THOUGHTS ON THE FLOWER GARDEN. 



169 



The winter's cold tempests and snows are no more. 

 Green meadows, and brown furrow'd fields re-appearing-. 



The fishermen hauling: their shad to the shore, 

 And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-sleering; 



When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing, 

 When red glow the maples. s<> fresh and so pleasing, 



Oil then comes the blue bird, the herald of spring ! 

 And hails with his warblings the charms of the season. 



Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring; 

 Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather ; 



The blue woodland flowers beginning to spring, 

 And spicewood and sassafras budding together ; 



Oh then to your gardens ye housewives repair ! 

 Your walks border up; sow and plant at your leisure; 



The blue bird will chant from his box such an air, 

 That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure. 



He flits thro' the orchard, he visits each tree, 

 The red flowering peach and the apple's sweet blossoms; 



He snaps up destrnyers wherever they be, 

 And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms ; 



He drags the vile grub from the core it devours; 

 The worms from their webs where they rot and welter; 



His song and his services freely are ours, 

 And all that he asks is, in summer a shelter. 



The plowman is pleas'd when he gleans in his train, 

 Now searching the furrows — now mounting to cheer hira; 



The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain, 

 And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him; 



The slow ling'riug school-boys forget they'll be chid, 

 While gazing intent as he warbles before them 



In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red, 

 That each little loiterer seems to adore him. 



When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er, 

 And autumn slow enters so silent and sallow, 



And millions of warblers, that charm'd us before, 

 Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow ; 



The blue bird, forsaken, yet true to his home, 

 Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow, 



Till forc'd by the horrors of winter to roam, 

 He sings his adieu in a long note of sorrow. 



While spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm, 

 The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heav'n, 



Or love's native music, have influence to charm, 

 Or sympathy's glow to our feelings are given, 



Still dear to each bosom the blue bird shall be ; 

 His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure; 



For, thro' bleakest storms if a calm he but see, 

 He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure! 



THOUGHTS ON THE FLOWER GARDEN. 



[We extract the following delightful piece 

 of writing from a number of the London 

 Quarterly. It deserves to be more widely 

 read than it is likely to be in the pages of 

 the Review itself. Ed.] 



No associations are stronger than those 

 connected with a garden. It is the first 

 pride of an emigrant settled on some dis- 

 tant shore to have a little garden as like 

 as he can make it to the one he left at home. 

 A pot of violets or mignionette is one of 

 the highest luxuries of an Anglo-Indian. 

 In the bold and picturesque scenery of Ba- 

 tavia, the Dutch can, from feeling, no more 

 dispense with their little moats round their 

 houses than they could, from necessity, in 

 the flat swamps of their native land. Sir 

 John Hobhouse discovered an Englishman's 

 residence on the shore of the Hellespont by 

 the character of his shrubs and flowers. 

 Louis XVIII., on his restoration to France, 

 made in the park of Versailles the fac- 

 simile of the garden at Hartwell ; and 

 there was no more amiable trait in the life 

 of that accomplished prince. Napoleon 

 used to say that he should know his fa- 

 ther's garden in Corsica blindfold by the 

 smell of the earth ; and the hanging gar- 

 dens of Babylon are said to have been 

 raised by the Median queen of Nebuchad- 



Vol. iv. 14 



nezzar on the flat and naked plains of her 

 adopted country, to remind her of the hills 

 and woods of her childhood. 



Why should we speak of the plane- 

 trees of Plato — Shakspere's mulberry-tree— 

 Pope's willow — Byron's elm ? Why de- 

 scribe Cicero at his Tusculum — Evelyn at 

 Wooton — Pitt at Ham Common — Walpole 

 at Houghton — Grenville at Dropmore ! 

 Why dwell on Bacon's ' little tufts of 

 thyme,' or Fox's geraniums ? There is a 

 spirit in the garden as well as in the wood, 

 and ' the lilies of the field' supply food for 

 the imagination as well as materials for 

 sermons. ' Talke of perfect happiness or 

 pleasure,' says old Gerarde to the ' courte- 

 ous and well-willing reader,' from his 

 ' house in Holborn, within the suburbs of 

 London' — ' and what place was so fit for 

 that as the garden-place wherein Adam 

 was set to be the herbalist ? Whether did 

 the poets hunt for their sincere delights 

 but into the gardens of Alcinous, of Adonis, 

 and the orchards of the Hesperides ? Where 

 did they dream that heaven should be but 

 in the pleasant garden of Elysium ? Whi- 

 ther doe all men walke for their honest re- 

 creation but thither where the earth hath 

 most beneficially painted her face with 

 flourishing colours ? And what season of 

 the yeaie more longed for than the spring, 



