X.The Garden.

X.The Garden.

FROM “THE HERBAL.”

FROM “THE HERBAL.”

FROM “THE HERBAL.”

Among the manifold creatures of God that have in all ages diversely entertained many excellent wits, and drawne them to the contemplation of the Divine Wisdome, none have provoked men’s studies more, or satisfied their desires so much, as plants have done, and that upon just and worthy causes; for what greater delight is there than to behold the earth appareled with plants as with a robe of embroidered worke, set with orient pearles, and garnished with great diversity of rare and costly jewels. But the principal delighte is in the minde, singularly enriched with the knowledge of these visible things, setting forth to us the invisible wisdome and admirable workmanship of Almighty God!

John Gerarde, 1545–1607.

The earth is the garden of nature, and each fruitful country a Paradise. The Turks, who pass their days in gardens here, will have gardens also hereafter, and delighting in flowers on earth, must have lilies and roses in heaven. The delightful world comes after death, and Paradisesucceeds the grave. The verdant state of things is the symbol of the resurrection; and to flourish in the state of glory, we must first be sown in corruption.

Sir Thomas Browne, 1605–1682.

Where does the Wisdom and the Power DivineIn a more bright and sweet reflection shine?Where do we finer strokes and colors see,Of the Creator’s real Poetry,Than when we with attention lookUpon the third day’s volume of the Book?If we could open and intend our eye,We all, like Moses, should espyEven in a bush the radiant Deity.But we despise these, His inferior ways(Though no less full of miracle and praise),Upon the flowers of Heaven we gaze;The stars of earth no wonder in us raise.Abraham Cowley, 1618–1667.

Where does the Wisdom and the Power DivineIn a more bright and sweet reflection shine?Where do we finer strokes and colors see,Of the Creator’s real Poetry,Than when we with attention lookUpon the third day’s volume of the Book?If we could open and intend our eye,We all, like Moses, should espyEven in a bush the radiant Deity.But we despise these, His inferior ways(Though no less full of miracle and praise),Upon the flowers of Heaven we gaze;The stars of earth no wonder in us raise.Abraham Cowley, 1618–1667.

Where does the Wisdom and the Power DivineIn a more bright and sweet reflection shine?Where do we finer strokes and colors see,Of the Creator’s real Poetry,Than when we with attention lookUpon the third day’s volume of the Book?If we could open and intend our eye,We all, like Moses, should espyEven in a bush the radiant Deity.But we despise these, His inferior ways(Though no less full of miracle and praise),Upon the flowers of Heaven we gaze;The stars of earth no wonder in us raise.Abraham Cowley, 1618–1667.

Where does the Wisdom and the Power Divine

In a more bright and sweet reflection shine?

Where do we finer strokes and colors see,

Of the Creator’s real Poetry,

Than when we with attention look

Upon the third day’s volume of the Book?

If we could open and intend our eye,

We all, like Moses, should espy

Even in a bush the radiant Deity.

But we despise these, His inferior ways

(Though no less full of miracle and praise),

Upon the flowers of Heaven we gaze;

The stars of earth no wonder in us raise.

Abraham Cowley, 1618–1667.

FROM HOMER.

FROM HOMER.

FROM HOMER.

Close to the gates a spacious garden lies,From storms defended and inclement skies:Four acres was th’ allotted space of ground,Fenced with a green inclosure all around,Tall thriving trees confessed the fruitful mold;The redd’ning apple ripens here to gold.Here the blue fig with luscious juice o’erflows,With deeper red the full pomegranate glows;The branch here bends beneath the weighty pear,And verdant olives flourish round the year.The balmy spirit of the western galeEternal breathes on fruits untaught to fail:Each dropping pear a following pear supplies,On apples apples, figs on figs arise;The same mild season gives the blooms to blow,The buds to harden, and the fruits to grow.Here ordered vines in equal ranks appear,With all th’ united labors of the year;Some to unload the fertile branches run,Some dry the black’ning clusters in the sun,Others to tread the liquid harvest join,The groaning presses foam with floods of wine.Here are the vines in early flower descried,Here grapes discolor’d on the sunny side,And there in autumn’s richest purple dyed.Beds of all various herbs, forever green,In beauteous order terminate the scene.Two plenteous fountains the whole prospect crown’d—This through the gardens leads its streams around,Visits each plant and waters all the ground;While that in pipes beneath the palace flows,And thence its current on the town bestows;To various use their various streams they bring,The people one, and one supplies the king.Translation ofPope.

Close to the gates a spacious garden lies,From storms defended and inclement skies:Four acres was th’ allotted space of ground,Fenced with a green inclosure all around,Tall thriving trees confessed the fruitful mold;The redd’ning apple ripens here to gold.Here the blue fig with luscious juice o’erflows,With deeper red the full pomegranate glows;The branch here bends beneath the weighty pear,And verdant olives flourish round the year.The balmy spirit of the western galeEternal breathes on fruits untaught to fail:Each dropping pear a following pear supplies,On apples apples, figs on figs arise;The same mild season gives the blooms to blow,The buds to harden, and the fruits to grow.Here ordered vines in equal ranks appear,With all th’ united labors of the year;Some to unload the fertile branches run,Some dry the black’ning clusters in the sun,Others to tread the liquid harvest join,The groaning presses foam with floods of wine.Here are the vines in early flower descried,Here grapes discolor’d on the sunny side,And there in autumn’s richest purple dyed.Beds of all various herbs, forever green,In beauteous order terminate the scene.Two plenteous fountains the whole prospect crown’d—This through the gardens leads its streams around,Visits each plant and waters all the ground;While that in pipes beneath the palace flows,And thence its current on the town bestows;To various use their various streams they bring,The people one, and one supplies the king.Translation ofPope.

