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Look but at the gardener's pride —

How he glories, when he sees

Roses, Lilies, side by side,

Violets in families!

By the heart of Man, his tears,

By his hopes and by his fears,

Thou, old Grey-bread! art the Warden

Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear,

Let them all in quiet lie,

Andrew there, and Susan here,

Neighbours in mortality.

And, should I live through sun and rain

Seven widowed years without my Jane,

O Sexton, do not then remove her,

Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!

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Who fancied what a pretty sight
This Rock would be if edged around
With living Snowdrops? circlet bright!
How glorious to this Orchard-ground!
Who loved the little Rock, and set
Upon its Head this Coronet?

Was it the humour of a Child?
Or rather of some love-sick Maid,
Whose brows, the day that she was styled
The Shepherd Queen, were thus arrayed?
Of Man mature, or Matron sage?
Or Old-man toying with his age?

I asked— 'twas whispered, The device

To each or all might well belong:

It is the Spirit of Paradise

That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,

That gives to all the self-same bent

Where life is wise and innocent.

XVI.
SONG

FOB

THE WANDERING JEW.

Though the torrents from their fountains
Roar down many a craggy steep,
Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places calm and deep.

Though, as if with eagle pinion,
O'er the rocks the Chamois roam,
Yet he has some small dominion
Where he feels himself at home.

If on windy days the Raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less he loves his haven
Though the Sea-horse in the ocean
Own no dear domestic cave;
Yet he slumbers without motion
On the calm and silent wave.

Day and night my toils redouble!
Never nearer to the goal;
Never — never does the trouble
Of the Wanderer leave my soul.

XVII.

THE

SEVEN SISTERS;

OB, THE

SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.

Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald,
All Children of one Mother:
I could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A Garland of seven Lilies wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their Father, took of them no thought,
He loved the Wars so well.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

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