7 HE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Round which a luxuriant ivy had grown, 
And wreathed it with verdure no longer its own 
Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then, 
As I at thy years might do, 
Passed carelessly by, nor turned again 
That scathed wreck to view. 
But now I can draw from that mouldering tree 
Thoughts which are soothing and dear to me. 
O smile not! nor think it a worthless thing, 
If it be with instruction fraught; 
That which will closest and longest cling 
Is alone worth a serious thought! 
Should aught be unlovely which thus can shed 
Grace on the dying, and leaves on the dead ? 
THE IVY. 
MRS. HEMANS. 
Oh ! how could fancy crown thee 
In ancient days the god of wine, 
And bid thee at the banquet be 
Companion of the vine. 
Ivy ! thy home is where each sound 
Of revelry hath long been o’er; 
Where song and beaker once went round, 
But now are known no more. 
Where long fallen gods recline, 
There the place is thine. 
