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 passing 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 brimming 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 pass 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