Close to the gates a spacious garden lies,From storms defended and inclement skies:Four acres was th’ allotted space of ground,Fenced with a green inclosure all around,Tall thriving trees confessed the fruitful mold;The redd’ning apple ripens here to gold.Here the blue fig with luscious juice o’erflows,With deeper red the full pomegranate glows;The branch here bends beneath the weighty pear,And verdant olives flourish round the year.The balmy spirit of the western galeEternal breathes on fruits untaught to fail:Each dropping pear a following pear supplies,On apples apples, figs on figs arise;The same mild season gives the blooms to blow,The buds to harden, and the fruits to grow.Here ordered vines in equal ranks appear,With all th’ united labors of the year;Some to unload the fertile branches run,Some dry the black’ning clusters in the sun,Others to tread the liquid harvest join,The groaning presses foam with floods of wine.Here are the vines in early flower descried,Here grapes discolor’d on the sunny side,And there in autumn’s richest purple dyed.Beds of all various herbs, forever green,In beauteous order terminate the scene.Two plenteous fountains the whole prospect crown’d—This through the gardens leads its streams around,Visits each plant and waters all the ground;While that in pipes beneath the palace flows,And thence its current on the town bestows;To various use their various streams they bring,The people one, and one supplies the king.Translation ofPope.

Close to the gates a spacious garden lies,

From storms defended and inclement skies:

Four acres was th’ allotted space of ground,

Fenced with a green inclosure all around,

Tall thriving trees confessed the fruitful mold;

The redd’ning apple ripens here to gold.

Here the blue fig with luscious juice o’erflows,

With deeper red the full pomegranate glows;

The branch here bends beneath the weighty pear,

And verdant olives flourish round the year.

The balmy spirit of the western gale

Eternal breathes on fruits untaught to fail:

Each dropping pear a following pear supplies,

On apples apples, figs on figs arise;

The same mild season gives the blooms to blow,

The buds to harden, and the fruits to grow.

Here ordered vines in equal ranks appear,

With all th’ united labors of the year;

Some to unload the fertile branches run,

Some dry the black’ning clusters in the sun,

Others to tread the liquid harvest join,

The groaning presses foam with floods of wine.

Here are the vines in early flower descried,

Here grapes discolor’d on the sunny side,

And there in autumn’s richest purple dyed.

Beds of all various herbs, forever green,

In beauteous order terminate the scene.

Two plenteous fountains the whole prospect crown’d—

This through the gardens leads its streams around,

Visits each plant and waters all the ground;

While that in pipes beneath the palace flows,

And thence its current on the town bestows;

To various use their various streams they bring,

The people one, and one supplies the king.

Translation ofPope.

In this pleasant soil,His far more pleasant garden, God ordain’d;Out of the fertile ground he caus’d to growAll trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste,And all amid them stood the Tree of Life,High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruitOf vegetable gold; and next to lifeOur death, the Tree of Knowledge, grew fast by,Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill.Southward through Eden went a river large,Nor chang’d his course, but through the shaggy hillPass’d underneath ingulf’d; for God had thrownThat mountain as his garden mold, high rais’dUpon the rapid current, which through veinsOf porous earth, with kindly thirst up drawn,Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rillWater’d the garden; thence united fellDown the steep glade, and met the nether flood,Which from his darksome passage now appears,And now divided into four main streams,Runs diverse, wand’ring many a famous realmAnd country, whereof here needs no account;But rather to tell how, if Art could tell,How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks,Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold,With mazy error under pendent shadesRan nectar, visiting each plant, and fedFlow’rs worthy of Paradise, which not nice ArtIn beds and curious knot, but Nature boonPour’d forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain,Both where the morning sun first warmly smoteThe open field, and where the unpierc’d shadeImbrown’d the noontide bow’rs. Thus was this placeA happy rural seat of various views;Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm,Others whose fruit, burnish’d with golden rind,Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,If true, here only, and of delicious taste.Betwixt them lawns, or level downs and flocksGrazing the tender herb, were interpos’d,Or palmy hillock; or the flow’ry lapOf some irriguous valley spread her store—Flow’rs of all hue, and without thorn the rose.Another side, umbrageous grots and cavesOf cool recess, o’er which the mantling vineLays forth her purple grape, and gently creepsLuxuriant; meanwhile murm’ring waters fallDown the slope hills, dispers’d, or in a lakeThat to the fringed bank with myrtle crown’d,Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams.The birds their choir apply; airs, vernal airs,Breathing the smell of field and grove, attuneThe trembling leaves, while universal Pan,Knit with the Graces and the Hours, in dance,Led on th’ eternal spring.John Milton, 1608–1674.

In this pleasant soil,His far more pleasant garden, God ordain’d;Out of the fertile ground he caus’d to growAll trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste,And all amid them stood the Tree of Life,High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruitOf vegetable gold; and next to lifeOur death, the Tree of Knowledge, grew fast by,Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill.Southward through Eden went a river large,Nor chang’d his course, but through the shaggy hillPass’d underneath ingulf’d; for God had thrownThat mountain as his garden mold, high rais’dUpon the rapid current, which through veinsOf porous earth, with kindly thirst up drawn,Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rillWater’d the garden; thence united fellDown the steep glade, and met the nether flood,Which from his darksome passage now appears,And now divided into four main streams,Runs diverse, wand’ring many a famous realmAnd country, whereof here needs no account;But rather to tell how, if Art could tell,How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks,Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold,With mazy error under pendent shadesRan nectar, visiting each plant, and fedFlow’rs worthy of Paradise, which not nice ArtIn beds and curious knot, but Nature boonPour’d forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain,Both where the morning sun first warmly smoteThe open field, and where the unpierc’d shadeImbrown’d the noontide bow’rs. Thus was this placeA happy rural seat of various views;Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm,Others whose fruit, burnish’d with golden rind,Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,If true, here only, and of delicious taste.Betwixt them lawns, or level downs and flocksGrazing the tender herb, were interpos’d,Or palmy hillock; or the flow’ry lapOf some irriguous valley spread her store—Flow’rs of all hue, and without thorn the rose.Another side, umbrageous grots and cavesOf cool recess, o’er which the mantling vineLays forth her purple grape, and gently creepsLuxuriant; meanwhile murm’ring waters fallDown the slope hills, dispers’d, or in a lakeThat to the fringed bank with myrtle crown’d,Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams.The birds their choir apply; airs, vernal airs,Breathing the smell of field and grove, attuneThe trembling leaves, while universal Pan,Knit with the Graces and the Hours, in dance,Led on th’ eternal spring.John Milton, 1608–1674.

