anti t^e 



And at the end, when of this life 

 The bitter course is run, 

 Then set me up a grave-mound 

 With flowers in the sun. 

 But take out from this bosom 

 Nor farther let it roam 

 The weary heart which rest can find 

 Nowhere but in its home. 



I must confess that the song loses in the trans- 

 lation much of the spirit breathed in the original ; 

 but that is almost inevitable in translations. 



For my own part, I live in the garden, looking 

 upon the house more as a temporary abode and 

 shelter for the night, and I consider that a garden 

 should be a home in itself and, besides other 

 things, first of all the abode of innocent, happy 

 childhood, the later recollections of which can 

 never be purer or more unalloyed than when 

 dwelling upon the sweet-scented memories of the 

 place in the open air where it played and frolicked. 

 Perhaps no one has better described what it 

 should be to all ages of life, to " the three Ages 

 of Love," as the old song has it, than the poet 

 laureate in his gem-like poem Had I a Garden. 



79 



