VIII. HER GARDEN.

The wind that's good for neither man nor beast

Weeks long incessant from the blighting East

Drove gloom and havoc through the land and ceased.

When swaying mildly over wide Atlantic seas,

Bland and dewy soft streamed the Western breeze.

In walking forth, I felt with vague alarm,

Closer than wont her pressure on my arm,

As through morn's fragrant air we sought what harm

That Eastern wind's despite had done the garden growth;

Where much lay dead or languished low for drouth.

Her own parterre was bounded by a red

Old buttressed wall of brick, moss-broidered;

Where grew mid pink and azure plots a bed

Of shining lilies intermixed in wondrous light;

She called them “Radiant spirits robed in white.”

Here the mad gale had rioted and thrown

Far drifts of snowy petals, fiercely blown

The stalks in twisted heaps: one flower alone

Yet hung and lit the waste, the latest blossom born

Among its fallen kinsmen left forlorn.

“Thy pallid droop,” cried I, “but more than all,

Thy lonely sweetness takes my soul in thrall,

O Seraph Lily Blanch! so stately tall:

By violets adored, regarded by the rose,

Well loved by every gentle flower that blows!”

My Lady dovelike to the lily went,

Took in curved palms a cup, and forward leant,

Deep draining to the gold its dreamy scent.

I see her now, pale beauty, as she bending stands,

The wind-worn blossom resting in her hands!

Then slowly rising, she in gazing trance

Affrayed, long pored on vacancy. A glance

Of chilly splendour tinged her countenance

And told the saddened truth, that stress of blighting weather,

Had made her lilies and My Lady droop together.