Felicia Hemans in The Literary Gazette 1821/To the Ivy
TO THE IVY.
Oh! how could fancy crown with thee
In ancient days, the God of wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?
Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er,
Where song's full notes once peal'd around,
But now are heard no more.
The Roman, on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his Eagles bent,
Entwin'd thee, with exulting strains,
Around the Victor's tent;
Yet there, tho' fresh in glossy green,
Triumphally thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lov'st the silent scene,
Around the Victor's grave.
Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past—
Where, thro' the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast;
Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair,
Thou in thy solitary grace,
Wreath of the tomb art there.
Thou, o'er the shrines of fallen gods,
On classic plains dost mantling spread,
And veil the desolate abodes,
And Cities of the dead.
Deserted palaces of kings,
Arches of triumph, long o'erthrown,
And all once glorious earthly things,
At length are thine alone.
Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath the blue, Italian sky,
Hath nought of beauty left by time,
Save thy wild tapestry:
And, rear'd midst crags and clouds, ’tis thine
To wave where banners wav'd of yore;
O'er mouldering towers, by lovely Rhine
Cresting the rocky shore.
High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath pass'd, and left no trace.
But thou art there—thy foliage bright,
Unchang'd the mountain-storm can brave,
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
And deck the humblest grave.
The breathing forms of Parian stone,
That rise round grandeur's marble halls,
The vivid hues, by painting thrown
Rich o'er the glowing walls;
Th' Acanthus, on Corinthian fanes,
In sculptur'd beauty waving fair;
These perish all—and what remains?
Thou, thou alone art there!
'Tis still the same—where'er we tread,
The wrecks of human power we see,
The marvels of all ages fled,
Left to Decay and thee!
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, grace, and strength,
Days pass—Thou Ivy never sere,
And all is thine at length!
H.