

16 



THE IVY. 



Oh ! many a temple, once sublime, 



Beneath the 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 waved of yore, 

 O'er mouldering towers, by lovely Khine, 

 Cresting the 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, 



Unchanged, 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, 



Eich o'er the glowing walls, 

 The Acanthus, on Corinthian fanes, 



In sculptured 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 ! 



" Yonder walls, that partly front your town. 



Yon towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds, 

 Must kiss their own feet." 



TBOILUS AM) CEESSIDA, IV. 5. 



