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Of many a cottage in our own dear land,
Clasping the Jasmine and the monthly Rose,
As in affection, for that they are not
The natives of our soil, but, like ye, deign
To glad a clime less genial than their own.
And some of ye are bright as the young clouds
That blush with joy to see the sun arise.
Such was the flower[1] named after Her whose loss
The isles long wept; alas! too true a type
That fair frail flower of early fading youth.
And how fantastic ye do sometimes go!
With nect'ries like to hair that stands on end,
And long-lobed leaves, and tendrils curling close,
Strongly upholding all the tangled mass.
Oh! to behold ye in your native homes,
Ye strange and glorious creations! There,
Springing 'mong giant trees, whose soaring tops
Are roofed by the o'er-arching sky, ye climb,
And bloom, and flourish in uncultured pride,
Gorgeously beautiful. I close mine eyes,
And fancy paints a wilderness of wealth,
In those scarce-trodden wilds, and forests vast,
- ↑ One of the most brilliant red Passion-flowers chanced to be first brought to England on the birth-day of the late Princess Charlotte, and thence was called Passiflora Princeps.
