They Stood At The Garden Gate. By The Lifting Of A Lid She Might Have Read Her Fate In A Little Thing He Did. He Plucked A Beautiful Flower; Tore It Away From Its Place On The Side Of The Blooming Bower; And Held It Against His Face. Drank In Its Beauty And Bloom, In The Midst Of His Idle Talk; Then Cast It Down To The Gloom And Dust Of The Garden Walk. Ay, Trod It Under His Foot, As It Lay In His Pathway There; Then Spurned It Away With His Boot, Because It Bad Ceased To Be Fair. Ah! The Maiden Might Have Read The Doom Of Her Young Life Then; But She Looked In His Eyes Instead, And Thought Him The King Of Men. She Looked In His Eyes And Blushed, She Hid In His Strong Arms' Fold; And The Tale Of The Flower, Crushed And Spurned, Was Once More Told.