Floral Poetry. 
THE IVY SONG. 
H ! how could fancy crown with thee 
In ancient days the God of Wine, 
And bid thee at the banquet be 
‘WAToVV Companion of the Vine ! 
vlv Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound 
Of revelry hath long been o’er, 
Where song’s full notes once pealed around, 
But now are known no more. 
The Roman on his battle-plains, 
Where kings before his eagles bent, 
Entwined 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. 
Oh ! many a temple, once sublime, 
Beneath a blue Italian sky, 
Hath nought of beauty left by time, 
Save thy wild tapestry ! 
And, reared ’midst crags and clouds, ’tis thine 
To wave where banners waved of yore, 
O’er towers that crest the noble Rhine, 
Along the rocky shore. 
High from the fields of air look down 
Those eyries of a vanished race, 
Homes of the mighty, whose renown 
Hath passed, and left no trace. 
