But what is that I hear? a sound Like sleepy counsel pleading: O Lord! 'tis in my neighbour's ground, The modern Muses reading. They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening thro' there, And Methods of transplanting trees, The wither'd Misses! how they prose And show you slips of all that grows By squares of tropic summer shut But these, though fed with careful dirt, The poor things look unhappy. Better to me the meanest weed That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain. And I must work thro' months of toil, Upon my proper patch of soil I'll take the showers as they fall, A little garden blossom. ST. AGNES. I. DEEP on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapour goes: The shadows of the convent-towers Still creeping with the creeping hours Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies. II. As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. III. He lifts me to the golden doors; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. |