The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon 

 Water'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade. 

 But well-a-day the gardener careless grew ; 

 The maids and fairies both were kept away, 

 And in a drought the caterpillars threw 

 Themselves upon the bud and every spray. 



God shield the stock ! if heaven send no supplies, 

 The fairest blossom of the garden dies. 



WILLIAM BROWNE. 



THE DESERTED GARDEN 



I 



MIND me in the days departed, 

 How often underneath the sun 

 With childish bounds I used to run 

 To a garden long deserted. 



The beds and walks were vanished quite ; 

 And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, 

 The greenest grasses Nature laid, 

 To sanctify her right. 



I called the place my wilderness, 

 For no one entered there but I ; 

 The sheep looked in, the grass to espy, 

 And passed it ne'ertheless. 



The trees were interwoven wild, 

 And spread their boughs enough about 

 To keep both sheep and shepherd out. 

 But not a happy child. 



63 



