THE GARDEN. ■ 
O my pleasant garden-plot !— 
A shrubbery was beside it, 
And an old and mossy Apple-tree, 
With a Woodbine wreathed to hide it. 
There was a bower in my garden-plot, 
A Spiraa grew before it; 
Behind it was a Laburnum tree, 
And a wild Hop clambered o’er it. 
Ofttimes I sat within my bower. 
Like a king in all his glory ; 
Ofttimes I read, and read for hours, 
Some pleasant, wondrous story. 
I read of Gardens in old times, 
Old, stately Gardens, kingly, 
Where people walked in gorgeous crowds. 
Or for silent musing, singly. 
I raised up visions in my brain, 
The noblest and the fairest; 
But still I loved my Garden best, 
And thought it far the rarest. 
And all among my flowers I walked. 
Like a miser ’mid his treasure ; 
For that pleasant (dot of Garden ground 
Was a world of endless pleasure. 
