GARDENS, WREATHS, &c. 35 
Who deck’st alike the Peasant’s garden-plot, 
And Castle’s proud parterre; — with humble joy 
Proclaim afresh, by castle and by cot, 
Hopes which ought not, like things of time, to cloy, 
And feelings Time itself shall deepen — not destroy! 
Fruitless, and endless were the task, I ween, 
With ev’ry Flower to grace my votive Lay; 
And unto thee, their long-acknowledged Queen, 
Fairest, and loveliest! and thy gentle sway, 
Beautiful Rose, 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 legends have averr’d, 
Those 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, 
On such a theme, have left me nought to sing; — 
And one more Plant my humbler Muse inspires, 
Round which my parting thoughts would fondly cling; 
* The Nightingale. 
