IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



'Tis sweet to love in ripen'd age the trumpet 



blast of Fame, 

 To pant to live on glory's scroll, though blood 



may trace the name; 

 'Tis sweet to love the heap of gold, and hug it 



to our breast; 

 To trust it as the guiding star and anchor of 



our rest. 

 But such devotion will not serve however 



strong the zeal 

 To overthrow the altar where our childhood 



loved to kneel, 

 Some bitter moment shall o'ercast the sun of 



wealth and power, 

 And then proud man would fain go back to 



worship bird and flower. 



ELIZA COOK. 



Ille Terrarum 



Frae nirly, nippin', Eas'lan' breeze, 

 Frae Nor'lan' snow, an' haar o' seas, 

 Weel happit in your gairden trees, 



A bonny bit, 

 Atween the muckle Pentland's knees, 



Secure ye sit. 



[124] 



