| |
| ARE these the trees? is this the place? | |
| These roses, did they bloom for him? | |
| Trod he these walks with thoughtful pace? | |
| Passed he amid these borders trim? | |
| |
| Is this the bower?—a humble shed | 5 |
| Methinks it seems for such a guest! | |
| Why rise not columns, dome-bespread, | |
| By art’s elaborate fingers drest? | |
| |
| Art waits on wealth; there let her roam,— | |
| Her fabrics rear, her temples gild; | 10 |
| But Genius, where he seeks a home, | |
| Must send for Nature’s self to build. | |
| |
| This quiet garden’s humble bound, | |
| This homely roof, this rustic fane, | |
| With playful tendrils twining round, | 15 |
| And woodbines peeping at the pane; | |
| |
| That tranquil, tender sky of blue, | |
| Where clouds of golden radiance skim, | |
| Those ranging trees of varied hue,— | |
| These were the sights that solaced him. | 20 |
| |
| We stept within: at once on each | |
| A feeling steals, so undefined; | |
| In vain we seek to give it speech,— | |
| ’T is silent homage paid to mind. | |
| |
| They tell us here he thought and wrote, | 25 |
| On this low seat, reclining thus; | |
| Ye garden breezes, as ye float | |
| Why bear ye no such thoughts to us? | |
| |
| Perhaps the balmy air was fraught | |
| With breath of heaven; or did he toil | 30 |
| In precious mines of sparkling thought | |
| Concealed beneath the curious soil? | |
| |
| Did zephyrs bear on golden wings | |
| Rich treasures from the honeyed dew? | |
| Or are there here celestial springs | 35 |
| Of living waters, whence he drew? | |
| |
| And here he suffered!—this recess | |
| Where even Nature failed to cheer, | |
| Has witnessed oft his deep distress, | |
| And precious drops have fallen here! | 40 |
| |
| Here are no richly sculptured urns | |
| The consecrated dust to cover; | |
| But Nature smiles and weeps, by turns, | |
| In memory of her fondest lover. | |
| |
