WOODBINE, 
I CLING TO THEE. 
Her cot is ’neath the beechen tree 
Where wild winds, as they wander free, 
Bear to her ear the melody 
Of many a singing bird. 
I would that I might dwell beneath 
That emerald shade, that jasmine wreath, 
Which with the woodbine on the roof 
Braids green and gold and scarlet woof. 
She dwells beneath the beechen tree, 
And dearly loved and prized is she, 
But oft with mournful sighs for me 
Her gentle heart is stirred. 
For many a summer long and sweet, 
I sought her in her greeji retreat; 
And life’s most bright and joyous hours 
Were spent upon her hill of flowers. 
She dwells beneath the beechen tree, 
And I am far o’er land and sea, 
But ever in my memory 
Her kindly tones are heard. 
I wonder if, when all alone, 
She ever hears my ’plaining tone, 
Or feels my heartfelt shielding prayer 
Around her in the summer air. 
Isabel Jocelyn. 
Though far apart—-from heart to heart, 
A viewless chain is ours, 
Whose links nor care, nor time shall wear, 
Though only made of flowers. 
