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 Epicurean's Garden.
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
The Epicurean's Garden.
The black-heart cherry spreads a net
Of blood-drops on the wall;
The swelling apples greenly grow
Where they will golden fall.
The fledgling lark has got its crest,
And proudly strains to sing;
The finch has left its mossy nest,
With gold upon its wing.
Of blood-drops on the wall;
The swelling apples greenly grow
Where they will golden fall.
The fledgling lark has got its crest,
And proudly strains to sing;
The finch has left its mossy nest,
With gold upon its wing.
The jargonel its ripened fruit
Begins to vain display;
Its bullion-weights upon the bough
Hang temptingly all day.
The blossom's on the Summer corn,
Tall grows the spindling rye;
A deeper-jewelled sunny blue
Has blossomed in the sky.
Begins to vain display;
Its bullion-weights upon the bough
Hang temptingly all day.
The blossom's on the Summer corn,
Tall grows the spindling rye;
A deeper-jewelled sunny blue
Has blossomed in the sky.
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Like little threads of ruby-seed
The red-veined currants shine;
The coral berries, sunny pearl,
Are hanging line by line.
The grape its tiny scented flower
Spreads on the greenhouse glass;
The flocks of daisies blanch with white
The russet, tawny grass.
The red-veined currants shine;
The coral berries, sunny pearl,
Are hanging line by line.
The grape its tiny scented flower
Spreads on the greenhouse glass;
The flocks of daisies blanch with white
The russet, tawny grass.
The gooseberry's rich golden globes
Begin to ripen sweet;
The strawberry its scented fruit
Spreads crimson at our feet;
The barley wears a silken beard,
The rose begins to fall;
No longer now with double note
The Indian cuckoos call.
Begin to ripen sweet;
The strawberry its scented fruit
Spreads crimson at our feet;
The barley wears a silken beard,
The rose begins to fall;
No longer now with double note
The Indian cuckoos call.
The lime is raining blossom gold,
It spreads a hill of song,
Draining from countless village hives
Their black and murmuring throng;
Geraniums' scarlet velvet bloom
Make all the windows gay,
And silently the thorn-tree waits
For next year's snowy May.
It spreads a hill of song,
Draining from countless village hives
Their black and murmuring throng;
Geraniums' scarlet velvet bloom
Make all the windows gay,
And silently the thorn-tree waits
For next year's snowy May.
The fuchsia sheds its violet drops,
The sun has burned the bell
Of yonder lily, where the bee
Loved most to brood and dwell;
The pansy's velvet withers up,
Its gloss by rain washed out;
The honeysuckle spreads its flowers
The chimney-wall about.
The sun has burned the bell
Of yonder lily, where the bee
Loved most to brood and dwell;
The pansy's velvet withers up,
Its gloss by rain washed out;
The honeysuckle spreads its flowers
The chimney-wall about.
Dead yellow Autumn lurks amid
The laurel's glossy leaves;
A silver dew is on the web
The felon spider weaves;
The jessamine its Persian bloom
Sheds round the window-sill;
The evening red is burning down
Below the village hill.
The laurel's glossy leaves;
A silver dew is on the web
The felon spider weaves;
The jessamine its Persian bloom
Sheds round the window-sill;
The evening red is burning down
Below the village hill.
The bergamot its scented juice
Is treasuring for me;
The beurré hoards its syrup gold
Far up the spiral tree;
The oats their silky, feathery heads
Toss wantonly about;
The weaving shadows scud and skim
The breezes put to rout.
Is treasuring for me;
The beurré hoards its syrup gold
Far up the spiral tree;
The oats their silky, feathery heads
Toss wantonly about;
The weaving shadows scud and skim
The breezes put to rout.
Above my head the walnuts grow,
Green, marbled, round, and smooth;
The filbert, with the flapping leaf,
Dear to the squirrel's tooth.
The currants, blood-veined, in the sun,
The raspberries on the cane,
The leaves that silver spangles hoard
After the last night's rain.
Green, marbled, round, and smooth;
The filbert, with the flapping leaf,
Dear to the squirrel's tooth.
The currants, blood-veined, in the sun,
The raspberries on the cane,
The leaves that silver spangles hoard
After the last night's rain.
The shadow slants across our roof,
Rough-scaled with mossy tiles,
That fend us from the bitter rain,
And from the sun's wroth smiles;
The scented rose its flower-cascades
From every chimney flings;
And round the birds' nests in the eaves
The honeysuckle clings.
