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.
