Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase Whereon I am to lie till I must ask "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there! For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude To death-ye wish it-God, ye wish it! Stone- And leave me in my church, the church for peace, GARDEN-FANCIES I. The Flower's Name ERE'S the garden she walked across, Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white flox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you noble roses, I know; But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name! was it love, or praise? Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake. Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase! Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! Where I find her not, beauties vanish; -Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces- II. Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis Plague take all your pedants, say I! He who wrote what I hold in my hand, Centuries back was so good as to die, Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land; This, that was a book in its time, Printed on paper and bound in leather, Last month in the white of a matin‐prime Just when the birds sang all together. Into the garden I brought it to read, And under the arbute and laurustine Read it, so help me grace in my need, From title-page to closing line. Chapter on chapter did I count, As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge; Added up the mortal amount; And then proceeded to my revenge. Yonder's a plum-tree, with a crevice An owl would build in, were he but sage; Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber; When he'd be private, there might he spend Hours alone in his lady's chamber: Into this crevice I dropped our friend. Splash, went he, as under he ducked, -I knew at the bottom rain drippings stagnate; Next a handful of blossoms I plucked To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate; Then I went in-doors, brought out a loaf, Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis; Now, this morning, betwixt the moss |