This fairy pleasance in the brake-- This maze run wild of flower and vine-- Our fathers planted for the sake Of eyes that longed for English gardens Amid the virgin wastes of pine.

Here, by the broken, moldering wall, Where still the tiger-lilies ride, Once grew the crown imperial, The tall blue larkspur, white Queen Margaret, Prince's-feather, and mourning bride.

Beyond their pale, a humbler throng, Grew Bouncing Bet and columbine; The mountain fringe ran all along The thick-set hedge of cinnamon roses, And overhung the eglantine.

And Sunday flowers were here as well-- Adam-and-Eve within their hood, The stately Canterbury bell, And, oft in churches breathing fragrance, The sweet and pungent southernwood.

When ships for England cleared the bay, If long beside these reefs of foam She stood, and watched them sail away, It was her garden first enticed her To turn, and call this country "home."

SARAH N. CLEGHORN

THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN

Among the meadows of the countryside, From city noise and tumult far away, Where clover-blossoms spread their fragrance wide And birds are warbling all the sunny day, There is a spot which lovingly I prize, For there a fair and sweet old-fashioned country garden lies.

The gray old mansion down beside the lane Stands knee-deep in the fields that lie around And scent the air with hay and ripening grain.

Behind the manse box-hedges mark the bound And close the garden in, or nearly close, For on beyond the hollyhocks an olden orchard grows.

So bright and lovely is the dear old place, It seems as though the country's very heart Were centered here, and that its antique grace Must ever hold it from the world apart.

Immured it lies among the meadows deep, Its flowery stillness beautiful and calm as softest sleep.

The morning-glories ripple o'er the hedge And fleck its greenness with their tinted foam; Sweet wilding things, up to the garden's edge They love to wander from their meadow home, To take what little pleasure here they may Ere all their silken trumpets close before the warm midday.

The larkspur lifts on high its azure spires, And up the arbor's lattices are rolled The quaint nasturtium's many-colored fires; The tall carnation's breast of faded gold Is striped with many a faintly-flushing streak, Pale as the tender tints that blush upon a baby's cheek.

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 names,-- Poppies and gilly flowers and four-o'clocks, Cowslips and candytuft and heliotrope and hollyhocks,

Harebells and peonies and dragon-head, Petunias, scarlet sage and bergamot, Verbenas, ragged-robins, soft gold-thread, The bright primrose and pale forget-me-not, Wall-flowers and crocuses and columbines, Narcissus, asters, hyacinths, and honeysuckle vines.

A sweet seclusion this of sun and shade, A calm asylum from the busy world, Where greed and restless care do ne'er invade, Nor news of 'change and mart each morning hurled Round half the globe; no noise of party feud Disturbs this peaceful spot nor mars its perfect quietude.

But summer after summer comes and goes And leaves the garden ever fresh and fair; May brings the tulip, golden June the rose, And August winds shake down the mellow pear.

Man blooms and blossoms, fades and disappears,-- But scarce a tribute pays the garden to the pa.s.sing years.

Sweet is the odor of the warm, soft rain In violet-days when spring opes her green heart; And sweet the apple trees along the lane Whose lovely blossoms all too soon depart; And sweet the br.i.m.m.i.n.g dew that overfills The golden chalices of all the trembling daffodils.

But sweeter far, in this old garden-close To loiter 'mid the lovely old-time flowers, To breathe the scent of lavender and rose, And with old poets pa.s.s the peaceful hours.

Old gardens and old poets,--happy he Whose quiet summer days are spent in such sweet company!

JOHN RUSSELL HAYES

A COLONIAL GARDEN

Down this pathway, through the shade, Lightly tripped the dainty maid, In her eyes the smile of June, On her lips some old sweet tune.

Through yon ragged rows of box, By that awkward clump of phlox, To her favorite pansy bed Like a ray of light, she sped.

Satin slippers trim and neat Gleamed upon her slender feet; Round her ankles, deftly tied, Ribbons crossed from side to side, Here her pinks, old fashioned, fair, Breathed their fragrance on the air; There her fluttering azure gown Shook the poppy's petals down.

Here a rose, with fond caress, Stooped to touch a truant tress From her fillet struggling free, Scorning its captivity.

There a bed of rue was set With an edge of mignonette, And the spicy bergamot Meshed the frail forget-me-not.

Honeysuckles, hollyhocks, Bachelor's b.u.t.tons, four-o'clocks, Marigolds and blue-eyed gra.s.s Curtsied when the maid did pa.s.s.

Now the braggart weeds have spread Through the paths she loved to tread, And the creeping moss has grown O'er yon shattered dial-stone.

Still beside the ruined walks Some old flowers, on st.u.r.dy stalks, Dream of her whose happy eyes Roam the fields of paradise.

JAMES B. KENYON

IN MY MOTHER'S GARDEN

There were many flowers in my mother's garden, Sword-leaved gladiolas, taller far than I, Sticky-leaved petunias, pink and purple flaring, Velvet-painted pansies smiling at the sky;

Scentless portulacas crowded down the borders, White and scarlet-petalled, rose and satin-gold, Cl.u.s.tered sweet alyssum, lacy-white and scented, Sprays of gray-green lavender to keep 'til you were old.

In my mother's garden were green-leaved hiding-places, Nooks between the lilacs--oh, a pleasant place to play!

Still my heart can hide there, still my eyes can dream it, Though the long years lie between and I am far away;

When the world is hard now, when the city's clanging Tires my eyes and tires my heart and dust lies everywhere, I can dream the peace still of the soft wind's blowing, I can be a child still and hide my heart from care.

Lord, if still that garden blossoms in the sunlight, Grant that children laugh there now among its green and gold-- Grant that little hearts still hide its memoried sweetness, Locking one bright dream away for light when they are old!

MARGARET WIDDEMER

TO THE SWEETWILLIAM

I search the poet's honied lines, And not in vain, for columbines; And not in vain for other flowers That sanctify the many bowers Unsanctified by human souls.

See where the larkspur lifts among The thousand blossoms finely sung, Still blossoming in the fragrant scrolls!

Charity, eglantine, and rue And love-in-a-mist are all in view, With coloured cousins; but where are you, Sweetwilliam?

The lily and the rose have books Devoted to their lovely looks, And wit has fallen in vital showers Through England's most miraculous hours To keep them fresh a thousand years.

The immortal library can show The violet's well-thumbed folio Stained tenderly by girls in tears.

The shelf where Genius stands in view Has brier and daffodil and rue And love-lies-bleeding; but not you, Sweetwilliam.

Thus, if I seek the cla.s.sic line For marybuds, 'tis, Shakespeare, thine!

And ever is the primrose born 'Neath Goldsmith's overhanging thorn.

In Herrick's breastknot I can see The apple-blossom, fresh and fair As when he plucked and put it there, Heedless of Time's anthology.

So flower by flower comes into view Kept fadeless by the Olympian dew For startled eyes; and yet not you, Sweetwilliam.

Though G.o.ds of song have let you be, Bloom in my little book for me.

Unwont to stoop or lean, you show An undefeated heart, and grow As pluckily as cedars. Heat And cold, and winds that make Tumbledown sallies, cannot shake Your resolution to be sweet.

Then take this song, be it born to die Ere yet the unwedded b.u.t.terfly Has glimpsed a darling in the sky, Sweetwilliam!