GARDENS, WREATHS, &c. 33 



Who deck'st alike the Peasant's garden-plot, 



And Castle's proud parterre; — with humble joy 



Proclaim afresh, by castle and by cot, 



Hopes which ought not, like things of time, to cloy, 



And feelings Time itself shall deepen — not destroy ! 



Fruitless, and endless were the task, I ween. 



With ev'ry Flower to grace my votive Lay; 

 And unto thee, their long-acknowledged Queen, 



Fairest, and loveliest! and thy gentle sway. 

 Beautiful Rose, my homage I must pay, — 



For how can Minstrel leave thy charms unsung, 

 Whose meek supremacy has been alway 



Confess'd in many a clime, and many a tongue. 

 And in whose praise the harp of many a Bard has rung? 



Mine is unworthy such a lovely theme; — 



Yet, could I borrow of that tuneful Bird* 

 Who sings thy praises by the moon's pale beam, 



As Fancy's graceful legends have averr'd, 

 Those thrilling harmonies at midnight heard, 



With sounds of flowing waters, — not in vain 

 Should the loose strings of my rude harp be stirr'd 



By inspiration's breath, but one brief strain 

 Should re-assert thy rites, and celebrate thy reign. 



Vain were the hope to rival Bards — whose lyres. 

 On such a theme, have left me nought to sing ; — 



And one more Plant my humbler Muse inspires. 



Round which my parting thoughts would fondly cling; 



* The Nigliting-ale. 



