Fair is each budding thing the garden shows, 
From spring’s irail crocus to the latest bloom 
Of faded autumn. Every wind that blows 
Across that glowing tract sips rare perfume 
From all the tangled blossoms tossing there ;— 
Soft winds, they fain would linger long, nor any farther 
fare. 
The larkspur lifts on high its 
azure spires, 
And up the arbour’s lattices are 
rolled 
The quaint nasturtium’s many- 
coloured fires; 
The tall carnation’s breast of 
Fe faded gold 
“ : | ee Is striped with many a faintly- 
a ee flushing streak, 
Pale as the tender tints that blush 
upon a baby’s cheek. 
ae 
\, The old sweet-rocket sheds its fine perfumes; 
With golden stars the coreopsis flames; 
And here are scores of sweet old-fashioned blooms, 
Dear for the very fragrance of their namés,— 
Poppies and gillyflowers and four-o’clocks, 
Cowslips and candytuft and heliotrope and hollyhocks. 
Joun Russe Hayes. 
(The Old-Fashioned Garden.) 
