To me upon my low moss seat, 

 Though never a dream the roses sent 

 Of science or love's compliment, 

 I ween they smelt as sweet. 



It did not move my grief to see 

 The trace of human step departed : 

 Because the garden was deserted, 

 The blither place for me ! 



Friends, blame me not ! a narrow ken 

 Has childhood 'twixt the sun and sward 

 We draw the moral afterward — 

 We feel the gladness then. 



And gladdest hours for me did glide 

 In silence at the rose-tree wall ; 

 A thrush made gladness musical 

 Upon the other side. 



Nor he nor I did e'er incline 

 To peck or pluck the blossoms white ; 

 How should I know but roses might 

 Lead lives as glad as mine ? 



To make my hermit home complete, 

 I brought clear water from the spring 

 Praised in its own low murmuring, — 

 And cresses glossy wet. 



And so, I thought, my likeness grew 

 (Without the melancholy tale) 

 To ' gentle hermit of the dale,' 

 And Angelina too. 



65 



