Here budded and blossomed,
Here faded and died,

Like brief-blooming roses,
Earth's purest of pure!

Now ever embosomed

In bliss they abide

Oh, may, when life closes,
My meed be as sure!

XXIII

DESCRIPTION OF A GARDEN

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU was baptized at Covent Garden, May 26, 1689. She died in England, August 21, 1762. Her celebrated "Letters" give interesting accounts of her life in Constantinople during her husband's embassy to the Porte and his two years' subsequent residence in Constantinople. She assisted in introducing into England the process of inoculation, which she had observed in Adrianople. Lady Mary was contemporary with the English poet Pope, with whom after a long friendship she quarreled.

This spot of ground is so beautiful, I am afraid you will scarce credit the description, which, however, I can assure you, shall be very literal, without any em

bellishment from imagination. It is on a bank, forming a kind of peninsula, raised from the river Oglio fifty feet, to which you may descend by easy stairs cut in the turf, and either take the air on the river, which is as large as the Thames at Richmond, or by walking an avenue two hundred yards on the side of it, come to a wood of a hundred acres, which was already cut into walks and ridings when I took it. I have only added fifteen bowers from different views, with seats of turf. They were easily made, there being a large quantity of underwood, and a great number of wild vines, which twist to the top of the highest trees. I am now writing to you in one of these arbors, which is so thickly shaded the sun is not troublesome, even at noon. This little wood is carpeted, in their succeeding seasons, with violets and strawberries, inhabited by a nation of nightingales, and filled with game of all kinds excepting deer and wild boar.

I am really as fond of my garden as a young author of his first play when it has been well received by the town, and can no more forbear teasing my acquaintance for their approbation. I must tell you that I have made two little terraces, raised twelve steps each, at the end of my great walk; they are just finished, and a great addition to the beauty of my garden. I inclose to you a rough draft of it, drawn (or more properly scrawled) by my hand, without the assistance of rule or compasses, as you will easily perceive. I have mixed in my espaliers as many roses and jessamine trees as I can cram in; and in the squares designed for the use of the kitchen have avoided putting

anything disagreeable either to sight or smell, having another garden below for cabbage, onions, garlic, etc. All the walks are furnished with beds of flowers, besides the parterres, which are for a more distinguished sort. I have neither brick nor stone walls; all my fence is a high hedge, mingled with trees.

XXIV

SPRING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND

On Receiving an Early Crocus and Some Violets in a Second Letter from Ireland

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY was born in Dublin in 1817. He was one of the group of contributors who made "The Nation" famous in its early years. His lyrics dwell mostly on the tender side of life and nature. His great work is a translation of the plays of Calderon, the Spanish Shakespeare. MacCarthy was Professor of English Literature in the Catholic University of Ireland. He died in 1882.

Within the letter's rustling fold

I find, once more-a glad surprise;

A little tiny cup of gold

Two lovely violet eyes;

A cup of gold with emeralds set,

Once filled with wine from happier spheres;

Two little eyes so lately wet

With spring's delicious dewy tears.

Oh! little eyes that wept and laughed,

Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim;

Oh! little cup that once was quaffed
By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim;
I press each silken fringe's fold-

Sweet little eyes, once more ye shine;
I kiss thy lips, oh! cup of gold,

And find thee full of memory's wine.

Within their violet depths I gaze,

And see, as in the camera's gloom, The Island with its belt of bays,

It's chieftain'd heights all capped with broom; Which, as the living lens it fills,

Now seems a giant charmed to sleepNow a broad shield embossed with hills, Upon the bosom of the deep.

When will the slumbering giant awake?
When will the shield defend and guard?
Ah, me! prophetic gleams forsake

The once rapt eyes of seer or bard.
Enough if, shunning Samson's fate,
It doth not all its vigor yield;

Enough if plenteous peace, though late,
May rest beneath the sheltering shield.

I see the long and lone defiles

Of Keimaneigh's bold rocks uphurled; I see the golden-fruited isles

That gem the queen-lakes of the world;

I see a gladder sight to me

By soft Shangánagh's silver strand

The breaking of a sapphire sea
Upon the golden-fretted sand.

Swiftly the tunnel's rock-hewn pass,
Swiftly, the fiery train runs through-
Oh! what a glittering sheet of glass!

Oh! what enchantment meets my view!
With eyes insatiate I pursue,

Till Bray's bright headland bounds the scene'Tis Baiae by a softer blue!

Gaeta by a gladder green!

By tasseled groves, o'er meadows fair,
I'm carried in my blissful dream,
To where a monarch in the air-

The pointed mountain reigns supreme;
There, in a spot remote and wild,
I see once more the rustic seat
Where Carrigoona, like a child,
Sits at the mightier mountain's feet.

There by the gentler mountain's slope-
That happiest year of many a year,
That first sweet year of love and hope-
With her then dear and ever dear,

I sat upon the rustic seat

The seat an aged bay-tree crownsAnd saw outspreading from our feet The golden glory of the Downs.

The furze-crowned heights, the glorious glen,

The white-walled chapel glistening near,

The house of God, the homes of men,