THE DANDELION. 47 



And ay, I ween, no happier wights were found 



Than those who shared the hours of brief delight. 

 But now the ivy's mantling arms extend, 



And twine luxuriant through the broken halls ; 

 O'er the drear scene the waving bulrush bends. 



And more than echoes moan along the walls ; 

 When some huge mass in ponderous ruin falls, 



And prone to earth with thundering crash 

 descends. 



If once a garden smiled those walls beside, 



No garden flower now marks the drear domain. 

 If willing steps once cross'd the threshold wide, 



No waiting friends invite those steps again. 

 All, all have past from life's uncertain day, 



Unmark'd the sunbeam's gleam on dale or hill ; 

 But that wild flower, which loves the ruin grey, 



Waits in her beauty, by the lone hearth still. 

 And still she seeks, with kind unceasing aid. 



To hide the fearful wreck which ruthless time 

 has made. 