Rough-scaled with mossy tiles,
That fend us from the bitter rain,
And from the sun's wroth smiles;
The scented rose its flower-cascades
From every chimney flings;
And round the birds' nests in the eaves
The honeysuckle clings.
The roses at the window-sill
Their offerings present:
We live in roses—overhead
They're spreading like a tent.
The white stars of the jessamine
Are snowing round the wall;
At every gust those scented snows
Upon my paper fall.
Their offerings present:
We live in roses—overhead
They're spreading like a tent.
The white stars of the jessamine
Are snowing round the wall;
At every gust those scented snows
Upon my paper fall.
My level lawn is gilt with sun,
With daisies sprinkled white;
The purple thyme, so crisp and dry,
The robber-bees' delight.
To guard us stands the cedar-tree,
A dark and stately king,
Whose eastern branches, sad and slow,
A dirge are murmuring.
With daisies sprinkled white;
The purple thyme, so crisp and dry,
The robber-bees' delight.
To guard us stands the cedar-tree,
A dark and stately king,
Whose eastern branches, sad and slow,
A dirge are murmuring.
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A southern wall to warm the peach
Unto a dusty red;
A walk of matted apple-trees,
And many a violet bed;
A wilderness of emerald shade
Lit by the coloured flowers—
A dial, where the shadow draws
A black line through the hours.
Unto a dusty red;
A walk of matted apple-trees,
And many a violet bed;
A wilderness of emerald shade
Lit by the coloured flowers—
A dial, where the shadow draws
A black line through the hours.
Weep roses, with the bleeding hearts,
Love's anguish only grieves:
I read the simple moral writ
On all your fading leaves.
The flower that closes with the sun,
The flower that tells the rain,
Are both my subjects, growing tall
And fair in my domain.
Love's anguish only grieves:
I read the simple moral writ
On all your fading leaves.
The flower that closes with the sun,
The flower that tells the rain,
Are both my subjects, growing tall
And fair in my domain.
It is a plot of Fairyland,
A square of Paradise:
I care not for the burning sand
That grows the Indian's rice.
To others give the realm whose dust
Bright sparkles with the gold,
So I but have to pasture thought
This little wattled fold.
A square of Paradise:
I care not for the burning sand
That grows the Indian's rice.
To others give the realm whose dust
Bright sparkles with the gold,
So I but have to pasture thought
This little wattled fold.
Deep in a garden Adam dwelt,—
Eve made it heaven on earth;
No blossom drooped, till Autumn came
With sin, and pain, and dearth.
Our Jesus in a garden tomb
Embalmed with flowers was laid;
Upon the massy red-sealed stone
Three days flower-shadows played.
Eve made it heaven on earth;
No blossom drooped, till Autumn came
With sin, and pain, and dearth.
Our Jesus in a garden tomb
Embalmed with flowers was laid;
Upon the massy red-sealed stone
Three days flower-shadows played.
The angel lilies, silver-robed,
Are trooping here in bands;
To me the scented-blossom vines
Stretch out their little hands.
Deep in the laurel-bush the thrush
Of love in music prates;
And there, in juries, round the fruit,
The blackbirds hold debates.
Are trooping here in bands;
To me the scented-blossom vines
Stretch out their little hands.
Deep in the laurel-bush the thrush
Of love in music prates;
And there, in juries, round the fruit,
The blackbirds hold debates.
We'll not forget the hawthorn-bush,
A mountain-top of snow,
A hill of music till sweet May
Has ceased to bud and blow.
Now a green net to catch the sun,
And trap its wayward beams,
With figured leaf so quaintly cut,—
This was my home of dreams.
A mountain-top of snow,
A hill of music till sweet May
Has ceased to bud and blow.
Now a green net to catch the sun,
And trap its wayward beams,
With figured leaf so quaintly cut,—
This was my home of dreams.
The worst is, that the bailiff Death
Will some day leap my wall,
And I must leave my melon-frame,
Obedient to his call.
His hard, unfeeling, hollow voice,
I hear in every wind;
And dread to see the garden gate
Shut with a jar behind.
Will some day leap my wall,
And I must leave my melon-frame,
Obedient to his call.
His hard, unfeeling, hollow voice,
I hear in every wind;
And dread to see the garden gate
Shut with a jar behind.
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |