THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. oF 
Serving at my heart’s command, 
Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
I will sing, as doth behove, 
Hymns in praise of what I love! 
— 
THE IVY. 
BARTON. 
Hast thou seen, in winter’s stormiest day, 
The trunk of a blighted oak, 
Not dead, but sinking in slow decay 
Beneath time’s resistless stroke, 
Round which a luxuriant ivy had grown, 
And wreathed it with verdure no longer its own? 
Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then, 
As I at thy years might do, 
Pass’d carelessly by, nor turn’d again 
That scathed wreck to view. 
But now I can draw from that mouldering tree 
Phoughts which are soothing and dear to me. 
O smile not! nor think it a worthless thing, 
If it be with instruction fraught ; 
That which will closest and longest cling 
Ts alone worth a seriovs thought ! 
Should aught be unlovely which thus can shed 
Grace on the dying, and leaves on the dead? 






