PUETRY OF FLOWERS, 71 
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, 
Thou wavest where once proud banners hung, 
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 all the same; our pilgrim tread 
O’er classic plains, through deserts free, 
On the mute path of ages fled, 
Still meets decay and thee. 




