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Each floweret reared its tiny head,
Unseen to bloom and lose its hue —
The moss its fairy goblets spread,
— And none but fairies quaffed their dew
Thus solitary still it lay,
A seated volume read by few —
For who would venture forth to stray
Within its depths, without a clue ?
Thine, Denecourt, was the chosen hand
By whom each winding maze was traced,
As Moses to the promised land
Led forth the Hebrews thro’the waste.
Thine was the task to call to life
The memories shrouded in the past —
By thee each rock, each dell is rife
’With tale or legend duly class’d.
In thee all nature’s worshippers
A new Columbus grateful own,
Whose heart no love of lucre stirs,
Who toils for honest fame alone.
