The Garden
Translated out of his own Latin
HOW vainly men themselves amazeTo win the palm, the oak, or bays,And their incessant labours seeCrowned from some single herb or tree,Whose short and narrow-verged shadeDoes prudently their toils upbraid;While all the flowers and trees do closeTo weave the garlands of Repose.
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,And Innocence thy sister dear?Mistaken long, I sought you thenIn busy companies of men:Your sacred plants, if here below,Only among the plants will grow:Society is all but rudeTo this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seenSo amorous as this lovely green.Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,Cut in these trees their mistress’ name:Little, alas, they know or heedHow far these beauties her exceed!Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound,No name shall, but your own, be found.
When we have run our passions’ heatLove hither makes his best retreat;The gods, who mortal beauty chase,Stall in a tree did end their race;Apollo hunted Daphne soOnly that she might laurel grow;And Pan did after Syrinx speedNot as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life is this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head;The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine;The nectarine and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach;Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,Withdraws into its happiness;The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find;Yet it creates, transcending these,Far other worlds and other seas;Annihilating all that’s madeTo a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain’s sliding footOr at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,Casting the body’s vest asideMy soul into the boughs does glide;There, like a bird, it sits and sings,Then whets and claps its silver wings,And, till prepared for longer flight,Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy Garden-stateWhile man there walked without a mate:After a place so pure and sweet,What other help could yet be meet!But ’twas beyond a mortal’s shareTo wander solitary there:Two paradises ’twere in one,To live in Paradise alone.
How well the skilful gardener drewOf flowers and herbs this dial new!Where, from above, the milder sunDoes through a fragrant zodiac run:And, as it works, th’ industrious beeComputes its time as well as we.How could such sweet and wholesome hoursBe reckoned, but with herbs and flowers?
HENRY VAUGHAN 1621–1695