194 
HOSE. 
Weaving o’erhead her flowers 
Like snow-stars, with thine own. 
Nor was the honeysuckle absent then, 
But twisted her streak’d blossoms with thy 
leaves, 
Asking support from thee,— 
Repaying with her grace. 
The low thatch met thy topmast branches, 
where 
The deep green moss, and golden stone-crop 
grew, 
And house-leek, never sere. 
Smiled in her sunny bed. 
The busy wren there lodged her curious nest, 
And ever and anon her whistle came 
Full on the rushing wind, 
Like melody from heaven. 
Yon scented garden charmed my youthful 
days 
With all that summer cherishes to life ; 
The peony was there. 
Beside the balmy thyme. 
O what of beauty graced that lovely spot! 
No luscious dream can glow with richer hues 
Of lilacs waving high 
Their plumes upon the breeze ; 
