22 
GARDENS, WREATHS, &c- 
That man, immur’d in cities, still retains 
His inborn inextinguishable thirst 
Of rural scenes, compensating his loss 
By supplemental shifts, the best he may 1 
The most unfurnish’d with the means of life, 
And they, that never pass the brick-wall 
bounds. 
To range the fields, and treat their lungs with 
air, 
Yet feel the burning instinct: over head 
Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick. 
And water’d duly. There the pitcher stands 
A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there ; 
Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets 
The country, with what ardour he contrives 
A peep at Nature, when he can no more. 
The same. —anon. 
If, on thy dusty soil, its modest eye 
No violet open;—if the straggling tree. 
That just has life, and only does not die ; 
And of laburnum lineage claims to be. 
Will not break forth in golden glory—why 
Should I in anger blame thee ;—since I see 
The fragrant rose, in regal beauty blooming, 
And the “ tall lily’s ample bell” perfuming 
Thy smoky precincts, and the scented peal— 
