258 
THE FCETRY OF FLOWERS. 
THE HONEYSUCKLE. 
BY THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON, 
See the honeysuckle twine 
Round this casement:—’tis a shrine 
Where the heart doth incense give, 
And the pure affectiops live 
In the mother’s gentle breast 
By her smiling infant press’d. 
Blessed shrine ! dear, blissful home ! 
Source whence happiness doth come! 
Round by the cheerful hearth we meet 
All things beauteous—all things sw’eet 
Every solace of man’s life, 
Mother, daughter,—sister,—wife ! 
England, isle of free and brave, 
Circled by the Atlantic wave ! 
Though we seek the fairest land 
That the south w'ind ever fann’d, 
Yet we cannot hope to see 
Homes so holy as in thee. 
As tne tortoise turns its head 
Towards its native ocean-bed. 
Howsoever far it be 
From its own beloved sea, 
Thus, dear Albion, evermore 
Do we turn to seek thy shore ' 
