



























a 

So 
—— 
70 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
And think on me ! in the calm holy hour, 
Devotion’s own, when thou in prayer art bend-- 
ing, 
On thee may heaven its every blessing shower, 
Still let our prayers, tho’ absent, thus be blend- 
ing! 
THE IVY-SONG. 
Ox! 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 round, 
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 wave, 
Better thou lovest the silent scene 
Aroand the victor’s grave. 

ee 
