THE IVY-SONG. 61 
Appeal’d to many a poet’s page 
To prove her right to reign. 
The Lily’s height bespoke command, 
A fair imperial flower ; 
She seem’d design’d for Flora’s hand, 
The sceptre of her power. 
This civil bickering and debate 
The goddess chanced to hear ; 
And flew to save, ere yet too late 
The pride of the parterre. 
“ Yours is,” she said, “ the noblest hue, 
And yours the statelier mien; 
And, till a third surpasses you, 
Let each be deem’d a queen.” 
Thus soothed and reconciled, each seek 
The fairest British fair; 
The seat of empire is her cheek 
They reign united there. 
—COWTER. 
THE IVY-SONG. 
Oh! how could fancy crown with tnee 
In ancient days the god of wine, 
And bid thee at the banquet be 
Companion of the vine ! 
