 | Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L. |  |
THE TEMPLE GARDEN.
The fountain's low singing is heard in the wind,
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind;
Away in the distance is heard the far sound
From the the streets of the city that compass it round.
Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep call:
Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all.
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind;
Away in the distance is heard the far sound
From the the streets of the city that compass it round.
Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep call:
Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all.
The turf and the terrace slope down to the tide
Of the Thames, that sweeps onwards a world at its side;
And dark the horizon with mast and with sail
Of the thousand tall ships that have weather'd the gale;
While beyond the arched bridge the old abbey appears,
Where England has garnered—the glories of years.
Of the Thames, that sweeps onwards a world at its side;
And dark the horizon with mast and with sail
Of the thousand tall ships that have weather'd the gale;
While beyond the arched bridge the old abbey appears,
Where England has garnered—the glories of years.
There are lights in the casement—how weary the ray
That asks from the night time the toils of the day!
I fancy I see the brow bent o'er the page,
Whose youth wears the paleness and wrinkles of age:
What struggles, what hopes, what despair may have been,
Where sweep those dark branches of shadowy green!
That asks from the night time the toils of the day!
I fancy I see the brow bent o'er the page,
Whose youth wears the paleness and wrinkles of age:
What struggles, what hopes, what despair may have been,
Where sweep those dark branches of shadowy green!
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