Eustace, the Italian tourist, seems inclined to deprive the English of the honor of being the first cultivators of the natural style in gardening, and thinks that it was borrowed not from Milton but from Tasso.  I suppose that most genuine poets, in all ages and in all countries, when they give full play to the imagination, have glimpses of the truly natural in the arts.  The reader will probably be glad to renew his acquaintance with Tasso’s description of the garden of Armida.  I shall give the good old version of Edward Fairfax from the edition of 1687.  Fairfax was a true poet and wrote musically at a time when sweetness of versification was not so much aimed at as in a later day.  Waller confessed that he owed the smoothness of his verse to the example of Fairfax, who, as Warton observes, “well vowelled his lines.”

THE GARDEN OF ARMIDA.

    When they had passed all those troubled ways,
    The Garden sweet spread forth her green to shew;
    The moving crystal from the fountains plays;
    Fair trees, high plants, strange herbs and flowerets new,
    Sunshiny hills, vales hid from Phoebus’ rays,
    Groves, arbours, mossie caves at once they view,
      And that which beauty most, most wonder brought,
      No where appear’d the Art which all this wrought.

    So with the rude the polished mingled was,
    That natural seem’d all and every part,
    Nature would craft in counterfeiting pass,
    And imitate her imitator Art: 
    Mild was the air, the skies were clear as glass,
    The trees no whirlwind felt, nor tempest’s smart,
      But ere the fruit drop off, the blossom comes,
      This springs, that falls, that ripeneth and this blooms.

    The leaves upon the self-same bough did hide,
    Beside the young, the old and ripened fig,
    Here fruit was green, there ripe with vermeil side;
    The apples new and old grew on one twig,
    The fruitful vine her arms spread high and wide,
    That bended underneath their clusters big;
      The grapes were tender here, hard, young and sour,
      There purple ripe, and nectar sweet forth pour.

    The joyous birds, hid under green-wood shade,
    Sung merry notes on every branch and bow,
    The wind that in the leaves and waters plaid
    With murmer sweet, now sung and whistled now;
    Ceased the birds, the wind loud answer made: 
    And while they sung, it rumbled soft and low;
      Thus were it hap or cunning, chance or art,
      The wind in this strange musick bore his part.

    With party-coloured plumes and purple bill,
    A wondrous bird among the rest there flew,
    That in plain speech sung love-lays loud and shrill,
    Her leden was like humane language true;
    So much she talkt, and with such wit and skill,
    That strange it seemed how much good she knew;
      Her feathered fellows all stood hush to hear,
      Dumb was the wind, the waters silent were.