io8 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES 



those bowers and meandering walks, many a pleasant 

 nook, where the aged might rest, young men and 

 maidens sigh their love, and happy children play. 

 Ah, what delicious facilities for ' I spy ' and for 

 * hide-and-seek,' where now there is but scant con- 

 cealment for the furtive hungry cat ! What lookings 

 into eyes, what approximations of lips, where now 

 it would be 'bragian' boldness to squeeze a body's 

 hand ! I look through the window, and I see the 

 place where, under drooping branches, we children 

 were enthroned as kings and queens ; where we 

 entertained ambassadors with surreptitious food ; 

 where in my ninth year I was crowned with laurel 

 (the only bit of reality) as the great poet of my day ; 

 and where, for brilliant service, I was knighted scores 

 of times, on my return from India, with the handle 

 of our garden-rake ! I see the place — it was hidden 

 behind the yew-trees then — where we were so often 

 shipwrecked upon * Desert Island,' and where my 

 youngest sister would never be induced to have her 

 face adequately grimed for the performance of man 

 Friday ! I look — but I can see no more ! * A flood 

 of thoughts comes o'er me, and fills mine eyes with 

 tears.' The playmates of my youth — where are 

 they ? O doleful memories ! O blissful hopes ! O 

 dreadful earthly darkness ! O dazzling heavenly 

 light ! The morning cometh, as also the night. 



