IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME

Oft is the medal faithful to its trust

When temples, columns, towers, are laid in dust;

And‘ tis a common ordinance of fate

That things obscure and small outlive the great:

Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim

Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim,

And all its stately trees, are passed away,

This little Niche, unconscious of decay,

Perchance may still survive. And be it known

That it was scooped withinthe living stone,—

Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains

Of labourer plodding for his daily gains,

But by an industry that wrought in love;

With help from female hands, that proudly strove

To aid the work, what time these walks and bowers

Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely hours.