'Tis vain! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle; But what is that I hear? a sound O Lord! - 't is in my neighbor's ground, They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening through there, And Methods of transplanting trees, The withered Misses! how they prose By squares of tropic summer shut, And warmed in crystal cases. But these, though fed with careful dirt, That blows upon its mountain, And I must work through months of toil, And years of cultivation, A little garden blossom. ST. AGNES. I. DEEP on the convent-roof the snows My breath to heaven like vapor goes: The shadows of the convent-towers Still creeping with the creep ing hours 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, So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, oh Lord! and far, Through all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. III. He lifts me to the golden doors; All heaven bursts her starry floors, For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, One sabbath deep and wide SIR GALAHAD. I. My good blade carves the casques of men, The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. |