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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,
Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
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,
Murmurs the wintry blast;
Thou in thy solitary grace,
Wreath of the tomb! art there.
Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Hath nought of beauty left by time,
Save thy wild tapestry.
And, rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine
High from the fields of air, look down
Hath pass'd and left no trace.
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."
ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.
AND was thy home, pale wither'd thing,
Wert thou a nurseling of the Spring,
Those suns in golden light, e'en now,
Those winds are breathing soft, but thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.
The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow,
Thy place is void-oh! none on earth,
Save that which souls of loftiest birth
Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.