MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL. 325

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 London crowds her domes of stone,

And rears the eclipsing fane.

It is not so at Denmark Hill,

Each plant finds room to spread Its little hand, and take the wealth

A bounteous sky doth shed ;

Finds 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.

Here, too, a sacred plant doth spring,

Which once profusely grew Within the walls of Palestine,

Surcharged with heavenly dew.

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