And wild-fowl, water-rats, and all,
Lived in that little lake;
Oh, what a pleasant picture now
My thoughts of it awake!
Its margent of smooth lawny turf
Was mossy, soft, and deep,
Where the shadows broad of the beech and oak
Seemed quietly to sleep.
The rhododendrons, purple yet
With many a massive wreath,
Had seedling plants, a countless host,
Crowding the turf beneath.
I dearly love small relics brought
From spots where I have been,
That seem to certify the facts
Of memory’s pictured scene;
But seeds and roots of flowers are
The pleasantest of all;—
I’ve Broom-seeds from a heathy glen,
And ferns from an old stone wall.
Of wall-flower slips and roots I’ve got
So many, that I’m fain,
Dear as they are to me, to turn
Many adrift again.
My ivy-plant from Tintern’s braved
Four winters’ stormy weather;
I’ve scraps, too, from proud Kenilworth,
And here they grow together.
The feathery seeds of clematis
In Goodrich I have caught;
Hartstongue from Ragland’s lofty keep,
With maiden-hair, I brought.
And so at Claremont, where the crowd
Of rhododendrons grew,
My whims were humoured, and I now
Am rearing one or two.
And e’en those little things can bring
Before me, passing well,
The very nook where the scented leaves
Of the graceful calamus dwell.