38 
GARDENS, WREATHS, &c. 
Beautiful llose, my homage I must pay, — 
For how can Minstrel leave thy charms 
unsung. 
Whose meek supremacy has been alway 
Confess’d in many a clime, and many a 
tongue, 
And in whose praise the harp of many a Bard 
has rung ? 
Mine is unworthy such a lovely theme;— 
Yet could I borrow of that tuneful Bird* 
Who sings thy praises by the moon’s pale 
beam, 
As Fancy’s graceful legendshave averr’d. 
These thrilling harmonies at midnight heard 
With sounds of flowing waters,—not in 
vain 
Should the loose strings of my rude harp 
be stirr’d 
By inspiration’s breath, but one brief 
strain 
Should re-assert thy rites, and celebrate thy 
reign. 
Vain were the hope to rival Bards — whose 
lyres, 
* The Nightingale. 
