THE GARDEN 123 



Of potent fragrance ; nor narcissus fair, 



As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still ; 



Nor broad carnations, nor gay-spotted pinks ; 



Nor, shower'd from every bush, the damask-rose. 



Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells, 



With hues on hues expression cannot paint, 



The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom. 



JAMES THOMSON. 



THE GARDEN 



WHEN the light flourish of the bluebird 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 hollowed nook, 

 We see the violet by some lingering flake 

 Of melting snow, its sweet eye lifting up 

 As welcoming our presence. Overhead 

 The fruit-tree buds are swelling, and we hail 

 Our grateful task of moulding 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 furrowed graves 

 We drop the seed. The robin stops his work 

 Upon the apple-bough, and flutters down, 

 Stealing, with oft-checked and uplifted foot, 

 And watchful gaze bent quickly either side, 

 Toward the fallen wealth of food around the mouth 

 Of the light paper pouch upon the earth. 



