The Poetry of Flowers. 
55 
The Roman on his battle-plains, 
Where kings before his eagles bent, 
With thee, amidst exulting strains, 
Shadowed the victor’s tent; 
Though shining there in deathless green, 
Triumphally thy boughs might wave, 
Better thou lov’st 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, [hung, 
Thou wav’st where once proud banners 
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine— 
The Rhine, still fresh and young ! 
Tower and rampart o’er the Rhine, 
Ivy ! all are thine ! 
High from the fields of air look down 
Those eyries of a vanished race, 
Where harp, and battle, and renown, 
Have passed, 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, 
