All that was left of it at the
foot of the hill was its corpse, but its soul was in the heaven of
Donal's spirit, and there this night gathered to itself a new form.
It grew and grew in him, till it filled with its thoughts the mind
of the poet. He turned to his table, and began to write: with many
emendations afterwards, the result was this:--
THE OLD GARDEN.
I.
I stood in an ancient garden
With high red walls around;
Over them gray and green lichens
In shadowy arabesque wound.
The topmost climbing blossoms
On fields kine-haunted looked out;
But within were shelter and shadow,
And daintiest odours about.
There were alleys and lurking arbours--
Deep glooms into which to dive;
The lawns were as soft as fleeces--
Of daisies I counted but five.
The sun-dial was so aged
It had gathered a thoughtful grace;
And the round-about of the shadow
Seemed to have furrowed its face.
The flowers were all of the oldest
That ever in garden sprung;
Red, and blood-red, and dark purple,
The rose-lamps flaming hung.
Along the borders fring?d
With broad thick edges of box,
Stood fox-gloves and gorgeous poppies,
And great-eyed hollyhocks.
There were junipers trimmed into castles,
And ash-trees bowed into tents;
For the garden, though ancient and pensive,
Still wore quaint ornaments.
It was all so stately fantastic,
Its old wind hardly would stir:
Young Spring, when she merrily entered,
Must feel it no place for her!
II.
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