THE GRECIAN GARDEN.
BY MISS L. E. LANDON.
'Tis lonely as my own sad heart,
’Tis silent as my own still lute,
Fair garden—lovely as thou art,
Thy walks are lorn, thy songs are mute.
The sun-set's melancholy beam
Falls o'er thy vases' sculptured snow,
These urns for roses made, now seem
As if the dead were laid below.
The statues wear a sterner brow
Than they were wont to wear of old;
The blossoms, drooping from the bough,
Leave half sweet summer's tale untold.
Droop, droop, pale flowers, for ye are mine;
Your early doom my own will be;
Give me some sympathising sign
That nature sorroweth with me.