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. 
