I LOVE my garden, dearly love That little spot of ground.

"There's not, methinks, (though I may err In partial pride,) a pleasanter

In all the country round.

The smooth green turf winds gently there,
With no ungraceful bend,

Round many a bed, and many a border,
Where gayly group'd in sweet disorder,
Young Flora's darlings blend.

Spring! Summer! Autumn! of all three
Whose reign is loveliest there?
Oh! is not she who paints the ground,
When its frost fetters are unbound,
The fairest of the fair?

I gaze upon her violet beds,

Labernums, golden tress'd :

Her flower-spiked almonds,breathe perfume From lilac and seringa bloom,

And cry, "I love Spring best."

But Summer comes, with all her pomp
Of fragrance, beauty, bliss,
And from amidst her bowers of roses,
I sigh, as purple evening closes,

"What season equals this !"

That pageant passeth by-comes next
Brown Autumn in her turn-
Oh! not unwelcome cometh she,
The parched earth luxuriously

Drinks from her dewy urn.

And she hath flowers, and fragrance too,
Peculiarly her own,

Asters of ev'ry hue, perfume
Spiced rich with clematis and broom,

And mignonette late blown !

'Then, if some ling'ring rose I spy,

Reclining languidly

On the dark laurel's glossy green,
Dear Autumn! my whole heart, I ween,
Leaps up for love of thee.

Oh yes! I love my garden well,

And find employment there, Employment sweet for many an hour, In tending ev'ry shrub and flower, With still unwearied care.

I prop the weakly—prune the rude—
Scatter the various seeds-
Clear out intruders, yet of those
Oft sparing what the florist knows
To be but gaudy weeds.

But when my task, my pleasant task!
Is ended for the day,
Sprinkled o'er ev'ry sun-bowed flower
The artificial evening shower,
Then oftentimes I stray,

51 ATHENEUM VOL. 12.

(Inherent is the love of change
In human hearts,) far, far
Beyond the garden gate, the bound
That clips my little Eden round,
Chance for my leading star,

Through hollow lanes, or coppice paths
By hill or hawthorn fence,
O'er thymy commons, clover fields,
Where every step I take reveals

Some charm of sight or sense.

The winding path brings suddenly
A rustic bridge in sight-
Beneath it, gushing brightly out,
The rivulet, where speckled trout
Leap in the circling light.

Pale water-lilies float thereon,

The Naiad's loveliest wreath!The adders' tongues dip down to drink, The flag peers high above the brink,

From her long slender sheath.

There on the green-sward, an old oak
Stands singly-one, I trow,
Whose mighty shadow spread as wide
When they were in their prime, who died
An hundred years ago.

A single ewe, with her twin lambs,
Stands the grey trunk beside-
Others lie clust'ring in its shade,
Or down the windings of the glade,
Are scatter'd far and wide.

Two mossy thorns, o'er yonder stile,
A bowery archway rise-
Oh! what a flood of fragrance thence
Breathes out-behind that hazel fence
A flowering bean-field lies.
The shelter'd path winds gently on

Another gems the banks below

With em'ralds-into one

They blend, unite-one em'rald sea!
And last, in all bis majesty,

Breaks through, the setting sun.
And I am breathless-motionless-
Mute with delight and love,
My very being seems to blend
With all around me-to ascend
To the Great Source above.

I feel I am a spark struck out

From an eternal flame;

A part of the stupendous whole,
His work, who breathed a deathless soul

Into this mortal frame.

And they shall perish-all these things;
Darkness shall quench that Ball;
Death-throes this solid earth shall rive,
Yet I-frail thing of dust-survive
The final wreck of all,

"Wake up my glory! Lute and Harp,"
Be vocal every chord :

Lo! all His works in concert ring,
Praise, praise to the Eternal King,
The Universal Lord!

Oh, powerless will! Oh, languid voice'
Weak words! imperfect lays!
Yet, could His works alone inspire
The feelings that attune my Lyre
To these faint notes of praise.

Not to the charms of tasteful art,
That I am cold or dull;

I gaze upon the cultured scene,
The garden group,the smooth-mown green,
And cry, "How beautiful!"

But when to Nature's book I turn,

The page she spreads abroad; Tears only to mine eyes that steal, Bear witness that I see and feel The mighty hand of God!

C.

My heart is with thee, Love though now
Thou'rt far away from me;

I envy even my own thoughts,
For they may fly to thee,

I dream of thee, and wake and weep
So sweet a dream should fly;

I pray the winds to bear thee, Love!
An echo of my sigh.

