TO THE IVY.

OCCASIONED BY RECEIVING A LEAF GATHERED IN THE

CASTLE OF RHEINFELS.

OH! how could Fancy crown with thee,

In ancient days, the god of wine,

And bid thee at the banquet be,
Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er ;
Where song's full notes once peal'd around,
But now are heard no more.

The Roman, on his battle plains,

Where kings before his eagles bent,

Entwin'd thee, with exulting strains,

Around the victor's tent;

Yet there though, fresh in glossy green,

Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,—

Better thou lov'st the silent scene,

Around the victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past,
Where, through the halls of glory gone,

Murmurs the wintry blast;
Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair-

Thou in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath a blue, Italian sky,

Hath nought of beauty left by time,

Save thy wild tapestry.

And, rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine
To wave where banners wav'd of yore,
O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine,
Along his rocky shore.

High from the fields of air, look down
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Homes of the mighty, whose renown

Hath pass'd and left no trace.
But thou art there-thy foliage bright,

Unchang'd, the mountain-storm can brave-

Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,

And deck the humblest grave.

The breathing forms of Parian stone,

That rise round Grandeur's marble halls;

The vivid hues by painting thrown

Rich o'er the glowing walls; Th' acanthus on Corinthian fanes,

In sculptur'd beauty waving fair,— These perish all—and what remains?— Thou, thou alone art there.

"Tis still the same-where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see, The marvels of all ages fled,

Left to Decay and thee.

And still let man his fabrics rear,

August in beauty, grace, and strength—

Days pass, thou “Ivy never sere,'

And all is thine at length.

"Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."

Lycidas.

ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.

AND was thy home, pale wither'd thing,
Beneath the rich blue southern sky?

Wert thou a nurseling of the Spring,
The winds, and suns of glorious Italy?

Those suns in golden light, e'en now,
Look o'er the Poet's lovely grave,

Those winds are breathing soft, but thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.

The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow,
May cluster in their purple bloom,
But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bough,
Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb.

Thy place is void-oh! none on earth,
This crowded earth, may so remain,

Save that which souls of loftiest birth

Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.

ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. 45

Another leaf ere now hath sprung,

On the green stem which once was thineWhen shall another strain be sung

Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine?