I had Columbines, both pink and blue, And Thalictrum like a feather; And the bright Goat’s-beard, that shuts its leaves Before a change of weather. I had Marigolds, and Gilliflowers, And Pinks all Pinks exceeding; I’d a noble root of Love-in-a-mist, And plenty of Love-lies-bleeding. I’d Jacob’s Ladder, Aaron’s Rod, And the Peacock-Gentianella; I had Asters, more than I can tell, And Lupins blue and yellow. I set a grain of Indian Corn, One day in an idle humour, And the grain sprung up six feet or more, My glory for a summer. I found far off in the pleasant fields, More flowers than I can mention; I found the English Asphodel, And the spring and autumn Gentian. I found the Orchis, fly and bee, And the Cistus of the mountain; And the Money-wort, and the Adder’s tongue Beside an old wood fountain. I found within another wood, The rare Pyrola blowing: For wherever there was a curious flower I was sure to find it growing. I set them in my garden beds, Those beds I loved so dearly, Where I laboured after set of sun, And in summer mornings early. O my pleasant garden-plot!-- A shrubbery was beside it, And an old and mossy Apple-tree, With a Woodbine wreathed to hide it. There was a bower in my garden-plot, A Spiræa grew before it; Behind it was a Laburnum tree, And a wild Hop clambered o’er it. Ofttimes I sat within my bower, Like a king in all his glory; Ofttimes I read, and read for hours, Some pleasant, wondrous story. I read of Gardens in old times, Old, stately Gardens, kingly, Where people walked in gorgeous crowds, Or for silent musing, singly. I raised up visions in my brain, The noblest and the fairest; But still I loved my Garden best, And thought it far the rarest. And all among my flowers I walked, Like a miser ’mid his treasure; For that pleasant plot of Garden ground Was a world of endless pleasure. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. AN APOLOGUE. A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STORY. “Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly. “Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy; The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, And I’ve many curious things to show when you are there,” “Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain, For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.” “I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly. “There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin, And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in!” “Oh, no, no,” said the little Fly, “for I’ve often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!”