In this pleasant soil,His far more pleasant garden, God ordain’d;Out of the fertile ground he caus’d to growAll trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste,And all amid them stood the Tree of Life,High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruitOf vegetable gold; and next to lifeOur death, the Tree of Knowledge, grew fast by,Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill.Southward through Eden went a river large,Nor chang’d his course, but through the shaggy hillPass’d underneath ingulf’d; for God had thrownThat mountain as his garden mold, high rais’dUpon the rapid current, which through veinsOf porous earth, with kindly thirst up drawn,Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rillWater’d the garden; thence united fellDown the steep glade, and met the nether flood,Which from his darksome passage now appears,And now divided into four main streams,Runs diverse, wand’ring many a famous realmAnd country, whereof here needs no account;But rather to tell how, if Art could tell,How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks,Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold,With mazy error under pendent shadesRan nectar, visiting each plant, and fedFlow’rs worthy of Paradise, which not nice ArtIn beds and curious knot, but Nature boonPour’d forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain,Both where the morning sun first warmly smoteThe open field, and where the unpierc’d shadeImbrown’d the noontide bow’rs. Thus was this placeA happy rural seat of various views;Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm,Others whose fruit, burnish’d with golden rind,Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,If true, here only, and of delicious taste.Betwixt them lawns, or level downs and flocksGrazing the tender herb, were interpos’d,Or palmy hillock; or the flow’ry lapOf some irriguous valley spread her store—Flow’rs of all hue, and without thorn the rose.Another side, umbrageous grots and cavesOf cool recess, o’er which the mantling vineLays forth her purple grape, and gently creepsLuxuriant; meanwhile murm’ring waters fallDown the slope hills, dispers’d, or in a lakeThat to the fringed bank with myrtle crown’d,Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams.The birds their choir apply; airs, vernal airs,Breathing the smell of field and grove, attuneThe trembling leaves, while universal Pan,Knit with the Graces and the Hours, in dance,Led on th’ eternal spring.John Milton, 1608–1674.

In this pleasant soil,

His far more pleasant garden, God ordain’d;

Out of the fertile ground he caus’d to grow

All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste,

And all amid them stood the Tree of Life,

High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit

Of vegetable gold; and next to life

Our death, the Tree of Knowledge, grew fast by,

Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill.

Southward through Eden went a river large,

Nor chang’d his course, but through the shaggy hill

Pass’d underneath ingulf’d; for God had thrown

That mountain as his garden mold, high rais’d

Upon the rapid current, which through veins

Of porous earth, with kindly thirst up drawn,

Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill

Water’d the garden; thence united fell

Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood,

Which from his darksome passage now appears,

And now divided into four main streams,

Runs diverse, wand’ring many a famous realm

And country, whereof here needs no account;

But rather to tell how, if Art could tell,

How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks,

Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold,

With mazy error under pendent shades

Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed

Flow’rs worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art

In beds and curious knot, but Nature boon

Pour’d forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain,

Both where the morning sun first warmly smote

The open field, and where the unpierc’d shade

Imbrown’d the noontide bow’rs. Thus was this place

A happy rural seat of various views;

Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm,

Others whose fruit, burnish’d with golden rind,

Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,

If true, here only, and of delicious taste.

Betwixt them lawns, or level downs and flocks

Grazing the tender herb, were interpos’d,

Or palmy hillock; or the flow’ry lap

Of some irriguous valley spread her store—

Flow’rs of all hue, and without thorn the rose.

Another side, umbrageous grots and caves

Of cool recess, o’er which the mantling vine

Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps

Luxuriant; meanwhile murm’ring waters fall

Down the slope hills, dispers’d, or in a lake

That to the fringed bank with myrtle crown’d,

Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams.

The birds their choir apply; airs, vernal airs,

Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune

The trembling leaves, while universal Pan,

Knit with the Graces and the Hours, in dance,

Led on th’ eternal spring.

John Milton, 1608–1674.

God Almighty first planted a garden; and, indeed, it is the purest of human pleasures; it is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man; without which buildings and palaces are but gross handiwork; and as men shall ever see, that, when ages grow to civility and elegancy, men come to build stately, sooner than to garden finely, as if gardening were the greater perfection. I do hold it in the royal ordering of gardens, there ought to be gardens for all the months in the year, in which, severally, things of beauty may be in season.

