Poem by Charlotte Eliza Dixon

Gethsemane

THERE is a garden, scene of sad delight,
Where oft my mournful spirit loves to rove,
When all is silent round at dead of night,
And not one breath disturbs the olive grove.
Its shades are deep, are dark, the plaintive moon
Finds not an inlet for one silver ray;
Impervious to the flick'ring beam of noon,
'Tis night within, when all without is day.
Want you to know what grows? what tint adorns
Garden so sad? Not the bright tulip's hues,
But, thickly set with lacerating thorns,
The "Rose of Sharon," drench'd in blighting dews.
That Passion-flower with tendrils all unbound,
That Lily of the valley foul with stains,
That Sensitive oft shrinking to the ground,
As often rising to be struck again.
No "balm of Gilead" with its spicy breath,
No precious balsam near of sovereign worth,
No herb soft andidote to coming death,
As Love lies bleeding on the damp cold earth.
No root of Heart's-ease cheers the dismal walks,
But Deadly nightshade thickens o'er the sod;
And clust'ring Rue upon its bitter stalks
Forms a dark border to the humid clod.
Ask you if living thing can breathe such air?
Yes--one "old Serpent" rears its wounded crest,
And writhing through the gloom that hovers there,
Curls his huge folds in vain to find a rest.
And there I wander when the world's asleep,
And court its gloom, and dread returning light;
There prostrate on the earth I love to weep,
And long to close my eye in lasting night.

1. To G. C. Smith
2. On the Songs of Solomon
3. To J. S.
4. Buried with Christ in Baptism

Rudyard Kipling Gethsemane ("The Garden called Gethsemane")

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