POETRY.
THE OLD GARDEN.
AN odour rich of full-bloomed flowers Bids me restrain my steps, and lean Over an old grey wall, where cowers The shrinking moss in crevice green.
Spread here before my listless gaze An old-world English garden lies, Where paths and arbours twine a maze, And flowers woo the buzzing flies.
Untrimmed, unkempt, in lavish growth, All Nature keeps companionship : The graceful lily is not loth To touch the briar with her lip.
In peach-tree shade lie flowers wild, All unsuspecting of their birth : And weed to plant is reconciled By common love for Mother Earth.
The paths and beds would fain conceal Distinction, where the apple drops, Or truant strawberry blossoms feel Their way across to alien crops.
While moss and lichen intercede, All rival hues to harmonise,— 'Tis thus alike the rose and weed Contribute pleasure to our eyes.
I love thee, garden, and like the bee This blessing from thy bounty sip "Fair in ourselves we each may be, Bat fairer for companionship."
PERCEVAL GRAY.
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