I saw so richly fenced around,
So strongly sheltered from annoy,
I wandered o’er enchanted ground.
And if a tear could find a place,
To think the wasting hand of time
That prospect must at last deface,
And mar, at last, that happy clime,
How could I deem the freshest flower
To death’s cold grasp the first was doomed;
No blossom left to mark the bower