2 7 o FROM A MIDDLESEX GARDEN 



morning. The dew is still upon the flowers, and she is 

 standing beside the sundial, plucking blooms from its rose- 

 wreathed pedestal, above which is the quaint motto, " Quid 

 celerius umbra ? " (What is swifter than a shadow ?) 



The sun is gone, forsaking the shadows that fall deeper 

 around the dipt yews, and once again the maiden is there, and 

 one is beside her, walking together by gay parterre, or stand- 

 ing beneath the stars upon the rose-twined terrace, whispering 

 love's old golden vow : " Till the roses cease to blossom, till 

 the stars forget to burn on Heaven's floor, I will love you ! " 



But of another Garden yet a Garden bright with living, 

 pulsing light, with never a shadow at play. There grow fairest 

 roses, and lilies pure as newly-fallen snow. We have all 

 dreamt of this Garden. When some lovely child-lily folded 

 up its petals in the bitter light of earth's garden, we dreamt 

 of it ; when some maiden, fair as an opening rose, faded 

 away, we dreamt of it. And in our grief did we not pray 

 that our feet might be found worthy to enter into that 

 Garden, and behold our lost blossoms, for ever fadeless, in 

 the light of Eternity ? 



