PARK AND CEMETERY 
147 
GOLDSMITH’S TOMB, GARDENS OF THE TEMPLE, 
LONDON. 
of oratorio standing by a table bearing musical instru- 
ments and the score of the Messiah. Above, an angel 
plays on a harp. Near by, a tablet to Jenny Lind, the 
"Swedish Nightingale,’’ is inscribed with that line 
from the Messiah, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.” 
A medallion by Nollekens to Oliver Goldsmith re- 
minds the visitor of the low marble cover above his 
ashes in the Temple Garden. As one pauses before 
the cenotaph of the Bard of Avon, who said, once, 
“Let’s talk of graves,” one wishes that his dust might 
be garnered in the Poet's Corner together with that of 
TOMB OF VICTOR HUGO IN THE PANTHEON AT PARIS. 
Shelley and Keats, now interred so far from the 
mother country. 
Nevertheless, as Shelley said on the burial of his 
friend in that quaint God's Acre, in Rome, “It would 
almost make one in love with death to be buried in so 
sweet a spot.” So in this tangle of trees and shrubs 
beneath the shadows of Gate Pyramid and cypress we 
gaze with much content upon the stone that indicates 
the last home of the youthful Keats, whose name was 
“writ in water.” 
"While ilka thing in nature join 
Their sorrows to forego,” 
we press the green turf about the mausoleum of Bob- 
bie Burns, in the churchyard of St. Michael's, Dum- 
fries. It is a feeble copy of the classic in style only 
a little less worthy of the poet than the more preten- 
tious monument at Ayr. However, we partially ex- 
cuse the sculptor’s weakness in the latter when look- 
ing at the figures of those jolly old comrades of Ayr, 
Tam O’Shanter and Souter Johnny. Happy in each 
other’s society and prodigal of time, they bring the art 
of this beloved Scot into daily touch with the passing 
SIR WALTER SCOTT’S TOMB AT DRYBURGH ABBEY. 
generations and make him seem ever present with 
them. 
One other claims our regard amid the gorse and 
heather. The golden sunlight streaming through St. 
Catherine's window also flecks the block of Aberdeen 
granite that still remains in ruined Dryburgh Abbey, 
and it seems as if the soul of Walter Scott must re- 
turn now and then to listen to the murmur of his 
beloved Tweed. Though long silent there in the bur- 
ial place of his ancestors, his words, once vibrant with 
his breath, speak cheer and comfort to the doubter. 
His advice to a young friend is characteristic of the 
man, “Life is like a game of cards and the whole at 
JENNY LIND TABLET, WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
