Part 4 — HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON

Here in this sequester’d close Bloom the hyacinth and rose, Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and degrees. All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach and apricot and fig Here will ripen and grow big; Here is store and overplus,— More had not Alcinoüs! Here, in alleys cool and green, Far ahead the thrush is seen; Here along the southern wall Keeps the bee his festival; All is quiet else—afar Sounds of toil and turmoil are. Here be shadows large and long; Here be spaces meet for song; Grant, O garden-god, that I, Now that none profane is nigh,— Now that mood and moment please,— Find the fair Pierides!

I INTENDED an Ode, And it turn’d to a Sonnet It began à la mode, I intended an Ode; But Rose crossed the road In her latest new bonnet; I intended an Ode; And it turn’d to a Sonnet.

IN after days when grasses high O’er-top the stone where I shall lie, Though ill or well the world adjust My slender claim to honour’d dust, I shall not question nor reply. I shall not see the morning sky; I shall not hear the night-wind sigh; I shall be mute, as all men must In after days! But yet, now living, fain would I That some one then should testify, Saying—‘He held his pen in trust To Art, not serving shame or lust.’ Will none?—Then let my memory die In after days!