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Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs

By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others

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The Philosopher of the Garden.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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170

The Philosopher of the Garden.

I sit beneath a fluttering beech;
The leaves like Rumour's tongues are stirring;
Though inarticulate their speech,
Their prophecies are all unerring.
Could I but shape them into words—
Yet why forestall a coming sorrow?
My motto's Carpe diem. Birds,
Sing to me of a happy morrow.
Speak to me through your perfumes, flowers,
Of Lucy; let the limes
Fling down their blossoms in sweet showers
Upon me, as in olden times.
Love, send me omens of success—
Some golden cloud like melting amber,
Or sunbeam ray of happiness,
O'er Fortune's crags to guide my clamber.
To-day, I win a priceless gem;
Or bankrupt, beggared, and rejected,
The dusk will see my diadem
Of hope cast off, forlorn, dejected.
I shall sit here beneath the stars,
Watching the bats flit o'er the laurels;
Railing at Venus, chiding Mars,
Hating the very thrush that carols.
Yet till my fate has come, I love
The orchard flowers still upward floating,
While greedy bees the thyme above
On their uncounted gains are gloating.
Bring round my horse: I linger still;
Fear makes me hesitate and ponder;
The clouds go pulsing o'er the hill:
Will Lucy be at home, I wonder?
The present still is mine; indeed,
All is still sunshine; quicker, swallow,
Sweep in long curves across the mead,
Yet I'll spin faster down the hollow.
Upon that standard rose in bloom
A bud has opened since I lingered;
Its blush like Lucy's—how the room
Grew merrier last night, when she fingered
That wild Mazurka, goblin tune—
Mad witches dancing round a gibbet
In storm and thunder, till the moon
Laughed out.—Where did the fellow crib it?
And then the mill-stream's rippling flow,
Dolce, cantabile—it rambled
By moonlit willows row on row—
O'er floating lilies now it gambolled.
No colour on a passing cloud,
No sunbeam moving 'cross a shadow,
But brings a memory of her—proud,
Sing like her, bird in lustrous meadow.
Breeze, pulse from rolling field to field;
Glad sunshine, brighten all the clover:
I feel a knight with spear and shield;
With hopes and fears my heart runs over.
Light as a swallow in the air,
Gay as a butterfly on roses—
The man is bringing round the mare;
This child this very hour proposes.