THE MIDDLE TEMPLE GARDENS.
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And dark the horizon, with mast and with sail
Of the thousand tall ships that have weathered the gale:
While beyond the arched bridge the old abbey appears,
Where England has garnered the glories of years.
There the royal, the lovely, the gifted, the brave,
Haunt the heart with a poetry born of the grave.
Still and lone mid the tumult these gardens extend,
The elm and the lime over flower-beds bend;
And the sunshine rains in as the light leaves are stirred,
When away from the nest he has built springs the bird.