I look upon thy pictured face,

And to thy semblance say The gentle things I'd say to thee

If thou wert not away.

I let no other shave my grief,
Lest they should feel the same;
I'm jealous that another lip

Should only breathe thy name.

I nurse my silent thoughts of thee,
As misers hoard their gold,
Or as words of some powerful spell,
Too sacred to be told.

I read once of a magic glass
An Eastern Fairy made;
All that was present to the thought
Was in that glass pourtrayed.
In one thing changed, how I do wish
The magic mirror mine;
All shapes were imaged there, but I
Would only wish for thine!

Not when pleasure's chain has bound thee,
Not when lights of joy surround thee,
Not when April birds are singing,
Not when the May-rose is springing,
Not when summer smiles above,
Think thou of thine absent love.
But when the green leaves are dying,
And the autumn gales are sighing
Like love's lingering farewell sigh,
(We have known that agony)

When flowers, like our hopes, lie dead,
And each rejoicing song is fled,
When there is nought on earth or sky
To charm the ear or win the eye,
When all is dead around, above-
Then think upon thy absent love.

Dearest! wander where you will,
I am present with you still:
Over land and over sea,
Every thought will follow thee.
Be thy flights but short as those
The honey-bee takes from the rose,
Or long as nights without a star,
My heart will be where you are.
You may change, but I will be
The very self of constancy.
Woman's heart's a fragile thing,
Born for much of suffering:
Like a lute which has a tone
Sacred to itself alone,-
However rude the hand that flings
Its touch upon the gentle strings,
Music 'wakened in that heart
Will not but with life depart-
Even in its latest sigh
Breathes that native melody.
Love is woman's life, the whole
Hope, pride, harmony of soul !
I do ask no plighted vow;
"Tis enough for me to bow,
Like a flower before the sun,
Blest but to be shone upon.
Yet I'd pray thee not forget
The rose shade where first we met:
I would have thee sometimes dwell
On that twilight hour's farewell.
Be thou faithful, life to me
Will be one dream of ecstasy;
Be thou false, my heart will make

No reproach-but love and break! ▼..E..Ĺ
Lit Guz.

ONCE on a time, a certain man was found,
That had a pond of water in his ground:
A fine large pond of water, fresh and clear,
Enough to serve his turn for many a year.
Yet so it was a strange unhappy dread
Of wanting water chane'd to fill his head.
When he was dry, he was afraid to drink
Too much at once, for fear his pond should sink;
Perpetually tormented with this thought,
He never ventur'd on a hearty draught:
Still dry. still fearing to exhaust his store,
When half refresh'd, he frugally gave o'er,
Upon his pond continually intent,

In cares and pains his anxious life he spent,
Consuming all his time and strength away,
To make the pond rise higher every day :

He work'd and slav'd, and “Oh, how slow it fills!
Pour'd in by pailfuls, and took out by gills!"

In a wet season, he would skip about,
Placing his buckets under every spout!
From falling showers collecting fresh supply,
And grudging every cloud that passed by,
Griev'd at the dryness of the times each hour,
Altho' it rain'd as fast as it could pour.
Then he would wade thro' every dirty spot,
Where any little moisture could be got:
And when he had done draining of a bog,
Still kept himself as dirty as a hog;
And cried, whene'er folks blam'd him, "What d'ye
mean ?.

It costs a world of water to be clean!"

If some poor neighbour crav'd to slake his thirst, "What, rob my pond! I'll see the rogue hang'd

first.

A burning shame, these vermin of the poor
Should creep unpunish'd thus about my door!
As if I had not frogs and toads enow,
To suck my pond, whatever I can do !"

The sun still found him, as he rose or set,
Always in quest of matters that were wet;
Betimes he rose, to sweep the morning dew,
And waited late to catch the evening too.
With soughs and troughs he labour'd to enrich
The rising pond from every neighbouring ditch.
With soughs, and troughs, and pipes, and cuts, and
sluices,

From growing plants he drain'd the very juices,
Made every stick of wood upon the hedges
Of good behaviour to deposit pledges,
By some conveyance or another, still
Devis'd recruits from every neighbouring hill-
He left, in short, for this beloved plunder,
No stone unturn'd that could have water under.
Sometimes, when forc'd to quit his usual toil,
And, sore against his will, to rest awhile,
Then straight he took his pen, and down he sat,
To calculate the expences he was at :

How much he suffer'd, at a moderate guess,
From all those ways by which the pond grew less;
For as to those by which the pond grew bigger,
For them he reckon'd not a single figure;
He knew a wise old saying, which maintain'd,
That 'twas bad luck to count what one had gain’d.
"First, for myself-the daily charges here
Cost a prodigious quantity a-year ;

Although, thank Heaven, I never boil my meat,
Nor am I e'er foolish as to sweat.

