“He found such strange enchantment there, In that garden sweet and rare, Where night and day The nightingales still sing their roundelay, And plashing fountains ’neath the verdure play, That for his life he could not thence away; And even yet, though he hath long been dead, ’Tis said his spirit haunts the pleasant shade.” —_The Ring of Charlemagne_. A great showman, as I have heard, once declared that in establishing a menagerie, one should have the indispensable lion, an _obligato_ elephant, a requisite tiger, an essential camel, and imperative monkeys. One of the “indispensable lions” of Florence is the Boboli Gardens, joining the Pitti Palace, which, from their careful preservation in their original condition, give an admirable idea of what gardens were like in an age when far more was thought of them than now as places of habitual resort and enjoyment, and when they entered into all literature and life. Abraham à Santa Clara once wrote a discourse against gardens, as making life too happy or simple, basing his idea on the fact that sin originated in the Garden of Eden. The Boboli Gardens were planned by Il Tribolo for Cosimo di Medici. The ground which they occupy is greatly varied, rising high in some places, from which very beautiful views of Florence, with its “walls and churches, palaces and towers,” may be seen. Of their many attractions the guide-book remarks poetically in very nearly the following words:— “Its long-embowered walks, like lengthened arbours, Are well adapted to the summer’s sun; While statues, terraces, and vases add Still more unto its splendour. All around We see attractive statues, and of these A number really are restored antiques, And many by good artists; best of all Are four by mighty Michel Angelo, Made for the second Julius, and meant To decorate his tomb. You see them at The angles of the grotto opposite The entrance to the gardens. Of this grot The famous Redi sang in verse grotesque: “Ye satyrs, in a trice Leave your low jests and verses rough and hobbly, And bring me a good fragment of the ice Kept in the grotto of the Garden Boboli. With nicks and picks Of hammers and sticks, Disintegrate it And separate it, Break it and split it, Splinter and slit it! Till at the end ’tis fairly ground and rolled Into the finest powder, freezing cold.”