

The Poetry of Flowers. 
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 way'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, 




