CHARLES LAMB 241 



Annihilating all that's made 

 To a green thought in a green shade. 

 Here at the fountain's sliding foot, 

 Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 

 Casting the body's vest aside, 

 My soul into the boughs does glide ; 

 There, like a bird, it sits and sings, 

 Then whets and claps its silver wings, 

 And till prepared for longer flight 

 * Waves in its plumes the various light. 



How well the skilful gardener drew 

 Of flowers and herbs this dial new, 

 Where from above the milder sun 

 Does through a fragrant zodiac run ; 

 And as it works, the industrious bee 

 Computes its time as well as we. 

 How could such sweet and wholesome hours 

 Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers ? l 



The Old Benchers of the Inner Temple. 



I am ill at dates, but I think it is now better than five-and- 

 twenty years ago, that walking in the gardens of Gray's Inn 

 they were then far finer than they are now the accursed Verulam 

 Buildings had not encroached upon all the east side of them, 

 cutting out the delicate green crankles, and shouldering away one 

 or two of the stately alcoves of the terrace the survivor stands 

 gaping and relationless as if it remembered its brother they are 

 still the best gardens of any of the Inns of Court, my beloved 

 Temple not forgotten have the gravest character ; their aspect 

 being altogether reverend and law-breathing Bacon has left the 

 impress of his foot upon their gravel walks taking my afternoon 

 solace on a summer day upon the aforesaid terrace, a comely sad 

 personage came towards me, whom from his grave air and deport- 

 ment, I judged to be one of the old Benchers of the Inn. . . . 

 On some of the old Actors. 



When you come Londonward, you will find me no longer in 

 Covent Garden ; I have a cottage in Colebrook Row, Islington ; 

 1 From a copy of verses entitled ' The Garden.' 

 Q 



