And shepherds from the mountain-eaves

Look'd down, half-pleased, half-frighten'd,

As dash'd about the drunken leaves

The random sunshine lighten'd!

Oh, nature first was fresh to men,
And wanton without measure;

So youthful and so flexile then,

You moved her at your pleasure. Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs! And make her dance attendance;

Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs,

And scirrhous roots and tendons.

'Tis vain! in such a brassy age

I could not move a thistle;

The very sparrows in the hedge

Scarce answer to my

whistle;

Or at the most, when three-parts-sick

With strumming and with scraping, A jackass heehaws from the rick,

The passive oxen gaping.

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, To look as if they grew there.

The wither'd Misses! how they prose
O'er books of travell'd seamen,

And show you slips of all that grows
From England to Van Diemen.

They read in arbours clipt and cut,
And alleys, faded places,

By squares of tropic summer shut
And warm'd in crystal cases.

But these, though fed with careful dirt,
Are neither green nor sappy;
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt,

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,

And years of cultivation, Upon my proper patch of soil

To grow my own plantation. I'll take the showers as they fall, I will not vex my bosom: Enough if at the end of all

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: May my soul follow soon!

The shadows of the convent-towers

Slant down the snowy sward,

Still creeping with the creeping hours

That lead me to my Lord:

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;
The flashes come and go;

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.