‘Southward through Eden went a river large, Nor changed its course, but through the shaggy hill Passed underneath ingulfed; for God had thrown That mountain as his garden mould, high raised Upon the rapid current, which through veins Of porous earth, with kindly thirst up-drawn Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill Watered the garden; thence united fell Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood, Which from its darksome passage now appears: And now divided into four main streams Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm And country, whereof here needs no account; But rather to tell how,—if art could tell,— How from that sapphire fount the crispèd brooks, Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold, With mazy error under pendant shades Ran nectar, visiting each plant; and fed Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice art In beds and curious knots, but nature boon Poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain, Both where the morning sun first warmly smote The open field, and where the unpierced shade Imbrowned the noontide bowers. Thus was this place A happy rural seat of various view; Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm; Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind, Hung amiable (Hesperian fables true, If true, here only), and of delicious taste: Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks Grazing the tender herb, were interposed: Or palmy hillock, or the flowery lap Of some irriguous valley spread her store; Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.’ Why, you could draw a map of it. It is _not_ ‘Nature boon,’ but ‘nice art in beds and curious knots;’ it is exactly the old (and excellent) style of artificial gardening, by which any place can be turned into trim hedgerows, and stiff borders, and comfortable shades; but there are no straight lines in nature or Shakespeare. Perhaps the contrast may be accounted for by the way in which the two poets acquired their knowledge of scenes and scenery. We think we demonstrated before that Shakespeare was a sportsman, but if there be still a sceptic or a dissentient, let him read the following remarks on dogs:— My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, So flewed, so sanded; and their heads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew, Crook-kneed and dewlapped like Thessalian bulls; Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells, Each under each. A cry more tunable Was never holloa’d to nor cheered with horn In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly.’