The Gardener’s Song

A garden was the blest retreat Where love at first began, When Eve was queen of womankind, And Adam, king of man; And ever since the garden’s been The sacred bower of love, Where youth and innocence convene, In friendship’s paths to rove. Then, brethren, round the goblet crown With draughts of rosy wine, And drink the memory of our sire, Who rear’d the purple vine.

To Noah, that aquatic lord, A bumper next be given; The second gard’ner on record, The favour’d child of heaven; ’Twas he at first distill’d those sweets That cheer our social hours, And strew’d the darker paths of life With artificial flowers. Then, brethren, round the goblet crown With draughts of rosy wine, And drink the patriarch’s memory Who first distill’d the vine.

And, lastly, toast the Hebrew sage, Who sat on Judah’s throne, Surrounded by his harem fair, So blest to look upon. Oh, when he sought the garden’s walk! Its flowery pomp to see, The virgin lily, on its stalk, Was richer far than he! Then, sons of flowers, the goblet crown, And toast our art divine! ’Tis meet that we should quaff the grape, Who rear the purple vine.

The world, since creation’s dawn, Has own’d the gard’ner’s skill; We paint with flowers the sunny lawn, And shade with groves the hill. Physicians borrow from our stores The glory of their art; We feed the hungry, cleed the bare, And balm to life impart. And woman, Nature’s darling child, Looks never half so fair, As when the rose-bud decks her breast, And garlands crown her hair.

Our friendship like the ivy spreads, But, grafted as the oak, Secure it stands in sun and storm, Against each random shock. Our hearts are as the snowdrop pure, That dips in crystal wave, But, like the thistle of the hill, Oppression’s blast we brave; And he that’s false in heart or hand, Oblivious may he sink, May hemlock be his laurel-crown, And wormwood be his drink!

O! may the flowery paths of youth, Where weeds too often glow, Conduct us to those green retreats Where fruits autumnal grow; And when the blighting dews of age Have chill’d our drooping wing, May HE, who heavenly Eden keeps, Give us a second spring. Then, brethren, round the goblet crown With draughts of rosy wine, ’Tis meet that we should quaff the grape, Who rear the purple vine.