In God's Eden-land unknown,

With an angel at the doorway,

White with gazing at His Throne,

And a saint's voice in the palm-trees, singing-' ALL and won!'

IS LOST

THE DESERTED GARDEN.

I MIND me in the days departed,
How often underneath the sun
With childish bounds I used to run
To a garden long deserted.

The beds and walks were vanished quite;
And wheresoe'er had struck the spade,
The greenest grasses Nature laid,
To sanctify her right.

I called the place my wilderness,
For no one entered there but I.
The sheep looked in the grass to espy,
And passed it ne'ertheless.

The trees were interwoven wild,
And spread their boughs enough about
To keep both sheep and shepherd out,

But not a happy child.

VOL. II.

Adventurous joy it was for me!

I crept beneath the boughs, and found
A circle smooth of mossy ground
Beneath a poplar tree.

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in,
Bedropt with roses waxen-white
Well satisfied with dew and light
And careless to be seen.

Long years ago it might befall,
When all the garden flowers were trim,
The grave old gardener prided him
On these the most of all,-

Some Lady, stately overmuch,

Here moving with a silken noise,

Has blushed beside them at the voice

That likened her to such.

Or these, to make a diadem,

She often may have plucked and twined,
Half-smiling as it came to mind

That few would look at them.

Oh, little thought that Lady proud,
A child would watch her fair white rose,
When buried lay her whiter brows,
And silk was changed for shroud !—

S

Nor thought that gardener, (full of scorns
For men unlearned and simple phrase,)
A child would bring it all its praise,
By creeping through the thorns!

To me upon my low moss seat,
Though never a dream the roses sent
Of science or love's compliment,
I ween they smelt as sweet.

It did not move my grief to see
The trace of human step departed.
Because the garden was deserted,
The blither place for me!

Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken, Has childhood twixt the sun and sward: We draw the moral afterward

We feel the gladness then.

And gladdest hours for me did glide
In silence at the rose-tree wall:

A thrush made gladness musical
Upon the other side.

Nor he nor I did e'er incline

To peck or pluck the blossoms whiteHow should I know but blossoms might

Lead lives as glad as mine?

To make my hermit-home complete,
I brought clear water from the spring
Praised in its own low murmuring,—
And cresses glossy wet.

And so, I thought my likeness grew (Without the melancholy tale)

For oft I read within my nook

Such minstrel stories! till the breeze
Made sounds poetic in the trees,-
And then I shut the book.

If I shut this wherein I write

I hear no more the wind athwart

Those trees,-nor feel that childish heart Delighting in delight.

My childhood from my life is parted,
My footstep from the moss which drew
Its fairy circle round: anew
The garden is deserted.

Another thrush may there rehearse
The madrigals which sweetest are;
No more for me !-myself afar

Do sing a sadder verse.