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With all good things, and war shall be no more."
THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER;
This morning is the morning of the day,
My Eustace might have sat for Hercules ;
Summ’d up and closed in little ;-Juliet, she So light of foot, so light of spirit—oh, she To me myself, for some three careless moons, The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not Such touches are but embassies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found Empire for life ? but Eustace painted her, And said to me, she sitting with us then, “ When will you paint like this?" and I replied, (My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) “ 'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.” And Juliet answer'd laughing, “Go and see The Gardener's daughter : trust me, after that, You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece.” And up we rose, and on the spur we went,
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love.
News from the humming city comes to it In sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear - The windy clanging of the minster clock; Although between it and the garden lies A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream, That, stirr’d with languid pulses of the oar, Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown’d with the minster-towers.
The fields between Are dewy-fresh, brows'd by deep-udder'd kine, And all about the large lime feathers low, The lime a summer home of murmurous wings.
In that still place she, hoarded in herself, Grew, seldom seen : not less among us lived Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter ? Where was he, So blunt in memory, so old at heart, At such a distance from his youth in grief, That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth, So gross to express delight, in praise of her
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love,
And if I said that Fancy, led by Love,
And sure this orbit of the memory folds For ever in itself the day we went To see her. All the land in flowery squares, Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud