no 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS, 
THE IVY SONG. 
BY HRS. HEMANS. 
On', how could fancy crown with 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 rouo^ 
But now are known no more. 
Where long-fallen gods recline. 
There the place is thine. 
The Roman on his battle plains, 
Where kings before his eagles bent, 
With thee, amidst exulting strains, 
Shadow’d the victor’s tent; 
Though shining there in deathless green., 
Triumphally thy boughs might wave,, 
Better thou lovest the silent scene 
Around the victor’s grave. 
Urn and sculpture half-divine 
Yield their place to thine. 
The cold halls of the regal dead, 
Where lone the Italian sunbeams dweil. 
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread— 
