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Thus, me-seemeth, gracious King, that Sovran Lord thou art
Of every thing about the land except its soul and heart.
To the outward flies, detesting thee, all energy of good,
Even vice, in its hot chamber, would forget thee if it could.
King, count well thy pennies—pouch, Soul-farmer, what you may,
But the leaves methinks are all you keep, the odour flies away.
VERSES WRITTEN IN THE BOBOLI GARDENS
AT FLORENCE.
Bright pomp of mingled vale and mound!
Fair walks and alleys green!
—Yet let me go where humbler ground
Lets Nature's will be seen.
We imitate—'tis wisely done,
Yet ofttimes do we find,
With all her features fairly won,
We have not caught her mind.
