Where many dreams recorded lie;
It ne'er was meant to please the sage,
But feeling's heart and fancy's eye.
SCRAPS. No. VII.
RABAS.
There is a garden near Bordeaux called Rabas, which may be considered the perfection of bad taste in gardening; I never saw anything so studiously ugly. There are straight walks as mathematically unnatural as if they had been laid out by an inhabitant of Laputa. There are hermitages, cottages, and wilderness, fit for Bagnigge Well's tea-gardens, together with sundry lions and tigers glaring in painted pasteboard. All the trees are pared as closely as possible, and there is eke a labyrinth for people to lose themselves, or not, as they like best.
It was in the said gardens of Rabas, which belong to a rich family in the neighbourhood, that these lines were written, at the request of a young lady who was expected soon to change her name.
RABAS.
Remember the moments of pleasure when past,
For they keep still a trace of their lovliness, Lady,