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Which being seen 
Blest with perpetual greene, 
May grow to be 
Not so much call’d a tree, 
As the eternal monument of me. 
The Ivy, the last flowering plant of the waning year, 
now puts forth its plentiful clusters of pale blossoms, the 
ben’ies of which become ripe the ensuing Spring. 
The Ivy, that staunchest and firmest friend. 
That hastens its succouring arm to lend 
To the ruined fane, where in youth it sprung 
And its pliant tendrils in sport were flung. 
When the sinking buttress and mouldering tower 
Seem only the spectres of former power. 
Then the Ivy clusters around the wall. 
And for tapestry hangs in the moss-grown haU, 
Striving in beauty and youth to dress 
The desolate place in its loneliness; — 
In all seasons the Ivy is green and bright. 
Bring garlands of Ivy for Christmas night! 
Mosses, Lichens, and the strange, fantastic Fungi, are now 
in full perfection, and in forests may be studied in all their 
wonderful varieties of form, size, and colour. But we must 
now turn to our more especial subjects—Flowers—and going 
back to the corn-field, we see myriads of bright scarlet Pop¬ 
pies, Blue-bottles, and other lovely wild flowers fall beneath 
