IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, 

 Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 

 Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, 

 It was felt like an odour within the sense; 



And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, 

 Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 

 Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 

 The soul of her beauty and love lay bare: 



And the wand-like lily which lifted up, 



As a Maenad, its moonlight coloured cup, 



Till the fiery star which is its eye, 



Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky; 



And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 

 The sweetest flower for scent that blows; 

 And all rare blossoms from every clime 

 Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 



And on the stream whose inconstant bosom 

 Was prankt under boughs of embowering blos- 



som, 



With golden and green light, slanting through 

 Their heaven of many a tangled hue. 



[154] 