And because the breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air (where itcomes and goes, like the warbling of music) than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that delight than to know what be the flowers and plants that do best perfume the air. Roses, damask and red, are fast flowers of their smells, so that you may walk by a whole row of them, and find nothing of their sweetness; yea, though it be in a morning’s dew. Bays, likewise, yield no smell as they grow; rosemary little, nor sweet marjoram; that which above all others yields the sweetest smell in the air is the violet, which comes twice a year, about the middle of April, and about Bartholomew-tide. Next to that is the musk rose; then the strawberry leaves dying, with a most excellent cordial smell; then the flower of the vines—it is a little dust, like the dust of a bent, which grows upon the cluster in the first coming forth; then sweet-brier, then wall-flowers, which are very delightful to be set under a parlor or lower chamber window; then pinks and gilliflowers, especially the matted pink and clove gilliflowers; then the honeysuckles, so that they be somewhat afar off. Of bean-flowers I speak not, because they are field-flowers; but those which perfume the air most delightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being trodden upon and crushed, are three, that is, burnet, wild thyme, and water-mints; therefore you are to set whole alleys of them, to have the pleasure when you walk or tread.

For gardens (speaking of those which are indeed prince-like, as we have done of buildings), the contents ought not well to be under thirty acres of ground, and to be divided into three parts: a green in the entrance, a heath or desert in the going forth, and the main garden in the midst, besides alleys on both sides; and I like well that four acres of ground be assigned to the green, six to the heath, four and four to either side, and twelve to the main garden. The green hath two pleasures: the one, because nothing is more pleasant to the eye than green grass kept finely shorn; the other, because it will give you a fair alley in the midst, by which you may go in front upon a stately hedge, which is to inclose the garden; but because the alley will be long, and, in great heat of the year, or day, you ought not to leave the shade in the garden by going in the sun through the green, therefore you are, of either side the green, to plant a covert alley upon carpenter’s work, about twelve foot in height, by which you may go in shade into the garden. As for the making of knots or figures with divers colored earths, that they may lie under the windows of the house on that side which the garden stands, they be but toys; you may see as good sights many times in tarts.

Lord Bacon, 1561–1624.

For my own part, as the country life, and this part of it more particularly (namely, gardening), were the inclination of my youth itself, so they are the pleasure of my age; and I can truly say, that among manygreat employments that have fallen to my share, I have never asked or sought for any one of them, but often endeavored to escape from them, into the ease and freedom of a private scene, where a man may go his own way and his own pace in the common paths or circles of life.

The measure of choosing well is, whether a man likes what he has chosen, which, I thank God, has befallen me; and though among the follies of my life building and planting have not been the least, and have cost me more than I have the confidence to own, yet they have been fully recompensed by the sweetness and satisfaction of this retreat, where, since my resolution taken of never entering again into any public employments, I have passed five years without ever going once to town, though I am almost in sight of it, and have a house there always ready to receive me. Nor has this been any sort of affectation, as some have thought it, but a mere want of desire or humor to make so small a remove.

Sir William Temple, 1628–1696.

FROM “JOURNAL OF A NATURALIST.”

FROM “JOURNAL OF A NATURALIST.”

FROM “JOURNAL OF A NATURALIST.”

No portion of creation has been resorted to by mankind with more success for the ornament and decoration of their labors than the vegetable world. The rites, emblems, and mysteries of religion; national achievements, eccentric masks, and the capricious visions of fancy, have been wrought by the hand of the sculptor on the temple, the altar, or the tomb; but plants, their foliage, flowers, or fruits, as the most graceful, varied, and pleasing objects that meet our view, have been more universally the object of design, and have supplied the most beautiful, and perhaps the earliest, embellishments of art. The pomegranate, the almond, and flowers were selected, even in the wilderness by divine appointment, to give form to the sacred utensils; the rewards of merit, the wreath of the victor, were arboraceous. In later periods the acanthus, the ivy, the lotus, the vine, the palm, and the oak flourished under the chisel or in the loom of the artist; and in modern days the vegetable world affords the almost exclusive decorations of ingenuity and art. The cultivation of flowers is, of all the amusements of mankind, the one to be selected and approved as the most innocent in itself, and most perfectly devoid of injury or annoyance to others; the employment is not only conducive to health and peace of mind, but probably more good-will has arisen and friendships been founded by the intercourse and communication connected with this pursuit than from any other whatsoever; the pleasures, the ecstasies of the horticulturist are harmless and pure; a streak, a tint, a shade, becomes his triumph, which, though often obtained by chance, are secured alone by morning care, by evening caution, andthe vigilance of days—an employ which in its various grades excludes neither the opulent nor the indigent, and, teeming with boundless variety, affords an unceasing excitement to emulation, without contempt or ill-will.

J. L. Knapp.

What is it that we seek in the possession of a pleasure-garden? The art of laying out gardens consists in an endeavor to combine cheerfulness of aspect, luxuriance of growth, shade, solitude, and repose in such a manner that the senses may be deluded by an imitation of rural nature. Diversity, which is the main advantage of free landscape, must therefore be sought in a judicious choice of soil, an alternation of chains of hills and valleys, gorges, brooks, and lakes covered with aquatic plants. Symmetry is wearying, and ennui and disgust will soon be excited in a garden where every part betrays constraint and art.

Lieu-tschen,an ancient Chinese writer—taken fromHumboldt’s“Cosmos.”

Lieu-tschen,an ancient Chinese writer—taken fromHumboldt’s“Cosmos.”

Lieu-tschen,an ancient Chinese writer—taken fromHumboldt’s“Cosmos.”

Lieu-tschen,an ancient Chinese writer—taken fromHumboldt’s“Cosmos.”

If as a flower doth spread and die,Thou wouldst extend me to some good,Before I were by frost’s extremity,Nipt in the bud—The sweetness and the praise were thine;But the extension and the roomWhich in thy garland I should fill, were mineAt thy great doom.For as thou dost impart thy grace,The greater shall our glory be;The measure of our joys is in this place,The stuff with thee.Let me not languish then, and sendA life as barren to thy praiseAs is the dust, to which that life doth tend,But with delays.All things are busy; only INeither bring honey with the bees,Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandryTo water these.I am no link of thy great chain,But all my company is as a weed:Lord place me in thy concert—give one strainTo my poor reed.George Herbert, 1593–1632.

