THE WALLFLOWER. 
115 
reedy mere, or rouse the antlered stag in the forest. 
To us the Wallflower seems to belong to a bye-gone 
age. 
Nor less beautiful or ancient is the Woodbine or 
Honeysuckle, with its richly-turned petals, that 
arch back more gracefully than the broad plumes 
of the ostrich. It tapers its pale gold and crimson- 
streaked flowers above the heads of the rugged 
brambles, ornamenting whatever it clings to, or 
climbs above, and, like the Violet, sweetens the very 
air on which it lives. It has become entwined 
about our rural poetry as a lasting image of Affec¬ 
tion and Contentment: is linked with the thatched 
roof and the rustic porch of the peaceful cottage, 
over which it keeps silent watch like the sentinel of 
Love. In one of our old simple ballads the Lover 
endeavours to entice his fair by telling her that his 
home is embowered by this lady of the wikhvood, 
and says,— 
My cottage with woodbine’s o’ergrown. 
The sweet turtle-doves coo around: 
My flocks and my herds are my own. 
And my pastures with hawthorns are bound. 
