled wreath.
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The path winds on—on either side
Walled in by hedges high;
Their boughs so thickly arching over,
That scarce one speck you can discover—
One speck of the blue sky!
Walled in by hedges high;
Their boughs so thickly arching over,
That scarce one speck you can discover—
One speck of the blue sky!
A lovely gloom! It pleaseth me
And lonely Philomel.
Hark! the enchantress sings!—that strain
Dies with a tremulous fall!—again—
Oh, what a gushing swell!
And lonely Philomel.
Hark! the enchantress sings!—that strain
Dies with a tremulous fall!—again—
Oh, what a gushing swell!
Darker and darker still the road,
Scarce lit by twilight glances;—
Darker and darker still—But, see!
Yonder, on that young aspen-tree,
A darting sunbeam dances.
Scarce lit by twilight glances;—
Darker and darker still—But, see!
Yonder, on that young aspen-tree,
A darting sunbeam dances.
Another gems the bank below
With emeralds! Into one
They blend—unite—one emerald sea!
And last, in all his majesty,
Breaks through the setting sun!
With emeralds! Into one
They blend—unite—one emerald sea!
And last, in all his majesty,
Breaks through the setting sun!
And I am breathless, motionless,
Mute with delight and love!
My very being seems to blend
With all around me—to ascend
To the great Source above.
Mute with delight and love!
My very being seems to blend
With all around me—to ascend
To the great Source above.
I feel I am a spark struck out
From an eternal flame;
A part of the stupendous whole,
His work, who breathed a deathless soul
Into this mortal frame.
From an eternal flame;
A part of the stupendous whole,
His work, who breathed a deathless soul
Into this mortal frame.
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And they shall perish—all these things—
Darkness shall quench this ball:
Death-throes this solid earth shall rive,
Yet I—frail thing of dust!—survive
The final wreck of all.
Darkness shall quench this ball:
Death-throes this solid earth shall rive,
Yet I—frail thing of dust!—survive
The final wreck of all.
“Wake up my glory! lute and harp!”
Be vocal every chord;
Lo! all His works in concert sing,
“Praise, praise to the Eternal King,”
The Universal Lord!
Be vocal every chord;
Lo! all His works in concert sing,
“Praise, praise to the Eternal King,”
The Universal Lord!
Oh, powerless will! oh, languid voice!
Weak words! imperfect lays!
Yet, could His works alone inspire
The feelings that attune my lyre
To these faint notes of praise!
Weak words! imperfect lays!
Yet, could His works alone inspire
The feelings that attune my lyre
To these faint notes of praise!
Not to the charms of tasteful art
That I am cold or dull;
I gaze on all the graceful scene—
The clustering flowers, the velvet green—
And cry, “How beautiful!”
That I am cold or dull;
I gaze on all the graceful scene—
The clustering flowers, the velvet green—
And cry, “How beautiful!”
But when to Nature's book I turn,
The page she spreads abroad;
Tears only to mine eyes that steal,
Bear witness that I see and feel
The mighty hand of God!
The page she spreads abroad;
Tears only to mine eyes that steal,
Bear witness that I see and feel
The mighty hand of God!
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |