100 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
THE IYY SONG. 
BY MRS. HEMANS. 
Oh ! how could fancy crown with thee 
In ancient days the god of wine, 
And bid thee at the banquet be 
Companion of the vine ! 
Ivy ! thy home is where each sound 
Of revelry hath long been o’er. 
Where song and beaker once went roun^ 
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 wa?e, 
Better 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— 
