Henry Austin Dobson

b. 1840

824.

A Garden Song

Here in this sequester’d close
Bloom the hyacinth and rose,
Here beside the modest stock
Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;
Here, without a pang, one sees
Ranks, conditions, and degrees.

All the seasons run their race
In this quiet resting-place;
Peach and apricot and fig
Here will ripen and grow big;
Here is store and overplus,—
More had not Alcinoüs!

Here, in alleys cool and green,
Far ahead the thrush is seen;
Here along the southern wall
Keeps the bee his festival;
All is quiet else—afar
Sounds of toil and turmoil are.

Here be shadows large and long;
Here be spaces meet for song;
Grant, O garden-god, that I,
Now that none profane is nigh,—
Now that mood and moment please,—
Find the fair Pierides!

825.

Urceus Exit

Triolet

I INTENDED an Ode,
And it turn’d to a Sonnet
It began à la mode,
I intended an Ode;
But Rose crossed the road
In her latest new bonnet;
I intended an Ode;
And it turn’d to a Sonnet.

826.

In After Days

Rondeau

IN after days when grasses high
O’er-top the stone where I shall lie,
Though ill or well the world adjust
My slender claim to honour’d dust,
I shall not question nor reply.

I shall not see the morning sky;
I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;
I shall be mute, as all men must
In after days!

But yet, now living, fain would I
That some one then should testify,
Saying—‘He held his pen in trust
To Art, not serving shame or lust.’
Will none?—Then let my memory die
In after days!