
















THE POETRY OF FLOWERS, 
THE IVY SONG. 
BY MRS. HEMANS. 
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! 
tvy ! 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. 
‘he Roman on his battle plains, 
W here kings before his eagles bent, 
With thee, amidst exulting strains, 
Shadow’d the victor’s tent ; 
hough shining there in deathless green, 
Triumphally thy boughs might wave, 
Better thou lovest the silent scene 
Around the victor’s grave. 
Urn and sculpture half-divine 
Yield their place to thine. 
T 
The cold halls of the regal dead, 
Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, 
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread-~ 
Ivy! t 
And far 
Thou | 
Where n 
—The 
Tow 
ly! 
High fro 
Those 
Where b 
lave 
Dut thou 
Meetit 
Thou th 
Orerc 
hy. 
Pal 
Ts stil 
Oer 
Onthe 
Stil 
And sti 
Augy 
“Days 
And 
All 
' 
ve 
