A Puritan Lady’s Garden
This fairy pleasance in the brake—
This maze run wild of flower and vine—
Our fathers planted for the sake
Of eyes that longed for English gardens
Amid the virgin wastes of pine.
Here, by the broken, moldering wall,
Where still the tiger-lilies ride,
Once grew the crown imperial,
The tall blue larkspur, white Queen Margaret,
Prince’s-feather, and mourning bride.
Beyond their pale, a humbler throng,
Grew Bouncing Bet and columbine;
The mountain fringe ran all along
The thick-set hedge of cinnamon roses,
And overhung the eglantine.
And Sunday flowers were here as well—
Adam-and-Eve within their hood,
The stately Canterbury bell,
And, oft in churches breathing fragrance,
The sweet and pungent southernwood.
When ships for England cleared the bay,
If long beside these reefs of foam
She stood, and watched them sail away,
It was her garden first enticed her
To turn, and call this country “home.”
Sarah N. Cleghorn