


180 FLORAL POESY. 
IVY. 
CALDER CAMPBELL. 
Ou! falsely they accuse me, 
Who say I seek to check 
The growing sapling’s flourishing ;— 
I better love to deck 
The dead and dying branches 
With all my living leaves, 
"Tis for the old and withered tree 
The Ivy garlands weaves. 
GROUND IVY. 
AND there upon the sod below 
Ground Ivy’s purple blossoms show, 
Like helmet of crusader knight 
In anther’s cross-like form of white. 
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 ? 

