THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
GROUND IVY. 
And there upon the sod below 
Ground Ivy’s purple blossoms show, 
Like helmet of crusader knight 
In anther’s cross-like form of white. 
THE IVY IN THE DUNGEON. 
CHARLES MACKAY. 
The Ivy in a dungeon grew, 
Unfed by rain, uncheered by dew; 
Its pallid leaflets only drank 
Cave moistures foul, and odours rank. 
But through the dungeon-grating high 
There fell a sunbeam from the sky; 
It slept upon the grateful floor, 
In silent gladness evermore. 
The Ivy felt a tremor shoot 
Through all its fibres to the root: 
It felt the light, it saw the ray, 
It strove to blossom into day. 
It grew, it crept, it pushed, it clomb— 
Long had the darkness been its home, 
But well it knew, though veiled in night 
The goodness and the joy of light. 
Its clinging roots grew deep and strong 
Its stem expanded firm and long; 
