'E. V. b; 311 



garden of the Sensitive Plant, we followed the shadowy steps of the 

 Lady, our souls entranced with the love of every flower she loved. 

 They are all beautiful, these Gardens of Poetry ! and through the 

 midst of them flows the broad stream of Memory, isled with fair lilied 

 lawns, fringed with willowy forests and whispering reeds. And not 

 less beautiful than these ideal shades, are the gardens which live un- 

 changed and unchanging in many a painted picture within the heart. 

 Real, and not less ideal, is the remembrance of the gardens we have 

 seen : seen once, it may be, and never since forgotten. 



' Un souvenir heureux est peut-etre sur terre 

 Plus vrai que le bonheur.' 



So, lovely as truth, crystal-clear as a poet's thought, are the 

 earthly Edens our eyes beheld, in the years that are past. How 

 can we forget the gardens of queenly Genoa, in the days ere yet 

 she was discrowned? of Florence, of Rome and Albano and 

 Tivoli? The palm-gardens of Bordighiera, where periwinkles — 

 fiori dei morte — rain down their blue from the overflowing laps of 

 ancient palms, or wander in smiles about their rugged roots ; the 

 trellised pergolas and anemonied lawns of Mortola ; or those 

 strange island-gardens, Isola Madre of Maggiore, and terraced 

 Isola Bella? Long indeed is the lovely list. Think back into 

 the days that were, and remember them. . . . How they live green 

 and fresh and sweet, in the bloom and the glow of their eternal 

 summer ! For you, their skies are ever blue, their roses never 

 fade. Winter has never silenced the plash and flow of their 

 fountains, nor chilled the green from one leaf in their deep groves. 

 The lemon, ripening in pale gold, still hangs ungathered against 

 the southern terrace, where scarlet passion-flowers burn in drifted 

 fire-spots. The peacock, sunning himself upon the stone balus- 

 trade, shakes out his emerald glories, while you loiter along the 

 flowery borders of his kingdom ; and you know that violets hide 

 somewhere in the grass, for the very sunshine is impregnated with 

 their perfume. Or perchance in fancy, you may tread again the 

 narrow pathway that winds around the rocky sea-wall at Old 

 Monaco. There, for you, the globes of red geranium reflect still. 



