I am no link of thy great chain,

But all my company is as a weed:

Lord place me in thy concert-give one strain
To my poor reed.

GEORGE HERBERT, 1598-1632.

THE GARDEN.

When the light flourish of the blue-bird sounds,
And the south wind comes blandly; when the sky
Is soft in delicate blue, with melting pearl
Spotting its bosom, all proclaiming Spring,
Oh with what joy the garden spot we greet,
Wakening from wintry slumbers. As we tread
The branching walks, within its hollow'd nook
We see the violet by some lingering flake
Of melting snow, its sweet eye lifting up,
As welcoming our presence; o'er our heads
The fruit-tree buds are swelling, and we hail

Our grateful task of molding into form

The waste around us. The quick delving spade

Upturns the fresh and odorous earth; the rake

Smooths the plump bed, and in their furrow'd graves
We drop the seed. The robin stops his work

Upon the apple-bough, and flutters down
Stealing, with oft check'd and uplifted foot
And watchful gaze bent quickly either side,

Toward the fall'n wealth of food around the mouth

Of the light paper pouch upon the earth.

But, fearful of our motions, off he flies,

And stoops upon the grub the spade has thrown

Loose from its den beside the wounded root.

Days pass along. The pattering shower falls down

And then the warming sunshine. Tiny clifts

Tell that the seed has turn'd itself, and now

Is pushing up its stem. The verdant pea
Looks out; the twin-leaf'd scallop'd radish shows
Sprinkles of green. The sturdy bean displays
Its jaws distended wide and slightly tongued.

The downy cucumber is seen; the corn

Upshoots its close-wrapp'd spike, and on its mound
The young potato sets its tawny ear.

Meanwhile the fruit-trees gloriously have broke

Into a flush of beauty, and the grape,
Casting aside in peels its shrivel'd skin,
Shows its soft furzy leaf of delicate pink,
And the thick midge-like blossoms round diffuse
A strong, delicious fragrance. Soon along
The trellis stretch the tendrils, sharply prong'd,
Clinging tenacious with their winding rings,
And sending on the stem. A sheet of bloom
Then decks the garden, till the summer glows,
Forming the perfect fruit. In showery nights
The fire-fly glares with its pendent lamp

Of greenish gold. Each dark nook has a voice,
While perfume floats on every wave of air.
The corn lifts up its bandrols long and slim;
The cucumber has overflow'd its spot
With massy verdure, while the yellow squash
Looks like a trumpet 'mid its giant leaves;
And as we reap the rich fruits of our care,
We bless the God who rains his gifts on us—
Making the earth its treasures rich to yield
With slight and fitful toil. Our hearts should be
Ever bent harps, to send unceasing hymns
Of thankful praise to One who fills all space,

And yet looks down with smiles on lowly man.

ALFRED STREET.

THE GARDENER.

AN OLD SCOTCH BALLAD.

A maiden stude in her bouir door,
As jimp as a willow wand;
When by there came a gardener lad

Wi' a primrose in his hand.

"O ladye, are ye single yet,

Or will ye marry me?

Ye'se get a' the flouirs in my garden,

To be a weed* for thee."

"I love your flouirs," the ladye said,
"But I winna marry thee;

It is scarcely necessary to observe that weed, in old English, signified garmen. bouir, meant chamber, or apartment; kute, ankle; braune, calf.

For I can live without mankind,
And without mankind I'll dee."

"You shall not live without mankind,
But you shall marry me :

And among the flouirs in my garden,
I'll shape a weed for thee.

"The lilye flouir to be your smock;

It becomes your bodie best;

Your head shall be bushit wi' the gellye-flouir; The primrose in your breist.

"Your gown sall be o' the sweet-william⚫

Your coat o' the cammovine;

Your apron o' the seel of downs

Come smile, sweetheart o' mine!

"Your gloves shall be o' the green clover,

All glitterin to your hand;

Weil spread ower wi' the blue blawort

That grows among corn-land.

"Your stockings shall be o' the cabbage-leaf,

That is baith braid and lang;

Narrow, narrow at the kute,*

And braid, braid at the braune.*

"Your shoon shall be o' the gude rue red,

I trow it bodes nae ill;

The buckles o' the marygold

Come smile, sweetheart, your fill!"

"Young man, ye've shapit a weed for me

Amang the simmer flouirs;

Now I will shape anither for thee

Amang the winter showirs.

"The snaw so white shall be your shirt,

It becomes your body best;

The cold east wind shall wrap your heid,
And the cold rain on your breist.

"The steed that you shall ride upon
Shall be the weather snell;

Weil bridled wi' the northern wind,
And cold, sharp shouirs o' hail.

*See note on previous page.

"The hat you on your heid shall wear Shall be o' the weather grey;

And aye when ye come into my sicht,

I'll wish ye were away."

181

Anonymous.

LINES.

Sweetly breathing vernal air,
That with kind warmth doth repair
Winter's ruins; from whose breast
All the gums and spice of th' East
Borrow their perfumes; whose eye
Gilds the morn and clears the sky;
Whose disshevel'd tresses shed
Pearls upon the violet-bed;

On whose brow, with calm smiles drest,
The halcyon sits and builds her nest;
Beauty, youth, and endless spring,
Dwell upon thy rosy wing!

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws

Down whole forests when he blows,
With a pregnant, flowery birth,
Canst refresh the teeming earth;
If he nip the early bud;

If he blast what's fair and good;
If he scatter our choice flowers;
If he shake our halls and bowers;
If his rude breath threaten us,
Thou canst strike great olus,
And from him the grace obtain,
To bind him in an iron chain.

THOMAS CAREW, about 1600.