For oft the madding crowd, in midnight strife,
From sober wisdom straying, hither came,
Threading the fevered paths of modern “life,”
While sleepy Chelseaites were loud to blame.
Alas! to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
Cremorne will to the builder be resigned;
The bard who sees it rudely swept away
Yet casts one longing, lingering look behind.
The Epitaph.
Here lies a garden, famous in its birth,