Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/329

The city sends a greenhouse warmth
    From out its fostering heart,
And bids the germs of intellect
    To sudden beauty start.

But Nature's efflorescence seeks
    The blessed sun in vain,
Where rise the ponderous domes of stone,
    And towers the eclipsing fane.

It is not so at Denmark Hill,
    Each plant hath room to spread
Its little hand, and take the wealth
    A bounteous sky doth shed;

Hath room to ope its gentle eye
    On verdant lawn and vale,
And have its tiny cradle rocked
    By every nursing gale;

To feel its infant lungs expand,
    From clogging coal-dust free,
And hear the song of uncaged birds
    From each rejoicing tree.

A sacred plant hath rooting here,
    Which once profusely grew
Amid the walls of Palestine,
    Sustained by heavenly dew.