But things are come to such a pass, indeed,

We use ten times the water that we need;
People are grown, with washing, cleansing, rincing,
So finical and nice, past all convincing:
So many proud fantastic modes, in short,
Are introdue'd, that my poor pond pays for't.

"Not but I could be well enough content
With what upon my own account is spent:
But those large articles, from whence I reap
No kind of profit, strike me on a heap.
What a vast deal each moment, at a sup,
This ever-thirsty earth itself drinks up!
Such holes! and gaps! Alas! my pond provides
Scarce for its own unconscionable sides.
Nay, how can one imagine it should thrive,
So many creatures as it keeps alive,

That creep from every nook and corner, marry!
Filching as much as ever they can carry.
Then all the birds that fly along the air
Light at my pond, and come in for a share.
Item, at every puff of wind that blows,
Away at once the surface of it goes:
The rest in exhalation of the sun-
One month's fair weather, and I am undone."
This life he led for many a year together,
Grew old and grey in watching of the weather!.
Meagre as death itself, till this same Death
Stopp'd, as the saying is, his vital breath,

For as he once was carrying to his field
A burden heavier than he well could wield,
He miss'd his footing, or in some way fumbled,
In tumbling of it in-and in he tumbled.
Mighty desirous to get out again,

He scream'd and scrambled-but 'twas all in vain :
The place was grown too deep and wide,
Nor bottom of it could he feel, nor side
So i' th' middle of his pond--he died.

What think you now of this imperfect sketch,
My friends, of such a miserable wretch?
Why, 'tis a wretch, we think, of your own making;
No fool can be suppos'd in such a taking--
Your own warm fancy :"-Nay, or warm or cool
The world abounds with many such a fool:
The choicest ills, the greatest torments, sure,
Are those which numbers labour to endure.
"What! for a pond ?"—Why, call it an ESTATE :
You change the name, but realize the fate.

NAPOLEON ANECDOTES, &c. When we noticed the Napoleon Anecdotes last week, we omitted to mention the vignette, which represents the hero of the work on horseback, from a painting by David, engraved by J. Steuart, and is a very spirited and well

executed work of art.

The subjoined anecdotes are more original than those we noticed-they were not in our imperfect copy, and are ascribed to Las Cases by the Editor. Napoleon's English. The Emperor did not speak much English, and the little he was master of he expressed with very bad pronunciation. It is somewhat singular too, that having once adopted any false expression or pronunciation, he could never be led to amend it, which seems to indicate that an impression once made upon his mind was never to be effaced. An instance of this occurred in the word foolish, which first struck him as being footish. On this occasion, although frequently corrected in the error by Counts Bertrand, Las Cases, &c. he, for once, pronounced it correctly, but in two minutes after, having occasion to make use of the same word, he relapsed into his original error, expressing it as a footish thing.

A Breach of Orders. On the day when Sir Hudson Lowe issued his order that none of the garrison at St. Helena should have any intercourse whatever with Napoleon or his suite, beyond the common rules of politeness, young Baron Las Cases, happening to be out on horseback, met Major Gorrequer, Lieut. Montgomery, another officer, and Dr. Varling, who were going to the camp to dine; when, in order to play off a joke, Las Cases, placing his horse across the road, purposely detained them in conversation twenty minutes, under pretence of inquiring with great anxiety respecting the health of Sir Hudson and Lady Lowe, to the no small annoyance of all the party, except Lt. Montgomery, who seemed greatly to enjoy this wicked freak.Yo Young Las Cases, having by these

means caused an infringement of the orders issued by the governor, rode homewards; where he related with great glee the success of his experiment, at which the emperor laughed heartily.

Napoleon's Mother.-The chief heir of madame Letitia Bonaparte is her grandson the young Napoleon, who, it is said, will ultimately receive an immense fortune. To her eight children Joseph, Lucien, Lewis, Jerome, Eliza, Pauline, Caroline, and Hortensia, to each she bequeaths the sum of 150,000 scudi (1.37,000 sterling), making in the whole 300,000l. The four daughters of Lucien are to have each a portion of 25,000 scudi. To her brother, cardinal Fesch, she bequeaths a most superb palace, filled with the most splendid furniture and rarities of every sort.