A DESERTED GARDEN.
A garden is generally a cheerful place ; but the other day I found myself in one that breathed of melancholy in every deserted bed and pathway. It is an historic garden ; for there Samuel Rogers wrote a verse which survives in several anthologies, as well as in his own much neglected volumes. It took some time to decipher the lines as engraved on the pedestal of a garden urn. The only flower that had survived from the days when the garden was the treasure of a lovely girl was the monkshood, but the precious shrubs so flourish that the paths are scarcely distinguishable. The rhododendrons have planted themselves with rare hardihood even on the perpendicular sides of the bare rock. Ferns and thick moss flourished even along the boughs of the bigger trees, and though April was about us and the larches were green and sweet no bird sang. The scene added I know not what plaintive sentiment to Rogers's delicate lines, which I must quote as copied on the spot :- AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST.
(Inscribed on an urn in the, flower garden at Hafod.)
Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said, When piping winds are hushed around, A small note wakes from underground, Where now his tiny bones are laid. No more in lone and leafless groves, With ruffled wing and faded breast, His friendless, homeless spirit roves ; —Gone to the world where birds are blest !
Where never cat glider o'er the green, Or schoolboy's giant form is seen ; But Love and Joy, and smiling Spring Inspire their little souls to sing !
SAMUEL ROGERS.
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