Then, like a fair weed, prone upon the surges,

Was tossed, unconscious of their rude, hoarse

dirges.

But rather I believed, ere yet those seas

Were reached, for her the curving margin gave A peaceful cove, where drooped the willow trees, And round the lily's leaf the weltering wave Lisped of repose; there did one low note sever The tremulous chord-there anchored she for ever.

March 14. 1850.

THE GARDEN OF REVERIE.

Look downward o'er that tangled bank,

Thou shalt behold a mournful scene,

The triumph of a ruin rank

Where hands of art and care have been:

Ruin by tender charm ungraced,

A shapeless, stagnant over-growth,

Where Nature on her own wild waste

Lies in dull luxury of sloth.

Here, where the breezes rustle by,

Here, where the cheerful sunbeams play,

Sit down, and learn the history

Of that lone Garden's palmy day.

No gleam did e'er its shades rejoice

From silken robe or brilliant flowers, It echoed not to Pleasure's voice,

Nor took gay gifts from Summer hours: Yet royal eyes, with nicest choice,

Had ordered all its walks and bowers,

Had grouped the laurels, taught the pine And ilex where to strike their root,

Where arbutus should dimly shine

With clustered mockeries of fruit,

And where the savine's spicy fan

Upon the velvet turf should sweep; Had traced the pathway's mazy plan, Which round the jutting shrubberies ran To nooks of shade, as caverns deep,

Chilly and damp as cavern air,

The cedar closing with the yew;

Nor sunshine ever slanted there,

Nor ever noon could dry the dew.

And lawn, and path, and dim retreat
Were strange to all exploring feet,

Save of one dreamy, musing man,
Who high in birth, and rich in mind,
Born to control and lead his kind,
To lesser men the work resigned.

His phantasy this shrine had wrought,
These dedicated haunts of Thought,
Where he might bathe his soul at ease
In the still mist of reveries;

And all that through the outer sense,
The unconscious mind might influence
In brooding shade and mossy lawn,

And odours from the shrubberies drawn, Whose warm wealth steeped the atmosphere,

As ministers were gathered here.

Within the lawn a narrow well,

With waters cold, and clear, and black,

Did in perpetual shadow dwell,

It gave the sky no pictures back;

No golden fish therein did swim,

Nor sportive beetles wheel and glide, Nor bubbles bead the lowest brim

Of the stone steps that clove its side. All down the garden's circling steep

The ivy hung her folds of green, And little springs essayed to creep,

Half stifled, through the matted screen;

And cheerless, lacking power to cheer,

Grew here and there the pallid flowers, Sown thinly, and with choice severe,

Meek strangers in the breezeless bowers. There only might the cistus frail

Her sad imploring eye lift up,

The azalea faint perfumes exhale,

The bleached petunia drop her cup.

Far, far away arose the lark,

Nor oft the cuckoo here would sing,

Because the laurels stiff and dark

Could tell but little of his Spring;