GARDEN—EDEN—GETHSEMANE.

The mighty Lord of heaven and earth, By Gihon’s pure and placid stream, That from the new-born hills came forth, To sparkle in the sun’s young beam— Upraised, all lovely as a dream To hearts of holy feeling given, The garden-bowers with joy that teem For the peculiar wards of heaven:— For man and woman—blessed pair! In innocence and beauty made: With sinless lips to breathe the air, Whose odorous gales around them played; With hearts as pure as dew-drops laid Within the rose’s virgin breast; With souls that never felt a shade Of gloom upon their prospects rest. Knox.

Bring the thrilling scene Home to thine inmost soul:—the sufferer’s cry, “Father, if it be possible, this cup Take thou away.—Yet not my will but thine:” The sleeping friends who could not watch one hour, The torch, the flashing sword, the traitor’s kiss, The astonished angel, with the tear of Heaven Upon his cheek, still striving to assuage Those fearful pangs that bowed the Son of God, Like a bruised reed. Thou who hast power to look Thus at Gethsemane, be still! be still! What are thine insect-woes, compared to His Who agonizeth there? Count thy brief pains As the dust atom on life’s chariot-wheels, And in a Saviour’s grief forget them all. Mrs. Sigourney.

The palm—the vine—the cedar—each hath power To bid fair oriental shapes glance by, And each quick glistening of the laurel bower Waft Grecian images, o’er fancy’s eye: But thou, pale olive! in thy branches lie Far deeper spells than prophet grove of old Might e’er enshrine:—I could not hear thee sigh To the wind’s faintest whisper, nor behold One shiver of thy leaves’ dim silvery green, Without high thoughts and solemn of that scene When in the Garden the Redeemer prayed— When pale stars looked upon His fainting head, And angels, ministering in silent dread, Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade. Hemans.

How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays; And their incessant labours see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men. Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude In this delicious solitude. Here at the fountain’s sliding foot, As at some fruit tree’s mossy root, Casting the body’s vest aside, My 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. How well the skilful gard’ner drew Of flow’rs and herbs the dial new, Where from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run: And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes the time, as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers. Andrew Marvell.

In a garden—man was placed, Meet abode for innocence, With his Maker’s image graced: —Sin crept in and drove him thence, Through the world, a wretch undone, Seeking rest and finding none. In a garden—on that night When our Saviour was betrayed, With what world-redeeming might, In his agony he prayed! Till he drank the vengeance up, And with mercy filled the cup. In a garden—on the cross, When the spear His heart had riven, And for earth’s primeval loss Heaven’s best ransom had been given, Jesus rested from His woes, Jesus from the dead arose. Emblem of the church above! Where, as in their native clime, ’Midst the garden of His love, Rescued from the rage of time, Saints, as trees of life shall stand, Planted by His own right hand. J. Montgomery.