If as a flower doth spread and die,Thou wouldst extend me to some good,Before I were by frost’s extremity,Nipt in the bud—The sweetness and the praise were thine;But the extension and the roomWhich in thy garland I should fill, were mineAt thy great doom.For as thou dost impart thy grace,The greater shall our glory be;The measure of our joys is in this place,The stuff with thee.Let me not languish then, and sendA life as barren to thy praiseAs is the dust, to which that life doth tend,But with delays.All things are busy; only INeither bring honey with the bees,Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandryTo water these.I am no link of thy great chain,But all my company is as a weed:Lord place me in thy concert—give one strainTo my poor reed.George Herbert, 1593–1632.

If as a flower doth spread and die,Thou wouldst extend me to some good,Before I were by frost’s extremity,Nipt in the bud—

If as a flower doth spread and die,

Thou wouldst extend me to some good,

Before I were by frost’s extremity,

Nipt in the bud—

The sweetness and the praise were thine;But the extension and the roomWhich in thy garland I should fill, were mineAt thy great doom.

The sweetness and the praise were thine;

But the extension and the room

Which in thy garland I should fill, were mine

At thy great doom.

For as thou dost impart thy grace,The greater shall our glory be;The measure of our joys is in this place,The stuff with thee.

For as thou dost impart thy grace,

The greater shall our glory be;

The measure of our joys is in this place,

The stuff with thee.

Let me not languish then, and sendA life as barren to thy praiseAs is the dust, to which that life doth tend,But with delays.

Let me not languish then, and send

A life as barren to thy praise

As is the dust, to which that life doth tend,

But with delays.

All things are busy; only INeither bring honey with the bees,Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandryTo water these.

All things are busy; only I

Neither bring honey with the bees,

Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandry

To water these.

I am no link of thy great chain,But all my company is as a weed:Lord place me in thy concert—give one strainTo my poor reed.George Herbert, 1593–1632.

I am no link of thy great chain,

But all my company is as a weed:

Lord place me in thy concert—give one strain

To my poor reed.

George Herbert, 1593–1632.

When the light flourish of the blue-bird sounds,And the south wind comes blandly; when the skyIs soft in delicate blue, with melting pearlSpotting its bosom, all proclaiming Spring,Oh with what joy the garden spot we greet,Wakening from wintry slumbers. As we treadThe branching walks, within its hollow’d nookWe see the violet by some lingering flakeOf melting snow, its sweet eye lifting up,As welcoming our presence; o’er our headsThe fruit-tree buds are swelling, and we hailOur grateful task of molding into formThe waste around us. The quick delving spadeUpturns the fresh and odorous earth; the rakeSmooths the plump bed, and in their furrow’d gravesWe drop the seed. The robin stops his workUpon the apple-bough, and flutters downStealing, with oft check’d and uplifted footAnd watchful gaze bent quickly either side,Toward the fall’n wealth of food around the mouthOf the light paper pouch upon the earth.But, fearful of our motions, off he flies,And stoops upon the grub the spade has thrownLoose from its den beside the wounded root.Days pass along. The pattering shower falls downAnd then the warming sunshine. Tiny cliftsTell that the seed has turn’d itself, and nowIs pushing up its stem. The verdant peaLooks out; the twin-leaf’d scallop’d radish showsSprinkles of green. The sturdy bean displaysIts jaws distended wide and slightly tongued.The downy cucumber is seen; the cornUpshoots its close-wrapp’d spike, and on its moundThe young potato sets its tawny ear.Meanwhile the fruit-trees gloriously have brokeInto a flush of beauty, and the grape,Casting aside in peels its shrivel’d skin,Shows its soft furzy leaf of delicate pink,And the thick midge-like blossoms round diffuseA strong, delicious fragrance. Soon alongThe trellis stretch the tendrils, sharply prong’d,Clinging tenacious with their winding rings,And sending on the stem. A sheet of bloomThen decks the garden, till the summer glows,Forming the perfect fruit. In showery nightsThe fire-fly glares with its pendent lampOf greenish gold. Each dark nook has a voice,While perfume floats on every wave of air.The corn lifts up its bandrols long and slim;The cucumber has overflow’d its spotWith massy verdure, while the yellow squashLooks like a trumpet 'mid its giant leaves;And as we reap the rich fruits of our care,We bless the God who rains his gifts on us—Making the earth its treasures rich to yieldWith slight and fitful toil. Our hearts should beEver bent harps, to send unceasing hymnsOf thankful praise to One who fills all space,And yet looks down with smiles on lowly man.Alfred Street.

