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With what a fine, unyielding wish to bless,
Does Nature, Horace, manage to oppose
The town's encroachments.—Vulgar he, who goes
By suburb gardens, which she deigns to dress,
And does not recognize her green caress
Reaching back to us in those valued shews
Of box-encircled flowers, or poplar rows,
Or other nests for evening weariness.
Then come the squares, with noon-day nymphs about,
Then vines and ivy, tree-tops that look out
Over back walls,—flowers in the windows too;
And ev'n where Gain huddles his noisiest rout,
The smile of her sweet wisdom will break through,
For there, dear Horace, has
she planted you.
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