THE POETRY OF FLOWERS, 10 
Ivy ! taey know thee we 
And far above t stal vine, 
Thou wavest where oud banners hung, 
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine, 

—The Rhine, still frosh and young ! 
‘Tower and rampart o’er the Rhine 
3 
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Ivy! all are thine! 
High from the fields of air look down 
‘l'hose eyries of a vanish’d race, 
Where harp, ne battle, and renown, 
Have pass’d, and left no trace 
But thou art here : serenely Sache: 
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 
On the mute path of ages fled, 
Still meets decay and thee. 
And still let man his fabries rear, 
August in beauty, stern in power, 
»~Days pass—thou Ivy never sere ! 
And thou shalt have thy dower. 
All are thine, or must be thine? 
—'Tem thé pillar , shrire! 




