SUMMER-HOUSES.

167

much as for the savoury projections of the Kitchen Fire.

This noble old garden is surrounded by stone walls, engrained with every tincture which moss or lichen, or the mountain ore can impart. Here and there they swelled into old fashioned Alcoves, or Summer halls, with steep green steps and rusty Vanes; in other parts their aged masonry was adorned with arbours of Jessamine, Ivy, clustering Roses, and Vines, and in every other part their hoary surface was disputed between the enormous foliage of the Fig tree, and the flask-shaped fruitage of the Gourd.

But the flowers, the flowers, Autumn's earliest and Summer's last, for we stood upon the threshold of these seasons-the flowers delighted, revived me, more than even the fresh airs that from the golden West breathed above the laden fruit trees. It is true, the painted Gilly flower, and the luscious Violet, had long withdrawn their beauties and their sweets; true, the last Rose of Provence had already strewn the parterre with half her lovely leaves; but still the Orange-flower, the Jessamine, the Sweet-pea, and the Mignonette, mingled, as in one vase, their ravishing perfumes; still that gorgeous flower, the Clytie of Mythology, turned her superb tiara towards her departing lord; while whole phalanxes of those floral Anakim, the Holyhock and the Dahlia, more glorious than the royal raiment of Solomon,

168

CONVALESCENCE IN A GARDEN.

appeared graciously to compensate their want of fragrance, by their majestic height and most magnificent turbans.

Partners of the same broad parterres, but somewhat humbler of stature, and at a respectful distance, the lilac clusters of the tall Floxia, and the golden spikes of Aaron's Rod, recalled the tenderest recollections of my childhood. While, mingled with the peacock hues of the Aster, the fiery flowers of the Nasturtium composed a particoloured pavement to this place of Flowers.

Here then I stood, a captive newly emancipated from the tossings and weariness of a sick bed. A prey, snatched as it were from the very jaws of death, surrounded by all the refreshments and delights of that earliest Gift from God to Man-a Garden.

How lately had I fathomed the fearful depths of those menaces in Deuteronomy:

"Thy life shall hang in doubt before thee; and thou shalt fear day and night, and shall have none assurance of thy life: in the morning thou shalt say, would God it were even! and at even thou shalt say, would God it were morning."

Oh, what a blissful change. I had dwelt in darkness, scared rather than cheered by the taper's flame, and was restored to light;-in silence unbroken, save by the subdued voice and stealthy step, and lo! the melody of singing birds is in mine ear, chanting their vespers to the balmy

SOCIABILITY OF FLOWERS.

169

twilight. The curtains of my sick bed, the walls of my sick chamber, have fleeted away like a dream! The mighty mountains are before and around me; the vault of Heaven above, kindling for me, yes! for me, its golden lamps; for me breathing health and comfort from its odorous censers :— while at my feet and at my side, blushing a thousand colours, breathing a thousand odours, are flowers, dear flowers!

"Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,
As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderers there.

Fall'n all beside the world of life,
How is it stained with fear and strife.
In Reason's world what storms are rife,
What passions range and glare.

But cheerful and unchanged the while,

Your first and perfect form ye shew,
The same that won Eve's matron smile
In the world's opening glow.

The stars of Heaven a course are taught
Too high above our human thought,
Ye may be found if ye are sought,
And as we gaze, we know.

Ye dwell beside our Paths and Homes,
Our paths of Sin, our homes of Sorrow,
And guilty Man, where'er he roams

Your innocent mirth may borrow.

The Birds of air before us fleet,

They cannot brook our shame to meet-
But we may taste your solace sweet,

And come again to-morrow."

KEBLE'S CHRISTIAN YEAR.

170

THE BOULEVARD ST. ANTOINE.

Geneva, September 15th, 1844.

GENEVA is a handsome town, just the very place for an invalid to amuse himself quietly for three or four days. Abundance of pleasant objects to divert the eye and occupy the mind, without any of those attractions of a higher order which imperiously demand such bodily and mental exertions as one feels too feeble to bestow. There are gigantic old streets and magnificent new ones; the former resting their claims to admiration on the barbaric caprice, the other inviting you to admire the stately regularity of their architecture. There are also little Islands, little Groves, and little Walks, together with a particularly bad Statue of a particularly bad man.* The Boulevard Saint Antoine merits a somewhat more honourable mention, and more eminent rank in the beauties of Geneva. This broad and noble terrace, with its avenue of ancient Chestnuts, the deep valley of garden and grove which it commands, and the green meadows and purple hills which form its prospect, has few equals and though last, not least to be eulogized, are the vast and towering villas which constitute its back ground, luxuriating in all the graceful fantasies of Italian architecture, and running wild with balustraded stairs, balconies, loggias filled

* Rousseau.

with bright coloured flowers, and round turricles, that seem hung like bird-cages in the air.

It seems almost needless to mention the celebrated Lake and its lordly father the Rhone; but to speak of Geneva and not write about the Rhone, is impossible. For my own part, I indulged in a Dithyrambic.

The Rhone! the Rhone! the mighty Rhone!

The broad, the swift, the azure Rhone!

There's not a Rivergod that rides

So regally the obedient tides:
That with majestic motion
Waft his Shelly Car,
(From that Cavern afar
Where the ivy and vine
A pavillion entwine;
Around that crystal Fountain,
In the red clift of the mountain)
To the Pearl Palaces of ocean.

Lo! here he sweeps

Round Castle Keeps,

Broad as their own Baronial mould,

While every wave,

From Tower and Cave,

Chaunts some romantic lay or legend old :

And hoary Minsters, Burghs, and mouldring Woods, Image their lordly forms in his careering Floods.

SEA OF THE SOUTH! flow on.

Flow on, thou sunny Stream!—
That vaunted paragon,

That bauble of the minstrel's dream,

Blue Leman owes thee her transparent lake:
Yet nobler thou, when thy wild waters break
From that smooth Prisonhouse of sickly Thought,
And Verse in most harmonious jargon wrought;