George Martin (1822–1900)

HERE in this quiet garden shade,

Whose blossoms spread their blooms before me,

The world’s gay cheats,—life’s masquerade,

Like evil ghosts from memory fade,

And calm and holy thoughts come o’er me.

Ambrosial haunt; the orient light

Falls golden on thy soft seclusion;

And like the lone and shadowy night,

Grim care, abashed, has taken flight,

And joys gleam forth in rich profusion.

These odorous flowers that feast the bee,

Those mimic fountains sunward leaping,

And yon red rowans on the tree,

That bring my childhood back to me,

With hallowed scenes of Memory’s keeping.

All these, and more, with beauty clad,

Invite the city’s weary mortals—

The pale-faced maid, the widow sad,

And sinking merchant, growing mad,

To muse within these peaceful portals.

Here is the stone that sages sought,

Here the famed lamp of blest Aladdin;

Objects that tell ambitious thought,

‘All that thy greed hath ever caught

Cannot, like us, console and gladden.’