When the light flourish of the blue-bird sounds,And the south wind comes blandly; when the skyIs soft in delicate blue, with melting pearlSpotting its bosom, all proclaiming Spring,Oh with what joy the garden spot we greet,Wakening from wintry slumbers. As we treadThe branching walks, within its hollow’d nookWe see the violet by some lingering flakeOf melting snow, its sweet eye lifting up,As welcoming our presence; o’er our headsThe fruit-tree buds are swelling, and we hailOur grateful task of molding into formThe waste around us. The quick delving spadeUpturns the fresh and odorous earth; the rakeSmooths the plump bed, and in their furrow’d gravesWe drop the seed. The robin stops his workUpon the apple-bough, and flutters downStealing, with oft check’d and uplifted footAnd watchful gaze bent quickly either side,Toward the fall’n wealth of food around the mouthOf the light paper pouch upon the earth.But, fearful of our motions, off he flies,And stoops upon the grub the spade has thrownLoose from its den beside the wounded root.Days pass along. The pattering shower falls downAnd then the warming sunshine. Tiny cliftsTell that the seed has turn’d itself, and nowIs pushing up its stem. The verdant peaLooks out; the twin-leaf’d scallop’d radish showsSprinkles of green. The sturdy bean displaysIts jaws distended wide and slightly tongued.The downy cucumber is seen; the cornUpshoots its close-wrapp’d spike, and on its moundThe young potato sets its tawny ear.Meanwhile the fruit-trees gloriously have brokeInto a flush of beauty, and the grape,Casting aside in peels its shrivel’d skin,Shows its soft furzy leaf of delicate pink,And the thick midge-like blossoms round diffuseA strong, delicious fragrance. Soon alongThe trellis stretch the tendrils, sharply prong’d,Clinging tenacious with their winding rings,And sending on the stem. A sheet of bloomThen decks the garden, till the summer glows,Forming the perfect fruit. In showery nightsThe fire-fly glares with its pendent lampOf greenish gold. Each dark nook has a voice,While perfume floats on every wave of air.The corn lifts up its bandrols long and slim;The cucumber has overflow’d its spotWith massy verdure, while the yellow squashLooks like a trumpet 'mid its giant leaves;And as we reap the rich fruits of our care,We bless the God who rains his gifts on us—Making the earth its treasures rich to yieldWith slight and fitful toil. Our hearts should beEver bent harps, to send unceasing hymnsOf thankful praise to One who fills all space,And yet looks down with smiles on lowly man.Alfred Street.

When the light flourish of the blue-bird sounds,And the south wind comes blandly; when the skyIs soft in delicate blue, with melting pearlSpotting its bosom, all proclaiming Spring,Oh with what joy the garden spot we greet,Wakening from wintry slumbers. As we treadThe branching walks, within its hollow’d nookWe see the violet by some lingering flakeOf melting snow, its sweet eye lifting up,As welcoming our presence; o’er our headsThe fruit-tree buds are swelling, and we hailOur grateful task of molding into formThe waste around us. The quick delving spadeUpturns the fresh and odorous earth; the rakeSmooths the plump bed, and in their furrow’d gravesWe drop the seed. The robin stops his workUpon the apple-bough, and flutters downStealing, with oft check’d and uplifted footAnd watchful gaze bent quickly either side,Toward the fall’n wealth of food around the mouthOf the light paper pouch upon the earth.But, fearful of our motions, off he flies,And stoops upon the grub the spade has thrownLoose from its den beside the wounded root.Days pass along. The pattering shower falls downAnd then the warming sunshine. Tiny cliftsTell that the seed has turn’d itself, and nowIs pushing up its stem. The verdant peaLooks out; the twin-leaf’d scallop’d radish showsSprinkles of green. The sturdy bean displaysIts jaws distended wide and slightly tongued.The downy cucumber is seen; the cornUpshoots its close-wrapp’d spike, and on its moundThe young potato sets its tawny ear.Meanwhile the fruit-trees gloriously have brokeInto a flush of beauty, and the grape,Casting aside in peels its shrivel’d skin,Shows its soft furzy leaf of delicate pink,And the thick midge-like blossoms round diffuseA strong, delicious fragrance. Soon alongThe trellis stretch the tendrils, sharply prong’d,Clinging tenacious with their winding rings,And sending on the stem. A sheet of bloomThen decks the garden, till the summer glows,Forming the perfect fruit. In showery nightsThe fire-fly glares with its pendent lampOf greenish gold. Each dark nook has a voice,While perfume floats on every wave of air.The corn lifts up its bandrols long and slim;The cucumber has overflow’d its spotWith massy verdure, while the yellow squashLooks like a trumpet 'mid its giant leaves;And as we reap the rich fruits of our care,We bless the God who rains his gifts on us—Making the earth its treasures rich to yieldWith slight and fitful toil. Our hearts should beEver bent harps, to send unceasing hymnsOf thankful praise to One who fills all space,And yet looks down with smiles on lowly man.Alfred Street.

When the light flourish of the blue-bird sounds,

And the south wind comes blandly; when the sky

Is soft in delicate blue, with melting pearl

Spotting its bosom, all proclaiming Spring,

Oh with what joy the garden spot we greet,

Wakening from wintry slumbers. As we tread

The branching walks, within its hollow’d nook

We see the violet by some lingering flake

Of melting snow, its sweet eye lifting up,

As welcoming our presence; o’er our heads

The fruit-tree buds are swelling, and we hail

Our grateful task of molding into form

The waste around us. The quick delving spade

Upturns the fresh and odorous earth; the rake

Smooths the plump bed, and in their furrow’d graves

We drop the seed. The robin stops his work

Upon the apple-bough, and flutters down

Stealing, with oft check’d and uplifted foot

And watchful gaze bent quickly either side,

Toward the fall’n wealth of food around the mouth

Of the light paper pouch upon the earth.

But, fearful of our motions, off he flies,

And stoops upon the grub the spade has thrown

Loose from its den beside the wounded root.

Days pass along. The pattering shower falls down

And then the warming sunshine. Tiny clifts

Tell that the seed has turn’d itself, and now

Is pushing up its stem. The verdant pea

Looks out; the twin-leaf’d scallop’d radish shows

Sprinkles of green. The sturdy bean displays

Its jaws distended wide and slightly tongued.

The downy cucumber is seen; the corn

Upshoots its close-wrapp’d spike, and on its mound

The young potato sets its tawny ear.

