After long toils and voyages in vain,
This quiet port let my toss'd vessel gain;
Of heavenly rest, this earnest to me lend,
Let my life sleep, and learn to love her end.

V.

THE GARDEN.

TO J. EVELYN, ESQ.

I NEVER had any other desire so strong and so like to covetousness, as that one which I have had always, that I might be master at last of a small house and large garden, with very moderate conveniences joined to them, and there dedicate the remainder of my life only to the culture of them, and study of nature;

And there (with no design beyond my wall) whole and entire to lie,

In no unactive ease, and no unglorious poverty.

Or, as Virgil has said, shorter and better for me, that I might there

"Studiis florere ignobilis otî1:"

(though I could wish that he had rather said, "nobilis otî," when he spoke of his own). But several accidents of my ill-fortune have disappointed me hitherto, and do still, of that felicity; for though I have made the first and hardest step to it, by abandoning all ambitions and hopes in this world, and by retiring from the noise of all

1 Virg. Georg. iv. 564.

business, and almost company, yet I stick still in the inn of a hired house and garden, among weeds and rubbish; and without that pleasantest work of human industry, the improvement of something which we call (not very properly, but yet we call) our own. I am gone out from Sodom, but I am not yet arrived at my little Zoar. "O let me escape thither (is it not a little one?) and my soul shall live." I do not look back yet; but I have been forced to stop, and make too many halts. You may wonder, sir (for this seems a little too extravagant and Pindarical for prose), what I mean by all this preface: it is to let you know, that though I have missed, like a chemist, my great end, yet I account my affections and endeavours well rewarded by something that I have met with by the by; which is, that they have procured to me some part in your kindness and esteem; and thereby the honour of having my name so advantageously recommended to posterity, by the epistle you are pleased to prefix to the most useful book that has been written in that kind2, and which is to last as long as months and years.

Among many other arts and excellences, which you enjoy, I am glad to find this favourite of mine the most predominant; that you choose this for your wife, though you have hundreds of other arts for your concubines; though you know them, and beget sons upon them all (to which you are rich

2 Mr. Evelyn's "Kalendarium Hortense;" dedicated to Mr. Cowley. The title explains the propriety of the compliment, that this book was to last as long as months and years.-HURd.

enough to allow great legacies), yet the issue of this seems to be designed by you to the main of the estate; you have taken most pleasure in it, and bestowed most charges upon its education: and I doubt not to see that book, which you are pleased to promise to the world, and of which you have given us a large earnest in your calendar, as accomplished, as any thing can be expected from an extraordinary wit, and no ordinary expenses, and a long experience. I know nobody that possesses more private happiness than you do in your garden; and yet no man, who makes his happiness more public, by a free communication of the art and knowledge of it to others. All that I myself am able yet to do, is only to recommend to mankind the search of that felicity, which you instruct them how to find and to enjoy.

Happy art thou, whom God does bless
With the full choice of thine own happiness;
And happier yet, because thou'rt bless'd
With prudence, how to choose the best:
In books and gardens thou hast placed aright
(Things, which thou well dost understand,
And both dost make with thy laborious hand)

Thy noble, innocent delight;
[meet
And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again dost
Both pleasures more refined and sweet;
The fairest garden in her looks,

And in her mind the wisest books.

Oh, who would change these soft, yet solid joys, For empty shows and senseless noise;

And all which rank ambition breeds,

Which seem such beauteous flowers, and are such poisonous weeds?

When God did man to his own likeness make,
As much as clay, though of the purest kind,
By the great potter's art refined,
Could the divine impression take,
He thought it fit to place him, where
A kind of heaven too did appear,
As far as earth could such a likeness bear:
That man no happiness might want,
Which earth to her first master could afford,
He did a garden for him plant

By the quick hand of his omnipotent word.
As the chief help and joy of human life,

He

gave him the first gift; first, even before a wife. - For God, the universal architect,

"T had been as easy to erect

A Louvre or Escurial, or a tower

That might with heaven communication hold,
As Babel vainly thought to do of old:
He wanted not the skill or power;

In the world's fabric those were shown,
And the materials were all his own.

But well he knew, what place would best agree
With innocence, and with felicity:

And we elsewhere still seek for them in vain ;
If any part of either yet remain,

If

any part of either we expect,

This may our judgment in the search direct ;
God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.

O blessed shades! O gentle, cool retreat

From all the' immoderate heat,

In which the frantic world does burn and sweat! This does the lion-star, ambition's rage;

This avarice, the dog-star's thirst, assuage;

Every where else their fatal power we see,
They make and rule man's wretched destiny:
They neither set nor disappear,

But tyrannize o'er all the year;

Whilst we ne'er feel their flame or influence here. The birds that dance from bough to bough, And sing above in every tree,

Are not from fears and cares more free
Than we, who lie, or sit, or walk, below,
And should by right be singers too.
What prince's choir of music can excel

That, which within this shade does dwell ?
To which we nothing pay or give ;
They, like all other poets, live

Without reward, or thanks, for their obliging pains : 'Tis well if they become not prey:

The whistling winds add their less artful strains, And a grave bass the murmuring fountains play; Nature does all this harmony bestow,

But to our plants, art's music too,
The pipe, theorbo, and guitar, we owe;
The lute itself, which once was green and mute,
When Orpheus strook the' inspired lute,
The trees danced round, and understood
By sympathy the voice of wood.

These are the spells, that to kind sleep invite,
And nothing does within resistance make,
Which yet we moderately take;

Who would not choose to be awake,

While he's encompass'd round with such delight,
To the' ear, the nose, the touch, the taste, and sight?
When Venus would her dear Ascanius keep3
A prisoner in the downy bands of sleep,