’Twould seem, in those young, happy days
There dwelt no sin or sorrow; simple joys
Were ours; the summer morning walk,
When the fresh air was perfumed with sweet flowers,
The wild Rose and the Sweetbrier, the sweet Fern,
The Bayberry and Box; all lent their aid.
There was an ancient wall whose mossy stones
Were almost hid by the luxuriant growth
Of the wild Grape; and the green spreading leaf
Of the low blackberry, climbing o’er its top;