E’en in the stifling bosom of the town, 
A garden in which nothing thrives, has charms 
That soothes the rich possessor; much consoled, 
That, here and there, some sprigs of mournful mint. 
Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well 
He cultivates. These serve him with a hint 
That Nature lives, that sight-refreshing green 
Is still the livery she delights to wear, 
Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. 
What are the casements lined with creeping herbs. 
The prouder sashes, fronted with a range 
Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, 
The Frenchman’s darling ? are they not all proofs 
That man, immured in cities, still retains 
His inborn, inextinguishable thirst 
Of rural scenes, compensating his loss 
By supplemental shifts, the best he may P 
The most unfurnished with the means of life, 
And they that never pass their brick -wall bounds. 
To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air. 
Yet feel the burning instinct; over head 
Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick, 
And watered duly. There the pitcher stands, 
A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there; 
Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets 
The country; with what ardour he contrives 
A peep at Nature, when he can no more. 
CoWPER. 
The book of Nature is written in every language, and lies open to 
all the world. The works of Creation speak in the common voice of 
reason, and want no interpreter to explain their meaning, but are to 
be understood by people of all languages upon the face of the earth. 
There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard. 
Sherlock. 
