no 



THE IVY. 



" How sweetly sad our pensive tears 

 Flow o'er each broken arch that rears 

 Its grey head through the mists of years ! 

 And where are now the dreams of Fame, 

 The promise of a deathless name? 

 Alas ! the deep delusion's gone ! 

 And all except the mouldering stone, 

 The wreath that deck'd the victor's hair, 

 Hath, like his glory, withered there; 

 And Time's immortal garlands twine 

 O'er Desolation's mournful shrine, 

 Like Youth's embrace around decline." 



MALCOLM'S " RUINS OF PALMYRA.' 