Meanwhile the fruit-trees gloriously have broke

Into a flush of beauty, and the grape,

Casting aside in peels its shrivel’d skin,

Shows its soft furzy leaf of delicate pink,

And the thick midge-like blossoms round diffuse

A strong, delicious fragrance. Soon along

The trellis stretch the tendrils, sharply prong’d,

Clinging tenacious with their winding rings,

And sending on the stem. A sheet of bloom

Then decks the garden, till the summer glows,

Forming the perfect fruit. In showery nights

The fire-fly glares with its pendent lamp

Of greenish gold. Each dark nook has a voice,

While perfume floats on every wave of air.

The corn lifts up its bandrols long and slim;

The cucumber has overflow’d its spot

With massy verdure, while the yellow squash

Looks like a trumpet 'mid its giant leaves;

And as we reap the rich fruits of our care,

We bless the God who rains his gifts on us—

Making the earth its treasures rich to yield

With slight and fitful toil. Our hearts should be

Ever bent harps, to send unceasing hymns

Of thankful praise to One who fills all space,

And yet looks down with smiles on lowly man.

Alfred Street.

AN OLD SCOTCH BALLAD.

AN OLD SCOTCH BALLAD.

AN OLD SCOTCH BALLAD.

A maiden stude in her bouir door,As jimp as a willow wand;When by there came a gardener ladWi’ a primrose in his hand.“O ladye, are ye single yet,Or will ye marry me?Ye’se get a’ the flouirs in my garden,To be a weed[10]for thee.”“I love your flouirs,” the ladye said,“But I winna marry thee;For I can live without mankind,And without mankind I’ll dee.”“You shall not live without mankind,But you shall marry me:And among the flouirs in my garden,I’ll shape a weed for thee.“The lilye flouir to be your smock;It becomes your bodie best;Your head shall be bushit wi’ the gellye-flouir;The primrose in your breist.“Your gown sall be o’ the sweet-williamYour coat o’ the cammovine;Your apron o’ the seel of downs—Come smile, sweetheart o’ mine!“Your gloves shall be o’ the green clover,All glitterin to your hand;Weil spread ower wi’ the blue blawortThat grows among corn-land.“Your stockings shall be o’ the cabbage-leaf,That is baith braid and lang;Narrow, narrow at the kute,[11]And braid, braid at the braune.[A*]“Your shoon shall be o’ the gude rue red,I trow it bodes nae ill;The buckles o’ the marygold—Come smile, sweetheart, your fill!”“Young man, ye’ve shapit a weed for meAmang the simmer flouirs;Now I will shape anither for theeAmang the winter showirs.“The snaw so white shall be your shirt,It becomes your body best;The cold east wind shall wrap your heid,And the cold rain on your breist.“The steed that you shall ride uponShall be the weather snell;Weil bridled wi’ the northern wind,And cold, sharp shouirs o’ hail.“The hat you on your heid shall wearShall be o’ the weather grey;And aye when ye come into my sicht,I’ll wish ye were away.”Anonymous.

A maiden stude in her bouir door,As jimp as a willow wand;When by there came a gardener ladWi’ a primrose in his hand.“O ladye, are ye single yet,Or will ye marry me?Ye’se get a’ the flouirs in my garden,To be a weed[10]for thee.”“I love your flouirs,” the ladye said,“But I winna marry thee;For I can live without mankind,And without mankind I’ll dee.”“You shall not live without mankind,But you shall marry me:And among the flouirs in my garden,I’ll shape a weed for thee.“The lilye flouir to be your smock;It becomes your bodie best;Your head shall be bushit wi’ the gellye-flouir;The primrose in your breist.“Your gown sall be o’ the sweet-williamYour coat o’ the cammovine;Your apron o’ the seel of downs—Come smile, sweetheart o’ mine!“Your gloves shall be o’ the green clover,All glitterin to your hand;Weil spread ower wi’ the blue blawortThat grows among corn-land.“Your stockings shall be o’ the cabbage-leaf,That is baith braid and lang;Narrow, narrow at the kute,[11]And braid, braid at the braune.[A*]“Your shoon shall be o’ the gude rue red,I trow it bodes nae ill;The buckles o’ the marygold—Come smile, sweetheart, your fill!”“Young man, ye’ve shapit a weed for meAmang the simmer flouirs;Now I will shape anither for theeAmang the winter showirs.“The snaw so white shall be your shirt,It becomes your body best;The cold east wind shall wrap your heid,And the cold rain on your breist.“The steed that you shall ride uponShall be the weather snell;Weil bridled wi’ the northern wind,And cold, sharp shouirs o’ hail.“The hat you on your heid shall wearShall be o’ the weather grey;And aye when ye come into my sicht,I’ll wish ye were away.”Anonymous.

A maiden stude in her bouir door,As jimp as a willow wand;When by there came a gardener ladWi’ a primrose in his hand.

A maiden stude in her bouir door,

As jimp as a willow wand;

When by there came a gardener lad

Wi’ a primrose in his hand.

“O ladye, are ye single yet,Or will ye marry me?Ye’se get a’ the flouirs in my garden,To be a weed[10]for thee.”

“O ladye, are ye single yet,

Or will ye marry me?

Ye’se get a’ the flouirs in my garden,

To be a weed[10]for thee.”

“I love your flouirs,” the ladye said,“But I winna marry thee;For I can live without mankind,And without mankind I’ll dee.”

“I love your flouirs,” the ladye said,

“But I winna marry thee;

For I can live without mankind,

And without mankind I’ll dee.”

“You shall not live without mankind,But you shall marry me:And among the flouirs in my garden,I’ll shape a weed for thee.

“You shall not live without mankind,

But you shall marry me:

And among the flouirs in my garden,

I’ll shape a weed for thee.

“The lilye flouir to be your smock;It becomes your bodie best;Your head shall be bushit wi’ the gellye-flouir;The primrose in your breist.

