'Tis vain! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle ; The very sparrows in the hedge Or at the most, when three-parts-sick But what is that I hear? a sound They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening thro' there, And Methods of transplanting trees, To look as if they grew there. The wither'd Misses! how they prose By squares of tropic summer shut And warm'd in crystal cases. But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, And I must work thro' months of toil, To grow my own plantation. A little garden blossom. ST. AGNES' EVE. DEEP on the convent-roof the snows My breath to heaven like vapour goes: The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, So in mine earthly house I am, Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, He lifts me to the golden doors; To make me pure of sin. One sabbath deep and wide- SIR GALAHAD. My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, They reel, they roll in clanging lists, How sweet are looks that ladies bend |