THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 63 
High from the fields of air look down 
Those eyries of a vanish’d race, 
Where harp, and battle, and renown, 
Have pass’d, and left no trace. 
But thou art there ! serenely bright, 
Meeting the mountain storms with bloom. 
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, 
Or crown the lowliest tomb ! 
Ivy, Ivy ! all are thine, 
Palace, hearth, and shrine. 
’Tis still the same ; our pilgrim tread 
O’er classic plains, through deserts free. 
On the mute path of ages fled, 
Still meets decay and thee. 
And still let man his fabrics rear, 
August in beauty, stern in power, 
—Days pass—thou Ivy never sere ! 
And thou shalt have thy dower. 
All are thine, or must be thine ! 
—Temple, piliar, shrine ! 
—Mrs. Hemans. 
THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 
Thou’rt bearing hence thy roses, 
Glad summer, fare thee well! 