“The lilye flouir to be your smock;

It becomes your bodie best;

Your head shall be bushit wi’ the gellye-flouir;

The primrose in your breist.

“Your gown sall be o’ the sweet-williamYour coat o’ the cammovine;Your apron o’ the seel of downs—Come smile, sweetheart o’ mine!

“Your gown sall be o’ the sweet-william

Your coat o’ the cammovine;

Your apron o’ the seel of downs—

Come smile, sweetheart o’ mine!

“Your gloves shall be o’ the green clover,All glitterin to your hand;Weil spread ower wi’ the blue blawortThat grows among corn-land.

“Your gloves shall be o’ the green clover,

All glitterin to your hand;

Weil spread ower wi’ the blue blawort

That grows among corn-land.

“Your stockings shall be o’ the cabbage-leaf,That is baith braid and lang;Narrow, narrow at the kute,[11]And braid, braid at the braune.[A*]

“Your stockings shall be o’ the cabbage-leaf,

That is baith braid and lang;

Narrow, narrow at the kute,[11]

And braid, braid at the braune.[A*]

“Your shoon shall be o’ the gude rue red,I trow it bodes nae ill;The buckles o’ the marygold—Come smile, sweetheart, your fill!”

“Your shoon shall be o’ the gude rue red,

I trow it bodes nae ill;

The buckles o’ the marygold—

Come smile, sweetheart, your fill!”

“Young man, ye’ve shapit a weed for meAmang the simmer flouirs;Now I will shape anither for theeAmang the winter showirs.

“Young man, ye’ve shapit a weed for me

Amang the simmer flouirs;

Now I will shape anither for thee

Amang the winter showirs.

“The snaw so white shall be your shirt,It becomes your body best;The cold east wind shall wrap your heid,And the cold rain on your breist.

“The snaw so white shall be your shirt,

It becomes your body best;

The cold east wind shall wrap your heid,

And the cold rain on your breist.

“The steed that you shall ride uponShall be the weather snell;Weil bridled wi’ the northern wind,And cold, sharp shouirs o’ hail.

“The steed that you shall ride upon

Shall be the weather snell;

Weil bridled wi’ the northern wind,

And cold, sharp shouirs o’ hail.

“The hat you on your heid shall wearShall be o’ the weather grey;And aye when ye come into my sicht,I’ll wish ye were away.”Anonymous.

“The hat you on your heid shall wear

Shall be o’ the weather grey;

And aye when ye come into my sicht,

I’ll wish ye were away.”

Anonymous.

Sweetly breathing vernal air,That with kind warmth doth repairWinter’s ruins; from whose breastAll the gums and spice of th’ EastBorrow their perfumes; whose eyeGilds the morn and clears the sky;Whose disshevel’d tresses shedPearls upon the violet-bed;On whose brow, with calm smiles drest,The halcyon sits and builds her nest;Beauty, youth, and endless spring,Dwell upon thy rosy wing!Thou, if stormy Boreas throwsDown whole forests when he blows,With a pregnant, flowery birth,Canst refresh the teeming earth;If he nip the early bud;If he blast what’s fair and good;If he scatter our choice flowers;If he shake our halls and bowers;If his rude breath threaten us,Thou canst strike great Æolus,And from him the grace obtain,To bind him in an iron chain.Thomas Carew,about 1600.

Sweetly breathing vernal air,That with kind warmth doth repairWinter’s ruins; from whose breastAll the gums and spice of th’ EastBorrow their perfumes; whose eyeGilds the morn and clears the sky;Whose disshevel’d tresses shedPearls upon the violet-bed;On whose brow, with calm smiles drest,The halcyon sits and builds her nest;Beauty, youth, and endless spring,Dwell upon thy rosy wing!Thou, if stormy Boreas throwsDown whole forests when he blows,With a pregnant, flowery birth,Canst refresh the teeming earth;If he nip the early bud;If he blast what’s fair and good;If he scatter our choice flowers;If he shake our halls and bowers;If his rude breath threaten us,Thou canst strike great Æolus,And from him the grace obtain,To bind him in an iron chain.Thomas Carew,about 1600.

Sweetly breathing vernal air,That with kind warmth doth repairWinter’s ruins; from whose breastAll the gums and spice of th’ EastBorrow their perfumes; whose eyeGilds the morn and clears the sky;Whose disshevel’d tresses shedPearls upon the violet-bed;On whose brow, with calm smiles drest,The halcyon sits and builds her nest;Beauty, youth, and endless spring,Dwell upon thy rosy wing!

Sweetly breathing vernal air,

That with kind warmth doth repair

Winter’s ruins; from whose breast

All the gums and spice of th’ East

Borrow their perfumes; whose eye

Gilds the morn and clears the sky;

Whose disshevel’d tresses shed

Pearls upon the violet-bed;

On whose brow, with calm smiles drest,

The halcyon sits and builds her nest;

Beauty, youth, and endless spring,

Dwell upon thy rosy wing!

Thou, if stormy Boreas throwsDown whole forests when he blows,With a pregnant, flowery birth,Canst refresh the teeming earth;If he nip the early bud;If he blast what’s fair and good;If he scatter our choice flowers;If he shake our halls and bowers;If his rude breath threaten us,Thou canst strike great Æolus,And from him the grace obtain,To bind him in an iron chain.Thomas Carew,about 1600.

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws

Down whole forests when he blows,

With a pregnant, flowery birth,

Canst refresh the teeming earth;

If he nip the early bud;

If he blast what’s fair and good;

If he scatter our choice flowers;

If he shake our halls and bowers;

If his rude breath threaten us,

Thou canst strike great Æolus,

And from him the grace obtain,

To bind him in an iron chain.

Thomas Carew,about 1600.

[Pastoral Scene]

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