POETRY.
THE GARDENER'S BURIAL. THIS is the grave prepared ; set down the bier : Mother, a faithful son we bring thee here In loving ease to lie beneath thy breast, Which many a year with loving toil he drest. His was the eldest craft, the simple skill `I hat Adam plied, ere good was known by ill ; The throstle's song at dawn his spirit tuned ; He set his seeds in hope, be grafted, pruned, Weeded and mow'd, and with a true son's care Wrought thee a mantle of embroidery rare.
The snow-drop and the winter aconite Came at his call ere frosts had cees'd to bite He bade the crocus flame as with a charm ; The nestling violets bloom'd, and fear'd no harm, Knowing that for their sakes a champion meek Did bloodless battle with the weather bleak : But when the wealthier months with largess came His blazon'd beds put heraldry to shame, And on the summer air such perfume cast, As Saba or the Spice Isles ne'er surpast.
The birds all lov'd him, for he would not shoot Even the winged thieves that stole his fruit ; And be lov'd them—the little fearless wren, The red-breast, curious in the ways of men, The pilgrim swallow, and the dearer guest That sets beneath our eaves her plaster'd nest The merry white-throat bursting with his song, Flutter'd within his reach and fear'd no wrong, And the mute fly-catcher forgot her dread, And took her prey beside his stooping head.
Receive him, Mother Earth ; his work is done ; Blameless he lived, and did offence to none ; Blameless he died, forbidding us to throw Flowers in his grave, because he lov'd them so He would not have them stifle underground, But bloom among the grasses on his mound.
We, that have loved, must leave him : Mother, keep A faithful watch about him in his sleep. H. J.
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