"THERE SEEMS A LOVE IN HAIR, THOUGH IT BE DEAD-IT IS THE gentlest, YET THE STRONGEST THREAD,

"ALAS! WE THINK NOT WHAT WE DAILY SEE-LEIGH HUNT

A GARDEN FOR A POET.

And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scattered light;

Come gleaming up-true to the wished-for day-
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.

[From "The Story of Rimini," canto i.]

209

OF OUR FRAIL PLANT-A BLOSSOM FROM THE TREE, SURVIVING THE PROUD TRUNK."-JAMES H. LEIGH HUNT.

A GARDEN FOR A POET.
NOBLE range it was, of many a rood,

Walled and tree-girt, and ending in a wood.
A small sweet house o'erlooked it from a nest
Of pines ;-all wood and garden was the rest,
Lawn, and green lane, and covert; and it had
A winding stream about it, clear and glad,
With here and there a swan, the creature born
To be the only graceful shape of scorn.
The flower-beds were all liberal of delight:
Roses in heaps were there, both red and white,
Lilies angelical, and gorgeous glooms

Of wall-flowers, and blue hyacinths, and blooms
Hanging thick clusters from light boughs ;-in short,
All the sweet cups to which the bees resort,
With plots of grass, and leafier walks between
Of red geraniums, and of jessamine,

And orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit,
And look as if they shade a golden fruit;

And 'midst the flowers, turfed round beneath a shade
Of darksome pines, a babbling fountain played,
And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright,
Which through the tops glimmered with showering light.
So now you stood to think what odours best
Made the air happy in that lovely nest;

And now you went beside the flowers with eyes
Earnest as bees, restless as butterflies;

ABOUT OUR HEARTHS,-ANGELS, THAT ARE TO BE."-HUNT.

210

"PLACES OF NESTLING GREEN, FOR POETS MADE."-HUNT.

LEIGH HUNT.

And then turned off into a shadier walk,
Close and continuous, fit for lovers' talk;
And then pursued the stream, and as you trod
Onward and onward o'er the velvet sod,
Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet,
And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet.
At last you entered shades indeed, the wood,
Broken with glens and pits, and glades far-viewed,
Through which the distant palace, now and then,
Looked lordly forth with many-windowed ken;

"THERE ARE TWO HEAVENS, SWEET, BOTH MADE OF LOVE-ONE, INCONCEIVABLE, E' EN BY THE OTHER,

SO DIVINE IT IS; THE OTHER, FAR ON THIS SIDE OF THE STARS, BY MEN CALLED HOME."-LEIGH HUNT.

["Where, at her drink, you startled the shy deer.")

A land of trees, which, reaching round about
In shady blessing, stretched their old arms out;
With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks,
Where, at her drink, you startled the shy deer,
Retreating lightly, with a lovely fear.
And all about, the birds kept leafy house,
And sung, and darted in and out the boughs;

And all about, a lovely sky of blue

Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laughed through;

I KNOW THAT POOR MEN LOSE, AND RICH MEN GAIN, THOUGH OF TH UNSEEN ADJUSTS THE SEEMING MEASURE:

And here and there, in every part, were seats,
Some in the open walks, some in retreats,
With bowering leaves o'erhead, to which the eye
Looked up half sweetly and half awfully-
Places of nestling green, for poets made,

Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade,
The rugged trunks, to inward peeping sight,
Thronged in dark pillars up the gold green light.
But 'twixt the woods and flowery walks half-way,
And formed of both, the loveliest portion lay
A spot, that struck you like enchanted ground:
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound
Of sloping orchards,—fig and almond trees,
Cherry and pine, with some few cypresses;
Down by whose roots, descending darkling still
(You saw it not, but heard), there gushed a rill,
Whose low sweet talking seemed as if it said
Something eternal to that happy shade.

The ground within was lawn, with fruits and flowers
Heaped toward the centre, half of citron bowers;
And in the middle of those golden trees,
Half seen amidst the globy oranges,
Lurked a rare summer-house, a lovely sight,-
Small, marble, well-proportioned, creamy white,
Its top with vine-leaves sprinkled—but no more—
And a young bay-tree either side the door.
The door was to the wood, forward and square,
The rest was domed at top, and circular;
And through the dome the only light came in,
Tinged as it entered by the vine-leaves thin.

[From "The Story of Rimini." This should be compared with Cowley's
"The Garden;" and the reader should also turn to Lord Bacon's
fine essay on the same subject.]

poem,

STRANGE FOES, THOUGH STRANGER FRIENDS, OF PLEASURE;

I KNOW THAT GUILE MAY TEACH, WHILE TRUTH MUST BOW, OR BEAR CONTEMPT ON HIS BENIGNANT BROW."-HUNT.

"THE RURAL FEELING, AND THE CHARM THAT STILLNESS HAS FOR A WORLD-FRETTED EAR."-LEIGH HUNT.

OUR SMALL FEUDS ARE BUT IMPATIENCES (LEIGH HUNT)

LEIGH HUNT.

"FRIENDSHIP, FRANK ENTERING WITH CORDIAL HAND, AND LOVE DOMESTIC, SMILING EQUABLY."-LEIGH HUNT.

["The far ships, lifting their sails of white."]
And April, with his white hands wet with flowers,
Dazzles the bride-maids, looking from the towers:
Green vineyards and fair orchards, far and near,
Glitter with drops; and heaven is sapphire clear,
And the lark rings it, and the pine-trees glow,
And odours from the citrons come and go,

And all the landscape-earth, and sky, and sea-
Breathes like a bright-eyed face that laughs out openly.
'Tis Nature, full of spirits, waked and loved.
E'en sloth, to-day, goes quick and unreproved;
For where's the living soul, priest, minstrel, clown,
Merchant, or lord, that speeds not to the town?
Hence, happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen;

AT SEEING THE DEAR TRUTH ILL UNDERSTOOD."-HUNT.

"THERE SEEMS A LOVE IN HAIR, THOUGH IT BE DEAD-IT IS THE GENTLEST, YET THE STRONGEST THREAD,

66 ALAS! WE THINK NOT WHAT WE DAILY SEE- LEIGH HUNT

A GARDEN FOR A POET.

And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scattered light;

Come gleaming up-true to the wished-for day—
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.

[From "The Story of Rimini," canto i.]

209

OF OUR FRAIL PLANT-A BLOSSOM FROM THE TREE, SURVIVING THE PROUD TRUNK."-JAMES H. LEIGH HUNT.

A GARDEN FOR A POET.
NOBLE range it was, of many a rood,

Walled and tree-girt, and ending in a wood.
A small sweet house o'erlooked it from a nest
Of pines ;—all wood and garden was the rest,
Lawn, and green lane, and covert; and it had
A winding stream about it, clear and glad,
With here and there a swan, the creature born
To be the only graceful shape of scorn.
The flower-beds were all liberal of delight :
Roses in heaps were there, both red and white,
Lilies angelical, and gorgeous glooms

Of wall-flowers, and blue hyacinths, and blooms
Hanging thick clusters from light boughs ;-in short,
All the sweet cups to which the bees resort,
With plots of grass, and leafier walks between
Of red geraniums, and of jessamine,

And orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit,
And look as if they shade a golden fruit;

And 'midst the flowers, turfed round beneath a shade
Of darksome pines, a babbling fountain played,
And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright,
Which through the tops glimmered with showering light.
So now you stood to think what odours best
Made the air happy in that lovely nest;

And now you went beside the flowers with eyes
Earnest as bees, restless as butterflies;

ABOUT OUR HEARTHS,-ANGELS, THAT ARE TO BE. -HUNT.