62 
THE IVY-SONG. 
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. 
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. 
Belter 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 dwell, 
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread— 
Ivy ! they know thee well! 
And far above the festal vine, 
Thou wav’st where once proud banners 
hung, 
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine, 
—The Rhine, still fresh and young ! 
Tower and rampart o’er the Rhine, 
Ivy ! all are thine ! 
