NOTES. i 2I 



rather than the sight of flowers was dear to Milton, is 

 known to all of us, for has he not himself told us how, 



" Not to me returns 



Dayi or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn, 

 Or sight of vernal </ioom or summer's rose ?" 



He could still drink in the perfumed air of gardens, 

 though only memory could recall the form and colour of 

 those flowers, which he would never see again. 1 



Only one English poet has surpassed Milton in his 

 love of gardens. Like Milton he probably knew little of 

 particular flowers, but he revelled in the scent and colour 

 of Roses and of Lilies. It is Andrew Marvell ; who, it is 

 to be feared, is far less remembered than he deserves 

 to be. Marvell's gardens are all of the true English 

 character, and his description of Lord Fairfax's, though 

 somewhat quaint and fanciful, has many touches as 

 natural as they are graceful. That the flowers should 

 stand on parade, like soldiers, through the day, and fold 

 up at night in tents, in which bees remain as sentinels, is 

 a far-fetched conceit enough ; but nothing can be better 

 than many of his lines. Was it his own garden at 



1 I remember how years ago I was struck with a beautiful little 

 poem about a blind man, written by Mr. James Payn, the well- 

 known novelist. The lines are quite worth repeating, and will be 

 new to many : 



" There an old man, far in his wintry time, 

 Sits under his porch, while the roses climb ; 

 But the breath of its sweetness is all he knows 

 Of the glory about the fair round rose ; 

 The lilies that sway in the brook beneath, 

 So cold and white in the beauty of death, 

 Are to him far less than the rushes tall 

 When the wind is bowing them one and all, 

 Like the voice of nature so soft and kind, 

 That whispers how fair she is to the blind. " 



K 



